Murder Packs a Suitcase (2 page)

“Excellent,” Mr. Pierce replied with a satisfied smile. “And now for the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question: Do you
enjoy
traveling?”

Mallory had to think about that one for a few seconds. True, she had always found some aspects of travel stressful. The anxiety of standing on a street corner and poring over a map, struggling to figure out where you were and convinced you'd never find your way out of what was starting to look like a really seedy neighborhood. Not having access to your own coffeepot first thing in the morning. And always, it seemed, forgetting to bring the one thing that would have made such a major difference in one's comfort level: hand lotion, a nail clipper, that extra pair of shoes that was not nearly as likely to cause blisters.

Yet in the end, she invariably concluded that the thrill of experiencing a new place far outweighed the annoyances. Mallory could remember being awestruck as she gazed out over the Grand Canyon, so filled with emotion that her chest swelled and her eyes stung. She had gotten an adrenaline rush from wading in the warm, clear blue waters of the Caribbean Sea. She had even found Epcot exhilarating, simply because of all the creative thought that had gone into building it.

“Yes,” she replied sincerely. “I love it. I can't think of any other experience that comes close.”

Mr. Pierce nodded approvingly. Mallory was pleased that she seemed to have given the correct answer.

“So, given your past experience,” Mr. Pierce continued, “it sounds as if you'd feel perfectly comfortable writing about a wide variety of destinations.”

Something about the way he used
writing
and
destinations
in the same sentence made a lightbulb go off in Mallory's head.

“Mr. Pierce,” she said cautiously, “I think there may have been a slight misunderstanding here.” She used the word
slight
because she didn't want him to feel as if he'd completely wasted his time. After all, she was still hoping for the job she'd come all the way into New York to interview for, the one that involved nothing more demanding than reading press releases and organizing dates and accurately recording the phone numbers and websites required to receive additional information.

“First of all, please call me Trevor,” the managing editor corrected her. “Only my newspaper delivery boy calls me Mr. Pierce. Second, I don't understand what misunderstanding you're referring to. I need a good travel writer, especially since our previous one quit in a huff three days ago and we've got deadlines to think about.” With a little shrug, he added, “You seem to fill the bill. In fact, I think you'd be great.”

“Me?” Mallory squawked, still trying to comprehend what she was hearing. “Why?”

“Because you're not some twenty-two-year-old who's right out of college and figures free travel means good beer, interesting clubs, and attractive locals to meet and greet,” Trevor replied matter-of-factly. “You'll bring a more mature perspective to your articles. The magazine's readership is aging, just as the whole country is aging. The one theme that keeps coming up at meetings is that we've got to keep up with that trend and make sure we continue to communicate with our audience. You, Mallory Marlowe, can do that for me.”

“But—but…” A hundred questions popped into her head. “How much traveling does the job require?”

“Just one trip a month,” he replied. “We try to vary the places we cover, in terms of both geography and the kind of people they're likely to appeal to most. And the length of the trips ranges from a couple of days to close to a week.”

“How about the articles? How long would they be?” Mallory imagined staying up until two a.m. night after night, putting together an in-depth report about a place she'd visited only for a few days.

“About two thousand words,” he said. “Eight pages, double-spaced. But we're not looking for a detailed analysis. If you're familiar with the magazine, you already know that the tone we go for is lighthearted. While our primary goal is imparting solid information, entertaining our readers is at least as important. In other words, we'd want you to take a positive approach and make traveling to each of the destinations sound like fun.”

Mallory sat frozen in her seat, just staring at him. But while her face and body were showing few signs of movement, her mind was racing.

I can't do this! she was thinking. I'm still having such a difficult time just getting through the day that I have to check to make sure I'm not still in my pajamas every time I leave the house! Taking on a brand-new career is light years beyond me right now.

Still, she couldn't ignore the fact that this man, this stranger with the impressive title of managing editor, apparently believed in her. Not only was he confident that she could do this job, he had just said in so many words that he thought she could do it better than someone twenty years younger.

The debate inside Mallory's head continued to rage. In fact, she felt as if somehow the fillings in her teeth had started channeling CNN, one of those news analysis shows featuring two snarling individuals on opposite sides of the political spectrum fighting like pit bulls.

Just because he thinks you can do this doesn't mean you can, one of the voices insisted.

But you've been writing for decades, the opposing voice countered. Trevor Pierce read your work and he liked it. And once upon a time, back when you were Amanda's age, you dreamed about working for a big national magazine.

What about all that traveling? the first voice demanded. For all you know, you'd be forced to cover extreme destinations like Antarctica and the Gobi Desert. Or countries with unstable governments and bad water and strikes every ten minutes that leave garbage piled on the streets and commuters stuck in subways. And what if you're assigned to write about a nudist colony?…

“What I need for the issue we're currently putting together,” Trevor continued, oblivious to her hesitation, “is an article on Florida.” He leaned forward and rested his elbows on his desk. “The old Florida, that somewhat hokey, somewhat tacky but always fun place so many of us remember with such affection from our own family vacations back in the fifties, sixties, and seventies. I'm thinking plastic pink flamingo lawn ornaments. Alligator farms with gator wrestling. Roadside attractions like caged tigers at gas stations. Hot dog stands shaped like giant hot dogs. The precursors of the giant theme parks, like haunted houses and talking mermaids.

“That's what I mean by the old Florida,” he concluded. “Your job is to find out if it still exists despite Disneyfication, not to mention the Internet, computer games, iPods, and all the other high-tech toys that have become part of everyone's life.”

Florida! For the first time since entering Trevor's office, Mallory felt herself starting to relax. Florida was something she could handle—if there was anything her limited travel experience
had
prepared her for, this was it. She couldn't help smiling as she found herself imagining a slide show that catapulted her back to her childhood.

