Murder Packs a Suitcase (12 page)

“But isn't that a necessary skill in the newspaper business?”

“For certain kinds of reporting. The problem with Phil was that he didn't know when to let it go. He was a diamond in the rough, all right. And not only at work. Unfortunately, he carried it into every part of his life, including his personal life. His marriage was the perfect example.”

Mallory pricked up her ears. “It didn't even occur to me that Phil might be married.”

“He's not—or I guess I should say he
wasn't.
At least, not anymore. He and Patrice got divorced a long time ago. Early nineties, I think. It was pretty ugly, from what I understand.”

“Was she a reporter, too?”

“Patrice? Nah. I seem to recall that she tried a couple of different things. Eventually, even she got caught up in the tourism business. After the divorce, she opened one of those ice-cream stands that's actually shaped like a huge ice-cream cone. After that, I don't know what happened.”

Mallory was about to press Al for more details about Phil's failed marriage, but he said, “Anyway, Phil got to be pretty popular at the
Observer.
Readers loved him because he always got the story. He had no problem telling it like it was, no matter whose toes he might have been stepping on. But his columns were so abrasive that our editor, Jim Tillson, got loads of angry phone calls from the local citizenry. Politicians, too. The cops, even. When it came to offending people, Phil didn't discriminate.

“After a while, Jim got pretty tired of it. But by that point Phil had a big enough following that Jim didn't want to let him go. So he came up with the idea of giving him his own column.”

“A travel column, right?” Mallory asked.

“He covered travel, but it was actually more of a lifestyle column,” Al replied. “Phil wrote about anything he felt like writing about. It was mostly stuff about the local scene. Restaurants, trends, the growing tourism trade, the long-term repercussions of Disneyfication, and the tremendous growth that was changing the face of central Florida.”

Mallory's eyebrows shot up. “Don't tell me Phil was concerned about preserving Florida's past. Or that he was worried about what overdevelopment might do to the environment.”

“Ha! Not Phil. He was much too self-serving. But so are a lot of people, and I guess he put in print what many of them were thinking. That's what I meant about developing a following. People liked his curmudgeonly style. It was something different, something a big portion of the paper's readership could relate to.”

“If he was that popular, why did he give up his column and leave Florida?”

“I'm afraid that's where there's a hole in my story,” Al said. “Phil seemed pretty happy being a big fish in a little pond. As for me, when I suddenly saw the big three-oh staring me in the face, I decided I wanted more. So I applied to the Journalism program at Columbia University. I figured having a Master's degree from a name school would help me move into the big league. I went up to New York for a couple of years, and Phil and I lost touch.

“After that, I worked at a bunch of papers all over the country. It's only recently that I came back. I think of myself as semiretired. The work here isn't that demanding, and I live in a nice condo with my wife. We've got a pool, a clubhouse, the whole shebang.”

“But what happened to Phil?” Mallory persisted. “Why did he leave Florida?”

The creases in Al's forehead deepened. “I don't know the details. All I know is that I heard through the grapevine that Phil was suddenly out on his keister.”

“He was fired?” Mallory exclaimed. “Why? What happened?”

“He apparently got involved in some scandal. Something pretty serious, too, I understand. But it was all kept very hush-hush. I guess the people who were in power at the time were afraid it would hurt the paper's reputation. All I know is that one day Phil Diamond was the golden boy, and the next day he'd vanished.”

So good old Phil had gotten into some kind of trouble, Mallory thought. Before she managed to press Al for more details, he crumpled up all the barbecue sauce–streaked napkins he'd used and pushed back his bench.

“Speaking of vanishing, I've got to get out of here. Big press conference at the mayor's office. Seems he found a new way to cut taxes without cutting services—or so he claims.” As he stood up, he added, “Nice chatting with you.”

“Same here.”

“I'll keep an eye out for your article. Hey, I like living the good life as much as the next guy.”

Mallory was about to respond when her cell phone erupted into its signature melody. She was about to answer when she noticed the number. It was Trevor Pierce, calling her again.

I got off easy with the last call, she thought. I may not be as lucky this time around.

So instead of answering, she waited until the words 1
NEW MESSAGE
appeared on the screen. Then she punched in her password and listened.

“Mallory, Trevor Pierce again. Would you mind telling me what the hell is going on down there?”

8

“Stop worrying about the potholes in the road and celebrate the journey!”

—Fitzhugh Mullan

C
ringing, Mallory listened to the rest of Trevor's message.

“I just logged onto the
Orlando Sentinel
's web-site to check out the weather,” he continued. He sounded as if he was doing his best to remain calm but wasn't doing that great a job of it. “I wanted to see if you had any rain down there. But instead of getting the weather report, I read in the headlines that a journalist who sounds like he's on the same press trip you're on was
murdered
last night! For God's sake, Mallory, call me!”

Mallory hesitated for only a moment before turning off her cell phone and tossing it into her purse.

Okay, so he knows I wasn't exactly telling the truth when I said everything was going well, she thought guiltily. But right now, I have enough to deal with without trying to explain my situation to my boss.

