Murder Packs a Suitcase (11 page)

Mallory loved all of it. Five flamingos, she decided. Gatorland definitely captures the old Florida. No neon, no white-knuckle thrill rides, no special effects. Just alligators in their natural environment.

Still, the fact that Frieda kept swaying from side to side whenever the two of them stopped to look at something prompted Mallory to keep her viewing time to a minimum. When the older woman caught her balance by leaning against a gate with a sign that read,
DO NOT ENTER OR YOU WILL BE EATEN,
Mallory quickly checked the map she'd been given when she entered.

“How about riding the train that goes through the Jungle Crocs of the World exhibit?” she suggested, thinking that sitting down for a while might not be a bad idea.

“Nah, too boring,” Frieda scoffed. “That's for babies and old codgers. My readers hate that kind of thing.”

“Then how about the Swamp Walk?”

“Sounds buggy.”

Mallory sighed. Keeping Frieda entertained was turning out to be as difficult as spending the day with a fussy toddler.

“Maybe we can check out one of the shows,” she tried, “like the Gator Jumparoo Show.”

Frieda brightened. “Hey, look at that sign over there! We're just in time for gator wrestling!”

Mallory cringed. She wouldn't put it past Frieda to thrust herself into the limelight in order to get the story she was after—even though it carried the risk of being turned into Purina Gator Chow. Yet Mallory had come to see what Gatorland was all about, and that meant checking out everything.

“Then gator wrestling it is.”

She and Frieda followed the other tourists who were shuffling into the small arena that, appropriately enough, was called Gator Wrestlin' Stadium. Tiers of bleachers surrounded a sand “stage” edged with metal fencing that no doubt was meant to keep the performers safely separated from the audience.

“Let's sit inna front!” Frieda demanded.

“Uh, I think there's less sun in the back—”

But Frieda had already plopped down in the front row. “I wanna make sure they see me when I put my hand in the air.”

Before Mallory had a chance to talk Frieda out of it, a blond young man stepped onto the patch of sand that served as the stage. He wore jeans, a khaki shirt with
GL
embroidered over the pocket, and an Indiana Jones–style hat.

“Welcome to Gatorland, everybody!” he cried, cracking a whip. Mallory jumped. So did everyone else in the stadium. Everyone except Frieda, who was still enjoying the benefits of a major muscle relaxant.

“Many people don't realize that cattle was once big in Florida,” he continued in the same booming voice. “The cattle herders used to crack whips to round up the cattle and keep them in line—which is how southerners came to be called crackers.” To emphasize his etymology lesson, he cracked his whip loudly a few more times.

“Okay, folks, we've got a great show for you today. My name is Doug and this is Lisa, who'll be demonstrating just how friendly gators can be.” A tiny blond woman who wore an identical outfit, minus the hat, but probably weighed a hundred pounds less smiled and waved. “Anybody here want to see some alligator wrestlin'?”

The audience yelled out, “Ye-e-ah!”

“Anybody want to volunteer?”

This time, the response was nervous laughter. Only Frieda thrust her hand into the air, yelling, “Pick me! Pick me!”

Fortunately, sacrificing senior citizens wasn't on the program. “How about you, young man?” Doug asked, reaching out to a little boy sitting with his family in the third row. “Want to come up so we can see how brave you are?”

“Rats,” Frieda muttered. “They always pick the kids for these things.”

“What's your name, son?” Doug asked.

“Kevin,” the recruit answered in an uncertain voice.

“And how old are you, Kevin?”

“Six.”

“Six! That's great! So you've already lived a long and rewarding life.” He paused while the audience laughed. Little Kevin, meanwhile, didn't look particularly amused. “Now, here's what I want you to do, my good man. See that opening over there? That leads to the alligator pit where we keep our meanest, toughest alligators. I'd like you to crawl in there and pick out the biggest, scariest one you can find and drag him out by his tail. Okay?”

Kevin's eyes grew wide. And then, after glancing at his mother, he nodded.

“Nah!” Doug insisted. “You don't really want to do that, do you? I think we'll leave the wrestling to somebody really tough. Somebody big, somebody strong…Lisa, you want to take over while Kevin goes back to his seat?”

