Murder Packs a Suitcase

by Cynthia Baxter

  That’s not exactly true, either, she thought. But she wasn’t about to go there.

  “Tell you what,” she said. “I promise to call you if I feel the least bit uncomfortable or if there are any new developments that seem important…. From now on, I’ll do a much better job of staying in touch.”

  “Thank you, Mallory,” Trevor replied, sounding relieved. “In that case, I’ll let you get back to work.”

  “I guess you heard all that,” Mallory said after she hung up, casting Wade an embarrassed glance as she tucked her cell phone back into her purse.

  “I think the whole restaurant did,” he replied with a smile. “It sounds like the guy is really worried about you.” He hesitated before adding, “So tell me: Should I be worried about the competition?”

  “Don’t be silly,” she replied. “Trevor’s my boss.”

  “That didn’t exactly sound like someone’s boss,” he said, sounding uncharacteristically grumpy.

  Mallory could feel her cheeks burning. Not long before, she would have been flattered by the idea that Wade was jealous. Yet now that she’d learned he was one more person who had a grudge against the murder victim, she didn’t know whether to feel pleased or threatened by his attentions.

  Her confusion made her more determined than ever to uncover the mysteries of Phil Diamond’s past. And while up until now she had felt she was blindly trying to feel her way through unknown territory, for a change she knew exactly what her next step would be.

  15

  “Life is either a daring adventure or nothing.”

  —Helen Keller

  The Orlando Public Library, located downtown, was an imposing gray stone building that stood several stories high. A tremendous slab constructed of the same material jutted out like a marquee, sheltering the row of welcoming glass doors lining the front.

  This place looks strong enough to withstand an attack from another galaxy, Mallory thought as she headed inside. She hoped its fortresslike appearance meant it was a safe haven for all forms of the printed word—including outdated newspaper articles.

  Inside she found a tremendous entryway with high ceilings and white walls that almost made her feel as if she was still outdoors. Large, airy spaces stretched to the left and right. But she zeroed in on the woman sitting behind a reception desk.

  “Can I help you?” the woman asked pleasantly.

  “Where would I find old newspapers?” Mallory asked. “I’m interested in both the Sentinel and the Observer.”

  “From how far back?”

  “I’m hoping you still have them from the nineteen-eighties.”

  “They’re stored on microfilm on the fourth floor,” the woman replied matter-of-factly. “We’ve archived both newspapers back to the early nineteen-seventies.”

  Yes! Mallory thought.

  As she rode the elevator, she wished she were more confident about her library skills. Her goal, after all, was to learn whatever she could about Phil Diamond’s past here in Orlando, mainly by tracking down all the articles that had been written about the attraction Phil and Desmond had once owned.

  Mallory had been thinking about the murder victim’s strong ties to this area ever since she’d found out that he was a former resident, and she was determined to find out if the seeds of his destruction had been planted long ago. She hoped she was up to the task of delving deeply enough to figure out what the scandal that had destroyed Phil’s writing career was all about, as well as piecing together all the other information she’d gotten, to see if somehow the haunted house from years ago had come back to…well, to haunt him.

  The elevator doors opened onto another large room. The walls were painted soothing shades of gray or blue, their calming effect augmented by gray carpeting. A line of a dozen or so microfilm machines stretched across the room. Alongside them stood rows of old-fashioned wooden card catalogs. Orange labels gave the years of the newspaper articles cataloged inside, beginning with 1971.

  Mallory started with the Orlando Observer, the newspaper Phil Diamond had written for. The cards were filed alphabetically by subject, so she perused the H’s.

  “Haunted, haunted…Nothing in 1986,” she muttered, switching to another cabinet. “Nothing in 1987…”

  She hit pay dirt with 1988. “Haunted House,” the listing read. “‘Diamond in the Rough’ by Phil Diamond.”

  “Perfect,” she whispered, her heartbeat quickening.

  She was confused by the article’s title, however: “Monster Mansion: An Unwelcome New Neighbor Comes to Town.”

  “Monster Mansion?” she said, talking to herself quietly. “That wasn’t the name of Phil’s haunted house.” Nevertheless, she jotted down the date, April 12, along with the page number.

  When she didn’t find any other listings for that year or the following few years, she moved on to the Orlando Sentinel files. Under 1988, she found a card that read, “Haunted House—Monster Mansion,” dated December 9.

  “There’s that strange name again,” she muttered. “Monster Mansion.”

  When she moved on to the next year, she found another card that read, “Haunted House—Monster Mansion” that had appeared just a few months later. She realized that the only way she was going to make sense of this was by reading the actual articles. At least she hoped that would clear up the mystery.

  Once the librarian helped her locate the corresponding tapes, Mallory threaded the microfilm machine with the tape that contained the first article. She had decided that reading them in chronological order would be the best way to piece together events that had occurred such a long time ago.

  When Phil’s name came up on the screen, she did a double take. Even though she’d expected to see it, there was something eerie about reading an article by someone she’d known, someone who was now dead—a murder victim. But she wasn’t about to let that stop her.