And that included dragging a libidinous senior citizen away from her gator-filled love nest.

“You should see how strong Zeke is!” Frieda cooed as she toddled through the parking lot a little behind Mallory, after turning up at the ticket booth much later than Mallory would have liked. At least she no longer appeared to be intoxicated. At least, not on alcohol. “And how brave he is! He actually picked up an alligator and held it in his arms like a baby! Of course, it
was
a baby. And the little guy's teeth didn't look much bigger than mine….”

As soon as Mallory managed to strap Frieda into the front seat, she snapped on the car radio.

“Police have no leads in the death of Phil Diamond, the seasoned journalist who was visiting Orlando to write an in-depth investigative piece on the city's tourism industry….”

Okay, that's just one station, she thought, fighting the wave of anxiety that was rapidly descending and pressing the Seek button. And a local station, at that.

“According to Desmond Farnaby, general manager of the Polynesian Princess Hotel, security has been stepped up and the hotel staff is doing everything possible to cooperate with police….”

Another local station, Mallory thought desperately, punching Seek again. Al Zimmerman told me himself that today was a slow news day.

“This is National Public Radio,”
a dreamy female voice said,
“and today's top story is the murder of journalist Phillip Diamond, the voice of the highly respected travel website BeenThereDoneThat-dot-com….”

“Sounds like poor old Phil getting bumped off is big news.” Frieda cackled. “Frankly, I'm surprised it didn't happen a long time ago.”

Mallory kept jabbing buttons until she finally found a country station. It wasn't her favorite type of music, but she gritted her teeth and turned the volume up enough that it discouraged any further conversation.

“Our lo-o-ove is like a di-a-mond, shiny and strong…” an ersatz cowboy caterwauled.

Biting her lip, she snapped off the radio. He's everywhere, she thought, trying to quell the anxiety rising in her chest by taking deep breaths. I can't get away from him.

Amazingly, Phil Diamond is turning out to be even more trouble dead than he was alive. But while I have no control over how the rest of the world deals with him, the one thing I can do is spend every waking moment trying to get him out of
my
life.

“Thanks for taking me to Gatorland,” Frieda said as she and Mallory strolled through the Polynesian Princess lobby, toward the elevators. “I'm sure it'll be one of the highlights of the entire trip.”

“I'm glad you enjoyed it,” Mallory replied. “It's nice that Zeke made the time to give you an insider's view. Who knows? Maybe you two will even keep in touch.”

Frieda cast her a surprised look. “Zeke and I are going out tonight. He promised to show me some of Orlando's hot spots.”

“That should be something your readers will be interested in,” Mallory said politely, wondering how many of those hot spots were located on Zeke's body.

“Ha! Forget my readers. I'm taking the night off, baby. Party on!”

When the elevator doors opened, Frieda stepped in. “Time for my nap,” she announced. “Not a long one, just twenty minutes to recharge the batteries.”

Mallory hesitated. Up to this point, she had been looking forward to returning to her hotel room, the only place in town that afforded her a room with a door—a door that could shut out the rest of the world. Yet now that she was back, she realized there was a much better way to use her free time: paying a visit to the scene of the crime.

While she couldn't anticipate what she might find—and in fact didn't even have a very good idea of what to look for—she'd seen enough crime shows on TV to know that viewing the crime scene was a crucial element of any investigation. Besides, even if she didn't manage to spot anything the cops had missed, something in that room might spark an idea or give her a clue as to who had been there when Phil was murdered.

“Going up?” Frieda asked crossly, stabbing the Open Door button with resignation. That nap was clearly something she needed.

“On second thought, I think I'll get some coffee,” Mallory lied. “I'll catch up with you later.”

“Suit yourself.”

When Mallory reached the Bali Ballroom, she saw that the double doors were closed tight. She turned one of the knobs halfheartedly, expecting to find the door locked. Instead, it opened.

Inside, the lights were off. Even though she didn't dare switch them on, there was enough light from the hall that after waiting a few seconds for her eyes to adjust, she could see fairly well.

The Bali Ballroom seemed as lifeless as Phil's body had been as it floated in the pool. Bubbling water no longer cascaded down the waterfall, and the potted flowers that had been lush only the day before now drooped pathetically. Yellow crime-scene tape stretched across the entire display.

She was about to step forward to get a closer look when she heard voices in the hall.

“Could the timing have been any worse?” Desmond moaned. “I'm coming up for review in another two weeks. Two weeks! Do you have any idea how a murder looks on a résumé?”

“As if a murder is something that can be scheduled,” Courtney shot back angrily. “Penciled into someone's Filofax like…like ‘Make a dentist appointment for a cleaning'!”

Desmond Farnaby and Courtney Conover. Mallory stepped closer to the doorway, hugging the wall so she couldn't be spotted from the corridor.

“That's so typical, Des,” Courtney added. “It's all about you.”

“Des”? Mallory thought, startled. What happened to “Mr. Farnaby”?

“I just know my history with Phil is going to come out,” Desmond continued. “That man never seems to stop causing trouble for me. Even now, when he's dead.”

