Murder Packs a Suitcase (15 page)

“If she's as grounded as you say, I'm sure she'll make the right decision. And either way, she'll make enough money to support you in your old age.”

Mallory laughed. “I sure hope so. Because right now, it doesn't look as if her brother is about to make a significant contribution to his mother's pension fund. Jordan—he's eighteen—went off to Colgate in September. But he came home after a few weeks, convinced it wasn't the right place for him.

“But he's a good kid. I think he's just a little confused right now.” Wistfully, she added, “I think we all are.”

“How long has it been?” Wade asked gently.

“Six months. It happened last summer. David was standing on the balcony of a hotel and somehow he must have leaned too far over the railing. It was one of those freak accidents you read about in the paper. The kind that always seem to happen to other people.”

Wade reached over and gently laid his hand on her arm. “I can't imagine what you must have gone through. What you still must be going through.”

“It's been rough,” Mallory admitted. “I keep thinking that if only I'd had a chance to prepare for it. If he'd been sick, or had had some sort of health problems, it would have been easier.” She swallowed hard. “Instead, one day a cop just showed up at the house, looking as if he'd rather be anywhere else in the world.

“I was in shock for weeks afterward,” she continued. “To be honest, I hardly remember any of it. But there's one thing I do remember, because it struck me as one of the strangest things: doing a dead man's laundry.”

When she saw the startled look on Wade's face, she quickly said, “I'm sorry. I know that probably sounds bizarre. What I mean is that the first time I did laundry after David died, the hamper had his clothes in it as well as Jordan's and mine. His socks, his T-shirts…so I washed them. I knew I'd be throwing them away, but somehow following through on my usual routine just seemed like the right thing to do. It was almost as if David's laundry deserved to be treated just like any other laundry.”

Mallory glanced at Wade, suddenly self-conscious. “I'm so sorry. I'm sure you regret even asking me in the first place and right now are trying to think of a polite way to—”

“Not at all,” he insisted. “I'm sorry you had such a tough time. But it's oddly reassuring to hear that I'm not the only one who's had to fight to keep from falling apart.”

“Your divorce?”

He nodded. “Fortunately, my kids are grown, so I think it's been a lot easier on them. Jennifer is twenty-four. She lives in Vancouver and does something with computers. Don't ask me what. And Lindsey is twenty-one. She's graduating from the University of Toronto in the spring. As for the marriage, it's not as if I couldn't see what was happening. Even though I didn't admit it to myself practically until I was signing the divorce papers, deep down I knew it was coming.

“What I didn't anticipate was how much it would hurt to lose such a big piece of my life all at once,” he continued. “I lost the house, since Laura and I agreed to sell it. I lost a lot of my friends, too, since many of them were the husbands of women Laura had become friends with. I also lost the day-to-day companionship I'd come to rely on. Someone to have dinner with, to celebrate holidays with, even to go on vacation with. Suddenly, it was all gone. There I was, alone at age fifty, living in a new place, and faced with the challenge of creating a brand-new life for myself.”

“You seem to have come a long way,” Mallory observed.

“I hope so. It's been a year. At first, I did what any self-respecting middle-aged male would do: I threw myself into my work.” Wade paused to sip his drink. “But, little by little, I found a new way to do things. I make a point of having lunch or dinner with each of my kids at least once a week. I became active in a couple of professional organizations I belong to. I've thought of doing volunteer work, too. I just haven't decided yet which way to go with that.”

“I have a feeling you'll figure it out,” Mallory commented. “And not just the volunteer work. All of it.”

“Me, too.” His blue eyes burned into hers with alarming intensity as he added, “In fact, I think I'm finally starting to get the hang of being single again.”

“I really had fun tonight,” Mallory told Wade sincerely as they strolled through the lobby of the Polynesian Princess shortly before midnight.

“That's because you're such a pushover for a man with an eye patch and a wooden leg,” Wade joked.

Shyly, Mallory said, “I don't think that's it.”

“I had a good time, too,” he said.

He put his hand on her arm, as if to stop her. When she did, he turned her so she was facing him.

“Mallory, I never expected to meet someone like you on a press trip,” he said earnestly. “Actually, I never expected to meet someone like you at all.”

“I didn't, either,” she replied in a hoarse voice.