  MONSTER MANSION:

  AN UNWELCOME NEW NEIGHBOR

  COMES TO TOWN

  “Diamond in the Rough”

  by Phil Diamond

  If there’s one thing the world needs—aside from peace in the Middle East, an end to pollution, and calorie-free ice cream—it’s another haunted house.

  I’m being sarcastic, of course. I feel I need to be up front about this fact just in case anyone who’s reading this just emerged from a lengthy coma and has therefore been deprived of the opportunity to read my column for a long time.

  But let me modify that claim. It’s not that the world doesn’t need another haunted house, it’s that the world doesn’t need Monster Mansion, the new attraction that recently slithered onto the scene courtesy of aspiring entrepreneur Henry “Huck” Hollinger.

  True, central Florida’s tourist biz seems to offer unlimited possibilities to any guy who can convince a few investors to finance his latest get-rich-quick scheme. After all, the Yanks are coming in droves. So are tourists from California, the Midwest, Alaska, Hawaii, and yes, even places more foreign that any of those. They’re all dragging their whining kids and their aging parents and their credit cards down here in search of a good time.

  And they’ll try anything once. Water parks, bumper cars, miniature golf, you name it. As long as it’s got some tacky theme that includes waterfalls, fire, teenaged girls in skimpy costumes, and a gift shop—preferably all of the above—they’ll converge on it in their rented cars, pay to park, pay to get in, pay to buy refreshments, and pay to acquire worthless souvenirs, all in the name of family fun.

  To be honest, the attractions themselves don’t have to be all that great. After all, we’re not looking for repeat customers. We’re looking for one-timers, those suckers who are born every minute. You know, the same ones who built P. T. Barnum’s fortune.

  But come on. We’ve always maintained some standards, haven’t we? That’s what I always thought—that is, until I got an invitation to visit Monster Mansion.

  It’s important to note here that I got in free. Free! And by the time I got out of there, I still d
idn’t think it was worth the price of admission.

  I went in with a spirit of adventure. Optimism, even. I thought, Okay, here’s something new. Something different. Something that promises to be fun—at least according to the billboards Mr. Hollinger has been plastering all over town as if he was a graffiti artist from the Bronx who’d been reincarnated as a money-grubbing businessman.

  The key to the inevitable failure of Monster Mansion lies in that last sentence. Can you find it? Five points if you can. Okay, here’s the correct answer: money-grubbing. Because Huck Hollinger clearly put the bulk of his money into creating a buzz without remembering to use some of it to make his attraction worthwhile.

  And that’s where he went wrong. Monster Mansion, folks, is a waste of time. A rip-off. Bad for tourism, bad for central Florida. Because once all those tourists who routinely flood our area go home, we want them to tell their friends and neighbors that they enjoyed their time here. Not that they got swindled.

  Okay, not everything about Monster Mansion is horrible. There’s plenty of parking, for one thing. The gift shop is well lit. And it’s air-conditioned—let’s not forget that.

  Unfortunately, that’s where the list of positives ends. As for the list of negatives, it begins with tacky special effects and ends with lackluster actors wearing shoddy costumes that look like something their mothers ran up on their Singer sewing machines the night before. In between, there’s a poor sound system that makes the ghouls sound as if they lisp, fog drifting out of fog machines we can see only too well, and ghosts whose wristwatches peek out of their white sleeves. Even worse is the confusion about which elements actually belong in a haunted house. Monsters? I thought they lived in laboratories, not haunted houses. Aren’t those supposed to be reserved for ghosts, ghouls, and the occasional poltergeist?

  The most terrifying moment comes at the ticket booth, when visitors are asked to fork over fifteen bucks apiece. If a horror show like that isn’t enough to anger the spirits, I don’t know what is.

  It certainly angered me.

  The air-conditioned library suddenly felt very warm as Mallory realized what she had just read. Phil’s tourist attraction, Crypt Castle, had had competition. Monster Mansion. And he had used his newspaper column to denigrate it.

  She wondered how many of his readers knew that Phil Diamond had invested in a haunted house of his own?

  Whether or not his readers did, she had a feeling his boss did. And that she’d just found the root of the scandal that had cost him his job.

  Eagerly, she tucked that reel back into its box and pulled out the next one, which contained the first of the two Sentinel articles. She scrolled through the microfilm until she came across the article, which had appeared eight months after the first.

  HAUNTED HOUSE CLOSES

  ITS CREAKING DOORS

  by Marilyn Benevito

  Monster Mansion, the haunted house attraction on International Drive that opened just eight months ago, closed its doors on Monday. In a telephone interview, owner Henry “Huck” Hollinger said it was “one of the saddest days of my life.”

  The 12,000-square-foot haunted house was one of the most eye-catching attractions on International Drive. The structure, separated from street traffic by a massive vine-covered iron fence, had the appearance of a decaying Victorian mansion. The empty rocking chairs on the porch moved back and forth constantly, suggesting that they were inhabited by ghosts. Mournful moans, the rattling of chains, and other eerie sounds regularly emanated from the cemetery that ran along one side of the house. Even after hours, feeble lights in the attic windows flickered on and off, and white billows that looked like specters drifted up from the roof.