My sentiments exactly, Mallory reflected, remembering that she'd had the exact same thought not long before. She took a few steps closer to the doorway, hoping to hear more before they walked away.

“But that was ages ago,” Courtney insisted. “Besides, there's no way the police would ever link his murder with what's basically ancient history.”

Courtney and Desmond were talking to each other with a sense of familiarity that Mallory hadn't picked up on before. She hadn't realized there was history between them.

Desmond also seemed to have a history with the murder victim. That suddenly made him a lot more interesting.

Mallory remained in her hiding spot, expecting the two of them to pass by. Instead, Desmond said, “We can talk about this later, Courtney. Right now, I have a hotel to run. And that includes getting the ballroom back into shape.”

He strode into the ballroom and snapped on the lights.

“Mallory!” he cried, looking startled. “What are you doing here?”

“I, uh…”

“The police were very clear about keeping everyone away from the crime scene,” he scolded. “I could get in trouble.”

“I know, but—”

“Look at this place!” he exclaimed, putting his hands on his hips as he surveyed the ballroom. He already seemed to have forgotten all about her transgression. “That horrid yellow tape is plastered everywhere. I don't know why it's still up, when the cops have already spent ages collecting evidence. They made me turn off the waterfall, and I'm supposed to keep the door closed. I can practically hear the mildew growing! Do you have any idea how much it hurts to see my beautiful hotel in this state? And I'm not even going to mention what it's doing to our guests' morale!”

Mallory supposed she shouldn't have been surprised that his take on the situation was the same as it had been the day before, when he'd instantly morphed into Mr. Clean.

“You wouldn't believe how many guests have already checked out,” he lamented. “Or how many cancellations we've had. With CNN carrying the story, even our international clients are steering clear of the Polynesian Princess. Thank you, Ted Turner, for helping bad news spread faster than ever!”

“You can't blame people for being upset about a murder,” she commented, irritated by his self-centered attitude. “Even people who didn't know Phil.”

“Right,” he sniffed. “The people who
did
know him aren't upset at all.”

Desmond's openness about his feelings concerning the murder victim emboldened her. “I heard there was some bad blood between you and Phil.”

She expected him to be happy he'd found someone who would listen to him vent. Instead, a look of shock crossed his face.

“How did you know about that?”

Mallory did some fast thinking. “I believe one of the other journalists mentioned it.”

“Not that it's a secret or anything,” he added hastily. “A lot of people in the tourism business know that Phil and I were in business together.”

It's news to me, she thought. “The hotel business?”

Desmond shook his head. “About twenty years ago, Phil and I tried to cash in on the incredible tourism boom that was sweeping over central Florida. We opened a fabulous tourist attraction: a haunted house called Crypt Castle.”

Frankly, Mallory couldn't picture Desmond getting involved in something so whimsical. Somehow, it didn't fit with the crisply ironed shirts and the bow ties. She couldn't imagine Phil in the haunted house business, either.

Still, she supposed business was business. If something looked like a good investment, there would be no reason for anyone not to pursue it.

“It was fabulous,” he continued proudly. “The special effects were enough to scare the pants off anybody. Screeching ghouls, trapdoors that opened unexpectedly, rattling chains…It was state of the art in the haunted house industry.”

“What happened to it?”

“It failed.” Sighing, he added, “It turns out that being an entrepreneur may look easy, but it's not. There are too many factors that go into making a business a success. Most of them impossible to control.”

Mallory hoped he'd list a few, but he'd drawn his mouth into a thin straight line. She almost got the feeling he was being careful not to say something he might regret.

“I guess the tourism industry is a pretty small world,” she observed casually. “I understand that Phil's ex-wife tried her hand at entrepreneurship, too.”

“On a considerably smaller scale,” Desmond noted huffily. “Opening an ice-cream stand is hardly the same thing as operating a major attraction. Patrice's venture was small-time. Crypt Castle, on the other hand, was something special. It was tremendous, for one thing. It sprawled over more than ten acres, including outbuildings that housed little extras, like the Dungeon of Death and the Ghosts 'n' Ghouls Gift Shop. Families could spend an entire day there. We had a refreshment stand, a playground with a giant skull kids could crawl through, and two huge parking lots.

“And the main building, the haunted house, was fabulous. We had room after room with all kinds of creepy special effects, not to mention live actors and a terrific sound system. We had a wall that breathed, a heartbeat that throbbed beneath the bed in the master bedroom, cobwebs that changed shape and turned into ghouls….”

“It does sound amazing,” Mallory commented. “I'm surprised it didn't make it.”

Desmond shrugged. “Like I said, there are a million things that can go wrong. In the end, I decided to go into something more reliable, like the hotel business. Of course, there are a million things that can go wrong there, too, and they usually do. But at least it's not your head on the chopping block all the time. Even more important, there's definitely something to be said for getting a weekly paycheck.”

“There certainly is,” she agreed.

So Phil once had business interests here in the Orlando area, she thought, mentally filing away what Desmond had told her about the defunct haunted house. That, she decided, is a part of the murder victim's past that warrants further investigation.