For a fleeting moment, he looked as if he was going to lean over and kiss her. Instinctively, Mallory took a step backward, then made a show of glancing at her watch.

“Goodness, is it really this late?” she said with forced heartiness. “I'd better get some sleep. I've got another full day ahead of me tomorrow.”

When she finally dared to glance up at him, she saw a look of disappointment flicker across his face.

“In that case, we should probably just say good night,” he said, “instead of me pretending that it's chivalry that's motivating me to offer to walk you to your room.”

She opened her mouth, waiting for a hundred excuses or explanations or apologies to come rushing out. Instead, she simply said, “Good night, Wade. And thank you for a really lovely evening.”

Even though she wasn't about to win the award for Date of the Year, she floated all the way to her room. She couldn't remember the last time she'd felt this way.

She let herself in quietly, figuring most of the other hotel guests were nestled all snug in their beds. She could hardly wait until she was, too. But it wasn't because she was tired. In fact, she had a feeling she wasn't going to fall asleep for a very long time. Not when she was looking forward to replaying the entire evening in her head, trying to decipher the meaning of each moment, like a teenage girl who'd just come home from her very first high school dance.

When she noticed the red light on the phone next to her bed was blinking, her first thought was that it was Wade, calling to say good night. Then a more practical voice said it was more likely that either Jordan or Amanda had left her a message.

She kicked off her high heels, perched on the edge of the bed, and pressed the Listen To Messages button. Then felt all the blood in her body turn to ice when she realized she had been wrong on all three counts.

“Ms. Marlowe, it's Detective Martinez. Please give me a call as soon as you get this message. I'd like you come down to the station as soon as possible. There's something related to the murder of Phil Diamond that I want you to see.”

10

“The real voyage of discovery consists not in seeing new landscapes, but in having new eyes.”

—Marcel Proust

W
ith trembling hands Mallory dialed the number Detective Martinez had left. Her heart was in her throat as she waited for the desk sergeant to put her through.

“Detective Martinez.”

“Detective, it's Mallory Marlowe,” she said, trying to sound calm. “You left me a message?”

“I'm sending a car over to your hotel, Ms. Marlowe. We found something in the victim's room that we think may be relevant to the investigation.”

“What is it?” she asked anxiously. “I can't imagine what Phil would have had in his room that had anything to do with me. I barely knew the man.”

“The car will be there shortly. If you don't mind, wait in the lobby, near the front door.”

She felt dazed as she hung up. So many questions were spinning around in her head. What had they found? Was it something that tied her even further to Phil Diamond…or worse yet, to his murder? Was she now a bona fide suspect? Would she be spending the night at the police station…maybe even in a jail cell? Should she contact her children so someone knew where she was, or would a late-night call saying she was on her way to the Orlando police station only frighten them?

She thought about calling Wade, but quickly rejected the idea. She had no desire to let him see her in a state of such confusion and uncertainty. Not when she had so enjoyed having him get to know the relaxed, confident version of herself, one that had become so unfamiliar in the last six months that even she barely recognized her.

Grimly, she recalled that only a few hours before she'd agonized over what to wear for an evening with pirates. Now she found herself trying to decide what to wear to a police station—especially when her worst fear was that she'd be spending some serious time there. Maybe even several nights, although that thought was simply too horrible to entertain.

She finally changed into flat, comfortable shoes, pants, a loose-fitting shirt, and a sweater. She checked her purse to make sure she had ID, some cash, and basic creature comforts, like tissues and lip balm. Then she waited in front of the hotel, trying to remember the last time she'd felt so alone.

At least the car that pulled up a few minutes later wasn't a police car. Being driven to the station in the middle of the night was bad enough. Doing so in a vehicle that would make everyone in the hotel think she was a criminal would have made it unbearable.

She hoped the uniformed officer driving her to the station would be a good source of information. Instead, he was as close-mouthed as Detective Martinez had been on the phone, supplying only terse answers to her questions and claiming he didn't know what this was about.

The police station was a stark structure that stood seven or eight stories high, looming above the buildings that surrounded it. The tall, narrow windows slit into the light-colored brick facade reminded Mallory of the bars on a cell door. As the driver pulled up in front, she saw that beyond the semicircular walkway that curved along the front was a courtyard. Rather than looking like a friendly place to relax, however, it was outfitted with uncomfortable-looking concrete benches and a few trees that appeared pathetically meager compared to most of the landscaping here in the Sunshine State.