  Yet despite these clever effects, Hollinger reported that for a variety of reasons, he and his backers were unable to keep the attraction viable. According to Hollinger, the building and its contents will be put up for auction.

  It closed! Mallory thought, feeling as if she’d been hit in the stomach—hard. Monster Mansion went out of business mere months after it opened!

  Her head was spinning as she considered the enormity of Phil’s offense. He had invested in Crypt Castle, and when Huck Hollinger opened a competitive attraction, he used the poisonous power of his pen to condemn it—so harshly that it failed.

  It took her a few seconds to remember that she still had one more article about haunted houses to read. This last one, which also ran in the Sentinel, was dated just a few months after the article about Monster Mansion closing. Her hands were actually trembling as she threaded the microfilm into the machine. She felt as if she was witnessing an accident, and even though she longed to look away, she had no choice but to watch the entire event.

  ORLANDO-AREA ATTRACTION

  FAILS TO ATTRACT

  by Marilyn Benevito

  Special to the Sentinel—Crypt Castle, a haunted house attraction located on West Irlo Bronson Memorial Highway in Kissimmee, announced yesterday that on Friday it will close permanently. The attraction, which featured live actors and special effects, was owned by Orlando Observer columnist Phil Diamond.

  Crypt Castle was in direct competition with another Orlando haunted house, Monster Mansion. Monster Mansion closed its doors three months ago.

  Phil Diamond could not be reached for comment.

  Mallory reread the short article three times, wanting to make sure she hadn’t missed anything. Because something was blatantly missing.

  There was no mention of Desmond Farnaby.

  Yet Desmond had told her himself that he and Phil had gone into business together, creating Crypt Castle.

  Something else frustrated her: the fact that the brief article gave no information about why Crypt Castle had closed. Had the reason been technical difficulties with the special effects? An inability to find suitable actors? Financial failure due to lack of experience?

  Or perhaps creative differences between the owners that might even have caused one of them, namely Desmond Farnaby, to bail?

  Mallory’s head buzzed with unanswered questions as she coiled the microfilm around the reel and stuck it back into its box. And she tried to focus on the questions she had been able to answer through her library research.

  Important questions. Questions about the scandal that had destroyed Phil Diamond’s career.

  Yet while she now had a better idea of just how low Phil had been capable of sinking, she still didn’t understand how his past transgressions might have been connected to his murder. Especially since two entire decades had passed since the haunted house fiasco.

  I still need more information, she thought, frustrated. No matter how much I find out, there are still missing pieces. And while I’m learning about all the unethical things Phil did, I still have no idea which one of them enraged someone enough to kill him.

  She was still contemplating the maze she couldn’t find her way out of as she headed back to the elevator. As she did, she happened to glance to the side. She noticed the library’s magazine section, tucked into another part of the fourth floor. The sight of all those magazines gave her an idea.

  She scanned the collection until she located the G’s. Just as she expected, displayed on a shelf just after Good Housekeeping was Go, Seniors!

  While she didn’t have a concrete reason for suspecting Frieda, the woman had expressed strong feelings about Phil. Strong negative feelings.

  And Frieda had told her herself that she’d known Phil for a long time, perhaps even back when he’d owned Crypt Castle.

  Could there be a connection? Mallory wondered as she flipped through the pages of the magazine. It was a long shot, she knew. But she figured she might as well take advantage of being in a library by checking into every angle she could think of.

  She found the masthead, then skimmed the listing of names and titles, her eyes traveling downward past the publisher and the editor-in-chief. She stopped when she reached the managing editor, which she knew from her years at the Rivington Record was the title of the person
responsible for running a newspaper or a magazine on a day-to-day basis.

  “John Crane,” she wrote in her notebook. Next to it, she copied the telephone number she found way at the bottom of the page, right after the address of the publication’s editorial office.

  Phil’s distant past may have been filled with treachery, she told herself as she finally rode down the elevator, armed with enough new information to have made her trip to the library worthwhile. But so was his recent past.

  And with someone that unethical, she thought, I have to consider every rotten thing he ever did as a possible reason for his murder.

  16

  “Travel is more than the seeing of sights; it is a change that goes on, deep and permanent, in the ideas of living.”

  —Miriam Beard

  It was close to eleven by the time Mallory got back to the hotel. She’d almost forgotten about her plans to visit Dinosaur World—and she’d completely forgotten that she’d invited Wade to join her.

  Ever since the evening before, when she’d learned about his past interactions with Phil, she couldn’t help seeing him in a new light. But she also couldn’t think of any way to get out of spending the afternoon with him.

  She decided she’d simply have to make the best of it. After all, she didn’t have much of a choice. Besides, as much as she hated to admit it, she really did enjoy his company. And even though she’d decided she couldn’t completely rule him out as a suspect, she was still reluctant to believe he could be a murderer.

  “Thanks for letting me tag along,” he commented as they neared the interstate exit that according to their map was the closest to their destination. “If I get one more massage, I’m going to scream.”

  “You’re making me jealous,” Mallory replied. Just then, she spotted a T. rex looming up alongside I-4, baring its teeth menacingly. “Uh-oh. Either we just found Dinosaur World or we’re in serious trouble.”