Relief was written all over poor Kevin's face. He didn't even seem to notice that the audience rewarded him with enthusiastic applause as he scurried back to his seat.

“Hi, everybody,” Lisa cried, leaping into center stage. “Before I get down and dirty with one our gators, let me give you some basic facts. Most gators are seven to eight feet long and weigh 120 to 180 pounds. But they're ninety percent muscle. They also have a brain the size of a lima bean, which means they're about as smart as one.”

She reached into the opening to the pit and pulled her opponent out by the tail. She then immediately sat on his back and held his mouth closed. “This guy has fifteen hundred pounds of pressure in his jaws. Inside his mouth he's got eighty-two teeth for grabbing his prey. Alligators don't chew their food, they swallow it whole. So if you ever get caught by a gator, at least you won't hurt going down!”

Lisa's act consisted of wedging the alligator's mouth underneath her chin and throwing both arms out, as if to say,
Look, Ma! No hands!

As Doug took over once again to do some more showing off, Frieda stood up to leave.

“Whatta disappointment,” she mumbled. “Let's get outta here. I was so sure they'd let me do a few tricks with those gators. I'm a lot stronger than I look, you know. I've got really strong bones because I take an osteoporosis drug regularly.”

They'd walked only a few steps along the path leading out of the stadium when they heard someone ask, “Did you ladies enjoy the show?”

Mallory turned and saw that the person who'd posed the question was a scruffy-looking man who, like Doug and Lisa, wore a shirt with a
GL
embroidered over the pocket. But he could have been their grandfather. He had a shock of white hair that puffed upward and a mottled red nose that reminded Mallory of a potato.

“It was great,” Mallory replied.

“Except I didn't get to wrestle a single alligator,” Frieda said petulantly.

“That's too bad. But maybe I can make things up to you two lovely ladies.” He sashayed up to Frieda and said, “Let me introduce myself. I'm Zeke—better known as Alligator Zeke.”

“Hello, uh, Alligator Zeke,” Mallory said politely. She needn't have bothered. Zeke clearly had eyes only for Frieda.

And Frieda seemed to be loving it. “I'm Frieda Stein.” Cocking her head to one side flirtatiously, she added, “Seems to me a man with a nickname like that must have earned it.”

Zeke chuckled. “I admit, I've had my share of close encounters with the cute little critters. Got the scars to prove it, too.” Leaning toward Frieda, he added, “I'd be happy to show 'em to you, if you're interested.”

She giggled like a twelve-year-old.

“But for now,” Zeke offered, “how about if I personally show you lovely ladies some of Gatorland's highlights?”

“Ooh, I'd
love
that!” Frieda cooed.

“Thanks, but I think I'll pass,” Mallory said. She knew perfectly well
she
wasn't the lovely lady he was interested in impressing, and she had no interest in being a third wheel. “If you don't mind, I'll just duck into the gift shop.”

“Be my guest,” Zeke said. “Now, Frieda, if you'll just step over here into the Snakes of Florida exhibit…”

Anxious to make a quick getaway, Mallory dashed into the gift shop. Not surprisingly, it was filled with alligators made of every possible material. She couldn't help stroking one of the cute, fuzzy alligators that had somehow morphed from reptiles into mammals. She also spotted a stuffed mommy gator with two babies Velcroed on, which struck her as a terrific way of keeping one's offspring close by. She wished someone had thought of that when Jordan was little.

She pulled out her pad and took notes on the merchandise: a bean-bag gator with a goofy expression; a foam-rubber mask that made it possible for any human to be mistaken for an alligator; a floating version for bathtub enjoyment, billed as “28 BIG inches of rubbery reptile fun!”

Mallory was tempted to buy Jordan one of the official Gatorland T-shirts on display. But she couldn't decide between the one printed with
Chasin' Tail—Gatorland Orlando, Florida
and the considerably more tasteful one that said,
Official Gatorland Gator Patrol—If You See Me Running, Try to Keep Up!

In the end, she decided to chuck the shopping spree and instead take advantage of her last minutes of freedom from Frieda by grabbing some lunch. Even though they hadn't been at the park very long, it was already close to noon and her stomach was growling more loudly than Judy the bear.

