Murder Packs a Suitcase (24 page)

Once again, she was certain she heard footsteps behind her.

Closer, this time.

“Hello?” she called in a hoarse voice, stopping and turning abruptly.

Again, silence. But she was certain she saw movement among the trees. A shadow. Or maybe the silhouette of a person determined to stay out of sight.

But she definitely saw someone.

“Who's there?” she demanded, her voice tinged with panic.

Oh, my God, Mallory thought. There really is someone following me. I have to get out of here!

Frantically, she glanced around, looking for a quick way out. Or at least someone to help her.

Once again, she heard a thumping behind her. Closer, this time. Whoever was following her was just a few feet away.

She let out a frightened, high-pitched cry and broke into a run. As she did, she heard a branch snap and the thud of footsteps against dirt.

At this point, she was afraid to turn around. There wasn't time. Not if she wanted to get away.

Another drop of rain fell, this one splashing against her foot. Surprised, she let out another cry. Then one more drop fell, this time on her neck. Then another. And another.

When she heard an entirely different type of sound amidst the plopping of raindrops, it took her a moment to identify it. A wave of relief swept over her as she realized it was a whirring sound. Something mechanical, like an engine.

A tram emblazoned with
CYPRESS GARDENS ADVENTURE PARK
on the side suddenly emerged on the brick path, snaking around the bend just ahead.

“Get in!” the young man sitting at the steering wheel yelled. “It's going to start pouring any second!”

“Thank you!” Mallory cried, jogging over and climbing in. She'd barely gotten under cover before the few warning drops gave way to sheeting rain.

“Just in time, huh?” the young man called, grinning at her over his shoulder.

If you only knew, she thought, watching the impenetrable tangle of vegetation she'd left behind disappear into the distance.

The thunderstorm ended long before Mallory got back to the hotel, giving way to a clear, blue sky and a bright, cheerful sun. Yet while the rainstorm had passed, the uneasy feeling from being followed in a deserted area of the park still lingered.

Once again, she looked forward to going back to her hotel room and locking the door. Yet as she stepped out of the elevator, she spotted a cleaning cart halfway down the hall.

Oh, dear, she thought. She hoped she wouldn't be a victim of that syndrome that seemed to plague her wherever she went: coming back to her hotel room at an off hour to discover the maid was in the middle of cleaning it. Not now, when she still felt so shaky.

She was relieved to see that she'd lucked out. The cart was parked farther down, two rooms away. The fact that the door was open meant she was busy working in that room, not Mallory's.

She was about to slip her key card into the lock when she heard a familiar voice call, “Mallory?”

She turned and saw Courtney striding down the hall.

“I'm so glad I caught up with you,” the younger woman said. “I wanted to tell you that the tourist board has set up a special event for all of you tonight. We really wanted to send you guys off with a bang, so we've been knocking ourselves out to come up with something really amazing.”

Assuming I'm going home, Mallory thought grimly.

“I didn't want to say anything until it was a hundred percent definite,” Courtney continued, “but we've finally got it locked in.” Her big green eyes were even brighter than usual as she added, “We're having dinner at Horror House tonight. In case it's not obvious, it's a haunted house.”

“I'm game,” Mallory replied, thinking about the irony of yet another haunted house tourist attraction playing a role in her life.

Automatically her mind began clicking away. She wondered if she'd be able to see enough of the attraction to include it in her article. She'd read about Horror House in the guidebooks, and it sounded perfect. But when she'd looked for more information on the web, all she'd found was an outdated website and a few blogs lamenting its imminent demise. It seemed to serve as one more example of the mysterious phenomenon that kept any haunted house attraction from surviving here in tourist heaven.

“I thought it was closing,” Mallory commented.

“Oh, no!” Courtney looked shocked by the very notion. “It's a bit out of the way, and so a lot of visitors to the Orlando area never bother to make the trip. But I've heard that a bunch of new backers just came into the picture and they're going to start running a shuttle bus from some of the big hotels.”

“Good idea,” Mallory observed.

“In fact, that's one of the reasons the attraction is so excited about hosting us tonight. The new owners are really into getting coverage in the media. They seem to appreciate its value a lot more than the people who were making those kinds of decisions in the past. They're going all out for you guys. Cocktails, dinner, entertainment with special effects and costumes, all with a haunted house theme.”

“It sounds fabulous,” Mallory said sincerely. “Thanks for setting it up.”

