Murder Packs a Suitcase (22 page)

“That was fun,” Wade said as they strolled out of the park later that afternoon. “Thanks for letting me tag along. And thanks for listening to me whine about my personal life.”

“I didn't mind a bit. And I had fun, too.” Mallory was glad they were walking side by side along the wooden bridge that led back to the parking lot. She could feel her cheeks burning, and she was hoping he wouldn't notice.

She stiffened when he suddenly stopped, placed his hand on her shoulder, and gently turned her so she was facing him.

“You know, Mallory, after all that's happened to me, I wouldn't think it would be possible for me to trust anyone ever again,” he said earnestly. “But I trust you. And I trust what I think you and I could become, if we gave it a chance.”

He leaned forward as if he was going to kiss her. Mallory was so caught up in the moment that she almost leaned forward, as well.

But something stopped her.

Instinctively she took a step away. I don't really know this man, she thought amidst the alarms going off in her head. And it has nothing to do with David or the grieving process or the newness of being back in the world again.

This man could have killed Phil.

“I'm sorry, Wade,” she said, staring at his shoulder to avoid looking into his eyes. “I can't. I thought I was ready, but I'm not.”

“Of course,” he said earnestly, taking a step away himself. “I understand.”

But you
don't
understand! a voice inside her head cried. I thought you might be someone I could care about, too. At least I did at first. But now I don't know what to believe.

Mallory felt overwhelmed by the fact that she didn't know what to believe about anyone. All her perceptions seemed to have been wrong. She'd thought Annabelle was a social zero, yet it turned out she'd been carrying on a secret love affair with Phil for years. Frieda had struck her as the quintessential sweet little old lady. But her age didn't keep her from taking the occasional stroll on the wild side.

Then there was Courtney. She had acted as if Desmond was a near-stranger, yet the two of them actually knew each other quite well. As for Desmond, it turned out his past life had been closely tied to Phil's, making her wonder if his current life might have been, too.

As for Wade, she didn't know what to think. She wasn't sure what she felt, either—except that she was wrong to have even entertained the idea that she might be ready to connect with a new man.

And that uncertainty paled beside her concerns about the role Wade might have played in Phil's murder.

Wade had just told her that coming to Orlando was a last-minute decision. But even that didn't lessen her suspicion. It would have been too easy for him to lie. Going on a trip with Phil Diamond, a man he'd harbored bad feelings against for years, could have been something he'd been plotting for a long time.

Or maybe it had been something he'd chosen to do impulsively. Perhaps seeing Phil's name on the list had made him decide to sign on for this press trip. Perhaps he'd even taken the assignment away from one of the writers on his staff, who'd already been packing his sunblock and his flip-flops.

People don't kill over a missed deadline, she told herself.

But maybe there was more to their history, something Wade hadn't told her.

She hated being this mistrustful. Yet she had to consider every possibility if she was going to find out who had really killed Phil Diamond.

Why did I ever think I was ready to take on a challenge as monumental as becoming a travel writer? she wondered, her head spinning as she and Wade walked back to the car in silence.

Amanda was right. For the past six months, she had barely left Rivington. Even taking the train into the city for her job interview had been a big deal.

Too much, too soon, she thought. Maybe it was a cliché, but it suddenly seemed to define every single aspect of her life.

17

“One's destination is never a place but a new way of looking at things.”

—Henry Miller

A
s soon as she let herself into her hotel room, Mallory made a beeline for the round table in the corner, her cell phone in her hand. The last thing she wanted was to believe that Wade had killed Phil Diamond, which made her more determined than ever to find out who had.

She rifled through her purse until she found the name and phone number of Frieda Stein's editor at
Go Seniors!
magazine. Then she steadied her hand long enough to punch in the number.

“John Crane,” a deep voice answered.

She took a deep breath before jumping in. “Mr. Crane, my name is Mallory Marlowe. I'm considering hiring Frieda Stein for a freelance project, and she gave me your name as a reference.”

“Really?” John Crane sounded doubtful. “I don't recall Frieda saying anything to me about that.”

Mallory was about to suggest a possible explanation for her forgetfulness when he added, “But that's Frieda for you. The woman's a terrific writer and she has a real sense of fun. Frankly, that's a winning combination you don't come across every day. But occasionally she skips over some of the details.” Chuckling, he added, “The workings of a creative mind, I suppose.”

“It sounds as if you've been pleased with her work,” Mallory observed.

“Very pleased,” he replied. “In fact, I can't say enough about her. Have you seen her piece on skinny-dipping at Epcot?”

“Not yet. But I'm looking forward to—”

“Of course, her article created a bit of a problem for the Disney people.” John paused. “It seems that quite a few of her readers decided they wanted to try a little skinny-dipping of their own. There's this one photograph that ran in one of the newspapers that shows…well, I won't go into that.”

Please don't, Mallory thought.

“Anyway, Frieda has a long, successful writing career behind her,” John continued. “She started out at a weekly in Brooklyn, then moved up the ladder, writing for bigger and better magazines and newspapers. In fact, I'd be hard-pressed to think of a publication she hasn't written for.”

“I suppose writing for
Go, Seniors!
is something that's more suitable to her lifestyle at this point,” Mallory commented, carefully measuring her words.

“If you're politely trying to say that
Go, Seniors!
isn't exactly
Condé Nast Traveler,
you're absolutely right. It's definitely a comedown. But Frieda is at a different stage of her life right now. I don't think she's as anxious to go running all over the world, staying at seven different hotels in a single week and getting facials at as many different spas.”

“Can't blame her for that.”

“You certainly can't. Especially given all that's happened to her over the past couple of years.”