After checking her map once again and weighing her options, she decided that Pearl's Patio Smokehouse sounded like the best bet for chowing down—even if the menu did include smoked gator ribs and deep-fried gator nuggets.

As soon as she walked into the outdoor eatery, her heart leaped into her throat. The reporter she'd noticed earlier was sitting at a picnic table, an outdoor snack bar, dousing a sandwich with sauce.

She'd just started to head toward him when Frieda came over and placed her hand on Mallory's arm.

“Mallory, dear, would you mind if Zeke took me on a private tour? He has something special he wants to show me. Something that the general public doesn't get to see.”

Mallory didn't even want to know what that was. Thank you, Zeke, she thought.

“Of course I don't mind,” she said aloud. “Have a ball. Meet me at the ticket booth whenever you're ready to leave.”

Frieda just winked, then hurried away.

As soon as she was out of view, Mallory sidled over to the reporter, who at the moment had an extraordinary amount of brown sauce dripping down his chin.

“Is the food here any good?” she asked casually.

“Sure, if you like gator meat.”

“You're kidding!”

“Yeah. This is regular old pulled pork. It's really good, though. I highly recommend it.”

“Thanks for the review.”

She ordered her own lunch, then carried her tray back to his table. “Mind if I join you? I hate eating alone.”

Since his mouth was full of half-chewed pork, he grunted and made a welcoming gesture.

“You're a reporter, aren't you?” Mallory asked as she unwrapped her straw. “I noticed you out front when I came in.”

He swallowed loudly. “Yup, that was me.” Rolling his eyes, he added, “That's what happens on a slow news day. You end up giving crazies a bunch of publicity they don't deserve. Fortunately, I can pad the piece with some legitimate news. Coming here today gave me an excuse to interview some of the employees about the park's recovery from the serious fire they had here a while back.”

“I guess your job is never boring,” Mallory commented. She bit into her sandwich. He was right. The pulled pork at Pearl's was excellent. “Have you been doing it for a long time?”

He snorted. “Sometimes it seems like forever. But I guess it's more like, what, thirty-five years?”

Which meant she'd been right about his age. “I don't suppose you ever ran into a reporter named Phil Diamond who wrote for the
Orlando Observer
?”

“Phil Diamond?” he repeated, startled.

Mallory did her best not to react. “Did you know him?”

“As a matter of fact, I did.” He frowned. “I guess you know he was murdered last night.”

She nodded. “I'm one of the travel writers who came down on the same press trip. We're all staying at the hotel where he was killed.” She decided not to mention that she was also a suspect, since that probably wasn't the best way to get him to open up. “I'm Mallory Marlowe. I write for
The Good Life.”

“Al Zimmerman.
Orlando Sentinel.
” He stuck out his hand, then drew it back as if he'd realized it was too sticky for human contact. “Nice to meet you.”

“Same here.” She hesitated. “I understand that Phil Diamond had a pretty successful writing career back in the eighties. He had his own column, didn't he?”

“That's right. He called it ‘Diamond in the Rough.'” Smirking, he added, “I don't know how well you knew Phil, but that name fit him pretty well.”

“I didn't know him well at all,” Mallory replied. “Actually, I just met him yesterday.”

“Yeah, well, I knew Phil forever. He and I actually started out in the newspaper business together. I was just out of college with a degree in journalism. As for Phil, I seem to recall he didn't graduate from college. He was one of those ‘pull yourself up by your own bootstraps' types. I think he'd taken a few writing courses somewhere, but he mainly learned the writing trade by working for local papers. They didn't pay much, but he was willing to do whatever they asked to learn the business.

“Phil was a decent writer, but not a great one. To give him credit, he did get better as time went on. But what he was best at was getting the story.”

“You mean he was good with people?” Mallory asked, surprised.

Al smiled crookedly. “More like he had a certain ruthlessness when it came to beating people down. He was one of those guys who had no problem showing up at a murder victim's home at two o'clock in the morning and asking his mother, ‘How do you feel about your kid being shot to death two hours ago?'”