“No problem!” Courtney was beaming. “The plan is for everyone to meet there at seven. Some of the others won't be coming directly from the hotel. I believe Wade drove up to the Gulf Coast to look at a couple of resort hotels, and Annabelle is trying to spend an entire day at Sea World without spending a dime…. Anyway, I'll printout directions and slip them under your door.”

“What fun! Should I go dressed as a ghost or a ghoul?”

Courtney giggled. “Oh, no! They'll take care of everything. It's going to be awesome!”

Just then, the maid came out of the room down the hall, carrying a bucket of cleaning supplies. She was a tiny woman, probably in her forties, with black hair and a demure demeanor.

“Hello,” Mallory said, smiling.

Courtney echoed her greeting.

The maid returned the smile as she shuffled by, pushing the cart. “Hello,” she said, nodding at them both. “Hello, Ms. Marlowe,” she added, glancing at Courtney.

That's odd, Mallory thought. First of all, she clearly has Courtney confused with me, even though we don't look anything alike and we're not even close to being in the same age bracket. But the second aspect of their interaction struck Mallory as even odder. Why does the maid know my name at all? she wondered.

She must have overheard me talking to Desmond, she decided, although still puzzled. He must have called me by my name. And since Courtney and I are part of the same group, she probably mixed the two of us up.

Still, the maid's confusion over Courtney's identity combined with Mallory's certainty that someone had been following her at Cypress Gardens left her with a bad feeling. At this point, she no longer knew whether she was merely making mountains out of molehills—or if some of those mountains looming up ahead might turn out to be dangerous.

19

“The wise man travels to discover himself.”

—James Russell Lowell

M
allory was gripped with anxiety as she drove to her meeting with Phil's ex-wife, Patrice. She clutched the steering wheel tightly, her sweaty palms causing her hands to slip every time she made a turn.

Even the fact that their rendezvous was taking place at a McDonald's that was billed as the world's largest didn't help. She supposed it might turn out to be one more place she could write about. But that was little consolation, given the fact that she was scheduled to leave Florida tomorrow, even though she didn't expect Detective Martinez to give her the go-ahead.

As she veered off International Drive onto Sand Lake Road, there was no mistaking which building was the one she was looking for. It had to be the one with an entire wall splashed with gigantic French fries at least three or four stories high. She was worried that merely looking at the garish mural was enough to send her cholesterol level skyrocketing.

As soon as she pulled open the restaurant's glass door, Mallory's ears were assaulted with nerve-twitching bleeps, clanks, chinka-chinkas, and other electronic noises, all of which aggravated her jumpiness. The culprit, she saw, was an impressively long row of arcade games. In addition, lights flashed and children screeched as they careened down giant slides. There was visual noise, as well, from the bright colors of the plastic chairs to the life-size jungle animals painted on the walls.

I don't know if it's the world's largest McDonald's, she thought, but it's got to be the world's most stimulating. I just hope the menu includes McValium.

Bracing herself against sensory overload, she walked the length of the restaurant, keeping an eye out for a woman who looked desperate enough to have once been married to Phil Diamond. Even though she didn't spot anyone who fit that description, her quick tour gave her a chance to check out what amounted to modern-day kitsch as interpreted by a mega-corporation.

The video arcade, which easily had more than fifty different games, comprised only one section. There was also a beach area, a circus area, a Sea World area, and of course the jungle area, with each different environment created primarily by brilliantly colored murals that could well have been painted by the same artist who had created the giant French fries. The restaurant also featured tubes and slides and an amazing collection of other playground equipment that hopefully enabled grease-and-sugar-addicted children to work off some of the calories they'd just consumed.

Even the menu went far beyond the tried and true. Naturally, the usual Big Macs and McNuggets were available. But the so-called Bistro Gourmet sold paninis, pizza, and soup, and a pasta station specialized in dishes like sun-dried tomato pasta with shrimp. Some of it almost sounded like real food.

The desserts were also a few notches above McFlurries. This burger joint had a glass display case that looked as if it had been stolen out of a bakery. So did the luscious-looking cakes with equally luscious-sounding names: Peanut Butter Explosion, Chocolate Corruption, Banana Split Pie. She could only imagine what the nutritional information for
those
looked like.