Mallory's ears pricked up. “Sometimes life throws more at us than we think we can handle.”

“Isn't that the truth. I mean, losing her husband was enough of a shock. I don't know if she ever told you that poor Harry had a long bout with cancer. It was hard on everyone in the family. And not only emotionally. It was also a financial drain. After he died, poor Frieda faced a huge amount of debt. And so she was forced to come out of retirement and start working again.”

Mallory remained silent, afraid of saying something that might discourage this knowledgeable source from continuing.

“I felt so bad for her.” John sighed deeply. “In fact, I was almost as heartbroken as she was when her book deal fell apart. It would have been the one way she could make a lot of money without working her butt off, if you'll excuse the expression.”

“She had a book deal?” Mallory asked. Quickly she added, “When we talked about this particular assignment, I don't recall her mentioning anything about writing a book.”

“Not just one book,” John said. “An entire series. With a good publisher, too. Far and Wide Press in New York.”

“A travel series?”

“That's right. She was going to do a book on every destination you can think of, customizing it for the senior traveler. The books were going to describe hotels and tourist sights all over the world—not only in terms of what they offered, but also how wheelchair-accessible they were, how convenient the bathrooms were, how much walking was involved, whether or not they offered foods that were compatible with quirky digestive systems…in short, everything travelers who were getting on in years would want to know.”

“That's a great idea,” Mallory said sincerely.

“It is. And it was especially suited to someone like Frieda, because it wouldn't require doing that much actual travel. She could have taken existing guidebooks, contacted the places that were listed, and gotten all the information she needed over the phone or by e-mail. Thanks to digital photography, she could even have the spots she was writing about send her photos of their ramps and bathtubs and anything else she needed. The woman has been to so many places already that doing the books would have been a simple matter of expanding on information she already had in her head.

“Frieda saw the series as her ticket to fame and fortune,” John went on. “And she deserved it. The lady has worked hard for decades, starting in a time when good jobs for women were few and far between. So were the paychecks. But she endured it all, and with a big smile on her face. I'm telling you, she's one of a kind.”

“Mr. Crane,” Mallory asked, trying to keep her voice light, “what killed the book project?”

He let out a contemptuous snort. “That idiot of a co author Frieda had the bad luck to sign on with,” he said bitterly. “The jerk basically wrecked the whole deal.”

Mallory experienced a sinking feeling in her stomach. I'd bet a thousand dollars I could guess who that jerk was, she thought.

“Phil Diamond, right?” She held her breath as she waited for an answer.

“Who else?” John snapped. “The guy's too much of a fool to have realized it would have been
his
ticket to fame and fortune, too. He wouldn't have had to work any harder than Frieda. Making phone calls, customizing information that already existed, without even leaving his computer…but as usual, he just couldn't follow through. Phil spent his half of the advance without writing a word. They missed their first deadline, and lost the deal.”

“That's terrible!”

“It gets worse, too. Not only did Frieda have to give back her half of the advance. She also had to pay back Phil's. Turns out there was some indecipherable legal mumbo jumbo in the contract that made it impossible for the responsibility to be placed where it really belonged.”

Mallory's mind was racing. So Frieda had signed on to a fabulous book deal with Phil Diamond. Then, as a result of his incompetence, she had lost the opportunity to get on her feet financially, not to mention to let go of some of the more physically demanding aspects of her career.

“I had no idea,” she said. “Mr. Crane, when did all this happen?”

“Just a few months ago.” John let out another sigh, this one even deeper than the last. “The poor gal's still reeling from it. Not that she'd ever let on, of course. Not our Frieda. She's too much of a trouper for that. She's very strong. A real lady.”

Undoubtedly strong, Mallory thought. As for being a real lady, that was less certain.

In fact, she could even imagine Frieda Stein's anger leading the hard-drinking party girl to do something as unladylike as commit murder.

After Mallory hung up, she sat still for a long time, mulling over what she'd just learned.

So it turns out Frieda is one more person on this press trip who had good reason to hate Phil Diamond, she thought. The fact that they were both travel writers had thrown them together—with disastrous results.

Just like Wade.

But Desmond had also had business interactions with Phil in the past, she reminded herself, struggling to figure out which of the many different parts of Phil's sketchy past might have led to his murder. Interactions that apparently hadn't lasted, since by the time Crypt Castle closed, it seemed he was no longer an owner.

But why wasn't he? she wondered. What had happened between Desmond and Phil all those years ago? Whatever it was, it seemed to be something Desmond didn't talk about openly. Had the two of them had a disagreement? Or had Desmond simply been smart enough to get out in time, recognizing long before Phil did that Crypt Castle was destined to fail?

Mallory knew she also had to take Annabelle's broken heart into consideration. The phrase
Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned
certainly hadn't remained popular for centuries without good reason.

As far as she was concerned, any one of them could have murdered Phil Diamond. They all had motive, means, and opportunity.

At the moment, however, all she wanted was to lie down for a few minutes and find a way to force all the thoughts that were racing around in her head to take a rest. While she felt she had no choice but to spend every possible moment investigating Phil's murder, she was suddenly overcome with exhaustion. She kicked off her shoes and went over to the inviting king-size bed, already anticipating how good it would feel to sink into the soft, comfortable mattress.

All I need is twenty minutes to recharge my batteries, she thought. Just like Frieda.

She glanced at the night table, wanting to check the time. Instead, her eyes were drawn to the framed photograph next to the clock.

“Oh, my God,” she breathed, suddenly feeling as if all the wind had been knocked out of her.

Something was wrong with the picture of her family vacationing in Jamaica.
Very
wrong.

Someone had cut off everyone's head.