Mallory suspected that even in broad daylight the building looked grim. In the middle of the night, it reminded her of something out of a horror movie.

“This way,” the driver instructed her gruffly after opening the car door for her and then leading her up a few steps and through a glass door.

Once inside, she blinked as she struggled to adjust to the harsh fluorescent light. A uniformed cop peered at them over a high counter. Centered behind him on the wall was a huge circular seal.
ORLANDO POLICE,
it read.
COURAGE, PRIDE, COMMITMENT.

“Martinez upstairs?” the driver asked.

“He's waiting for you,” the desk sergeant replied.

Mallory felt dazed as she trudged up some stairs and along a corridor. She would have expected a police station to be bustling at all hours. Instead, the place was like a ghost town.

Unfortunately, the one ghost she wasn't in a hurry to see was sitting at a large metal table. It was the only piece of furniture in a room she would have preferred to think of as a conference room but which was probably called an interrogation room. He looked as alert as if it was one in the afternoon instead of one in the morning.

“Thanks for coming in, Ms. Marlowe,” Detective Martinez greeted her.

As if I had a choice, she thought dolefully.

“What did you want to show me?” she asked, trying to sound as if being summoned to the police station in the middle of the night hadn't rattled her in the least.

“Please sit.”

She would have preferred to stand, since she hoped she wouldn't be staying long. But it was clear that Detective Martinez had every intention of conducting this meeting on his own terms. Stiffly, she lowered herself onto a cold metal chair, the only other seat in the room.

“We found this envelope in Phil Diamond's hotel room.” He held up a plain brown mailing envelope with no writing on the outside.

A wave of relief washed over her. She didn't know what she'd been expecting, but certainly it was something more dramatic than an envelope. A gun, perhaps. Or a severed body part, even.

But when he reached into the envelope, all he pulled out was a pile of newspaper clippings. She exhaled loudly, relieved by the sight of something so harmless. He spread them out on the table, reminding her of a Las Vegas dealer slapping cards on a green felt table.

Her relief vanished as soon as she read the headlines.
DAVID MARLOWE WINS LANDMARK REAL ESTATE CASE,
the large letters on the first one screamed.
ATTORNEY WINS INSURANCE FRAUD CASE,
read the second headline. Underneath was a grainy black-and-white photo of her late husband.
DAVID MARLOWE PREDICTS CHANGES IN BANKRUPTCY LAW WILL CAUSE UPHEAVAL,
a third clipping read.

And finally,
DAVID MARLOWE DIES AT AGE 48.

Mallory could hear a strange whooshing sound in her brain that made it difficult to comprehend what she was seeing. But even in her fog, she knew what she was looking at. Newspaper clippings about her husband. There were dozens of articles, and from their headlines, she could see that they spanned two entire decades. According to Martinez, the police had found them in the murder victim's hotel room.

“Ms. Marlowe?” Detective Martinez prompted.

“I—I don't know what to say,” she stuttered. Her throat was so dry she was barely able to get the words out.

“We were particularly interested in these.” Detective Martinez pulled a few clippings from the bottom.

The headlines on these articles made her gasp.
MALLORY MARLOWE PROMOTED TO SENIOR REPORTER.

RIVINGTON RECORD
REPORTER WINS WESTCHESTER COUNTY JOURNALISM AWARD.

Mallory's hands were shaking as she reached for the third article. It wasn't that she needed to look at it more closely to see what it said. It was the fact that she remembered it so well that she wanted to make sure it really was what she thought it was.

This one was different from the others in that it was printed on an 8
¹
/2-by-11-inch piece of white paper. That meant that someone, probably Phil, had gotten it off the Internet.

PICKING UP THE PIECES AND MOVING AHEAD,
the headline read. Underneath was a photo of her taken by one of the freelance photographers who worked for the
Rivington Record.

This article had come out only a few weeks earlier. It was about women in their thirties and forties who became widows, a feature about the challenges of adjusting to a whole new life at a relatively young age.

The fact that it was so recent—and that the topic was something so personal—made her dizzy.