She could remember the thrill of pulling into the parking lot of Horne's, a chain of roadside stops that popped up practically every five miles. Lingering over enticing displays of alligator wallets and pecan log rolls at Stuckey's, its number-one competitor. Begging to stay at the Mexican-themed South of the Border Motel, which was advertised by dozens of billboards along the interstate and was readily recognizable by the hundred-foot statue of the motel's sombrero-sporting mascot, Pedro.

And that was just driving there. She had fond memories of so many things that these days were considered kitsch—a term meaning “bad taste in good fun.” Those alligator farms Trevor had mentioned, glass-bottom boats, snack bars shaped like giant ice-cream cones, Cypress Gardens with its thrilling waterskiing shows…

All that must have changed by now, Mallory reflected. All those quirky places that endeared Florida to me and a whole generation of young travelers have undoubtedly been put out of business by the Disney parks, Sea World, and Universal. Or maybe not.

“Of course, everything will be completely paid for,” Trevor went on matter-of-factly, as if free trips like the one he was describing came along every day. “Tourist destinations generally do whatever it takes to get media coverage in their strongest markets, which means Florida's tourism bureau is picking up the tab for most of it.
The Good Life
will cover all your other related expenses, like getting to and from the airport and any meals that aren't comped.”

“Comped?” Mallory repeated without thinking, then immediately regretted letting her ignorance show.

“Comp
as in ‘complimentary,'” Trevor explained, without showing the tiniest shred of impatience. “In other words, free. Sorry to use jargon, but you'll catch on fast enough. And I should mention that you'll be part of a press trip. That's a group of travel writers who are hosted by the tourist bureau folks. On this trip, your base of operations will be Orlando. The fact that the Disney parks and Universal Studios have such a stronghold there has made the area a natural center for the family-oriented tourist industry—which means it's the ideal hunting grounds for the kind of attractions you'll be writing about.”

He hesitated before saying, “I suppose I should mention that our writers generally travel alone.”

Mallory frowned. “Sorry?”

“What I mean is, there's no budget for including spouses or other family members on these travel junkets,” he explained. “Some writers run into difficulties because of babysitting problems or scheduling issues. Is that something we'd have to plan around?”

She realized he was trying to find a delicate way to ask about her availability without coming right out and asking if she was married or had children.

“No,” she replied, not the least bit offended over what seemed like a completely legitimate concern. “My children are grown. And my husband died six months ago in an accident.”

A startled look crossed his face. “I'm sorry,” he said kindly. “That must have been extremely difficult.”

Mallory nodded, surprised by how sincere he sounded. From the seriousness in his eyes, she got the feeling he had some firsthand experience with loss himself.

“You're right, it has been tough,” she admitted. “But this job—writing travel articles for the magazine—sounds appealing. It also strikes me as something I'd be good at. I loved working for the
Record,
but after a while it got to be too much of the same thing. But travel writing…wow. That sounds like—”

“Like what?” Trevor asked, raising his eyebrows expectantly.

With a self-conscious laugh, she said, “It sounds like something that will impress even my kids.”

Chuckling, Trevor gestured toward the photo of the two smiling young women. “I'm a parent myself, so I know how hard that is. But you're right. Travel writing may not be quite as glamorous as most people assume, but it definitely has its perks. Seeing places you wouldn't necessarily travel to on your own is just the beginning. You'll also end up viewing the places you go in an entirely different way. Even if you've been there before, evaluating them more objectively forces you to see them through new eyes. It's part of feeling responsible to your readers, as if you're venturing there first to see if they should follow.”

“It sounds like you've done some travel writing yourself,” Mallory observed.

“Some.” He glanced around his office and sighed. “These days, I'm lucky if I can escape from these four walls long enough for lunch.”

Suddenly Trevor's expression darkened. “In terms of this Florida trip, there is one tiny glitch.”

Aha, Mallory thought. Not surprisingly, that old adage “If something sounds too good to be true, it probably is” was about to prove to be more than something grandmothers liked to say.

“What's the glitch?” she asked. She wasn't sure if she was disappointed or relieved that this entire fantasy was on the verge of dissolving as quickly as it had swelled her head. Either way, she chastised herself for having already started a mental To Do list that included “Check expiration date of last summer's sunblock, See if elastic on old bathing suit is still functional,” and, for the first time in as long as she could remember, “Get legs waxed.”

“You'd have to leave Sunday.”

“This Sunday?” Mallory didn't even care that she was beginning to sound like a parrot. “But that's in three days.”

Her head was spinning. Impossible, she thought. There's no way I can pull this off. I'd have to squeeze a million errands into the next seventy-two hours in order to get ready. And I'd have to leave the house unattended, plus cancel whatever I've got on my schedule….

But she quickly remembered that Jordan was at home, so he could take care of anything that came up. As for her schedule, unless someone was throwing her a surprise party, there was nothing to cancel. It was even possible that she really could get herself ready in three days. She'd certainly accomplished more impressive tasks in the past, including staying up all night to sew a butterfly costume for Amanda's third-grade play and getting the scoop on whether Rivington's mayor planned to run for a second term by taking his wife out to lunch at Neiman Marcus's tearoom and plying her with white Zinfandel.

Maybe I really could do this, she thought tentatively. Besides, if I do fall on my face, the only people around to witness my failure will be a bunch of six-year-olds wearing mouse ears.

And then, even before she'd realized she was about to speak, she heard herself uttering the words, “I can be ready by Sunday.”

Trevor responded with a grateful smile. “Perfect. I knew you were exactly what I was looking for. Welcome aboard, Mallory. I'll e-mail the Florida tourism folks ASAP that you're our new travel writer. Now if you'll just be patient while I get through some of the paperwork…”