“I thought you said you didn't know the victim, Ms. Marlowe.” The sound of Detective Martinez's voice hit her like a splash of cold water. His eyes burning into hers, he added, “You told me that Sunday was the first time you'd met him.”

“It's the truth!” Mallory insisted. She hated the desperation she could hear in her voice. “That
is
the first time I met him!”

“Phil Diamond was obviously quite interested in you.” The detective stared at her for another few seconds. “Your husband, too.”

Mallory suddenly remembered the conversation she'd had with Wade at lunch the day before. He had surprised her by how much he knew about her, all because he'd taken a few minutes to look her up on the Internet.

“Maybe he was just doing some routine research on me,” she suggested. “The Florida Tourism Board gave all the journalists a list of the other writers who were coming on this press trip, along with the names of the publications they work for. One of the other people on the trip made a point of finding out something about each of us. He told me he Googled us.”

“Googling a name is one thing,” Detective Martinez countered. “These articles about your husband were cut out of the actual newspapers. East Coast newspapers. Yet Phil Diamond lived in Los Angeles, which means he would have had to go out of his way big-time to get a hold of these. It's also important that they date all the way back to the late 1980s. Ms. Marlowe, all of this tells me he's been compiling information about you and your husband for years. He must have had some reason to do so.”

Mallory's stomach lurched. What if Detective Martinez was right and Phil Diamond had been keeping tabs on David and her, clipping every article he could find and neatly filing them all away? For a moment, she was glad he was dead. If he had intended to do her family harm, he was no longer in a position to do so.

Instead of comforting her, however, that thought raised another question. “But why would he have been saving all those articles for such a long time? It's not as if he was communicating with us.”

“Did he ever contact your husband?”

“No!” she replied vehemently.

“How do you know?”

“Because…because David would have told me.”

Yet even as she said the words, she knew how weak they sounded. And how feeble the argument behind them was. Of course David didn't tell her every single detail about his life. He especially didn't tell her everything about his law practice. If he had known Phil Diamond—or at least known
of
him—it was perfectly plausible that he had never mentioned it to her simply because it had never occurred to him that there was any reason to do so.

Or perhaps because he hadn't wanted her to know.

And now both of them were dead.

The idea that David might have been involved with the murder victim was chilling. What was even worse, she quickly realized, was that having newspaper clippings about her and her husband turn up in a murder victim's hotel room automatically tied her to said victim.

Ironically, this was turning out to be one of those situations in which she desperately craved the chance to talk to David. How she longed to pick up the phone and have him clear up this disaster that had suddenly fallen from the sky. Once, looking to him for help had been an everyday occurrence. Now, of course, it was impossible.

Detective Martinez scooped up the clippings and slid them back into the envelope.

“Ms. Marlowe,” he said icily, “I can't help feeling that you're not being completely straight with me. In fact, the further along I get with my investigation, the more your name seems to be coming up.”

“Detective Martinez, I swear I never even heard Phil Diamond's name before Sunday,” Mallory insisted. “And I certainly had no reason to do him any harm! You've got to believe me!”

The look on his face told her that her protestations had absolutely no effect on him. She was tempted to ask if she should be talking to a lawyer. But she felt as if merely posing the question would incriminate her even further.

“Just make sure you don't leave Orlando, Ms. Marlowe,” he continued in the same somber tone. “I have a feeling I'll be talking to you again.”

It was after one by the time she rode back to the hotel with the same taciturn driver. The streets of Orlando were eerily empty and the dark windows of the houses they passed reminded her of unseeing eyes.

In contrast, the garish lights and brilliantly colored flowers of the Polynesian Princess were a welcome sight.

Home,
she thought with relief as she leaped out of the backseat and slammed the car door behind her. But it wasn't her
real
home, the one she really longed for.

Suddenly, she realized, even the concept of home seemed up for question.

She rode up the elevator in a daze, recounting the overwhelming events of the night. Up to this point, she'd been trying to find out everything she could about Phil Diamond. But suddenly someone else was in the picture. David. Her husband and the father of her two children. The man with whom she had shared a bed, a bathroom, a checking account, a last name, and over twenty years of her life.

She had assumed that after all that, she knew him pretty well. Yet she had just learned there were still a few things she had yet to find out.