Mallory bought herself a cup of coffee, unimpressed by the use of the word
gourmet
to describe it in a McDonald's. She knew the last thing she needed was caffeine, but at least it gave her an excuse to sit down. She purposely chose a table that gave her a good view of the entire restaurant. It happened to be near a large, shiny replica of the Moon Man, a character she recognized from TV commercials. Even though he was sitting at a life-size piano, he was only a statue, not a robot, so he remained mercifully silent.

She sat up straighter when she spotted a woman striding through the restaurant purposefully, checking the faces of everyone she passed. She was tall and thin, an en-viable combination that elevated her skintight jeans and white T-shirt with its deep-cut V-neck to high-fashion status. Her hair, primarily black but generously streaked with silver, curved under her jawline, accenting her sharp features and her dark brown eyes. A turquoise-and-silver cuff bracelet encircled her wrist, and she wore no fewer than three rings that similarly shrieked Southwest. A pair of silver earrings peeked out from beneath her black-and-silver pageboy.

Her face registered recognition as soon as she spotted Mallory.

“You must be Mallory, since you're the only person in here without a kid,” she said breathlessly, sliding into the seat opposite hers. “Sorry I'm late. I got tied up at work.” Rolling her eyes, she added, “As usual.”

“Are you still in the ice-cream business?” Mallory asked, still trying to overcome her shock over how different the real ex-wife was turning out to be from the version she had imagined.

A look of confusion flitted across Patrice's face. “Oh, that. Heavens, no. That was ages ago. Another life entirely. These days I'm into flowers.”

“Growing them?”

“Decorating with them, actually. I work for a florist who does arrangements for big blow-out events. Weddings, huge birthday parties, business meetings at convention hotels, that kind of thing. It turns out I have a flair for creating fabulous bouquets, even though it's not exactly the kind of thing a little girl decides she wants to do when she grows up.” Laughing self-consciously, she added, “Then again, hardly anything in my life has fallen into that category.”

Mallory was surprised at how much she actually liked Patrice. It was difficult to believe she'd ever been married to a boor like Phil. Then again, it sounded as if Patrice was just as surprised.

“I'm sorry if I keep staring,” Mallory said. “It's just that—well, you're not exactly what I expected.”

“Did you think I'd be a female version of Phil? Someone who was spouting obscenities or obnoxious remarks like one of those unfortunate people with Tourette's?”

“I guess I did,” Mallory admitted.

Patrice shrugged. “All I can say is that I was young once. Young and foolish. And Phil, believe it or not, had a certain charm back in the day. He actually knew how to turn it on when he felt it would serve his purposes.”

“How long were you two married?”

“Seven years. But it took me about seven days to figure out what I'd gotten myself into.” She shook her head slowly. “I guess I kept waiting around to see if things would get any better. Can I help it if it took me a really long time to figure out that wasn't going to happen?”

“No children?”

“No. Phil didn't strike me as someone with very strong fathering skills. After the divorce, I never remarried, never had kids…I've never even gotten a cat.” Patrice laughed uneasily. “Maybe that's why I've focused on flowers. They're living things but they keep their mouths shut.”

Barely pausing to take a breath, she asked, “So what can I tell you about my dearly departed ex? You mentioned on the phone that the police consider you a possible suspect. Frankly, you don't look like a murderer to me. Then again, I completely understand how anyone who's ever had any dealings at all with Phil could be driven to violence. I must admit, it's something that I thought about on more than one occasion.”

“I barely knew the man,” Mallory insisted. “Like I said when I called you, he and I came down to Orlando on a press trip with three other journalists. I've been a travel writer for exactly one week. This is my very first press trip, and I spent maybe an hour and a half in the man's company. No matter how much of a creep he was, that wouldn't have been enough time for me or anyone else in my position to have developed a strong enough dislike for him to feel compelled to kill him.”

“So you're trying to find out if something—or someone—from his past was responsible?”

“Exactly. Whoever wanted him dead was carrying a grudge. And what I've learned is that almost everyone who has anything to do with this press trip had some kind of negative interactions with Phil somewhere along the line.”

“Like I'm surprised,” Patrice commented dryly.

“Some of them happened only recently.” Mallory paused, wondering if she should mention Phil's long-term affair with Annabelle. She decided against it, reasoning that there were some things an ex-wife would never be happy to hear, no matter how long she'd been an ex. “And some happened as long as a couple of decades ago, back when he still lived here in Florida.”

“Sounds about right,” Patrice said. “Phil was one of those people who made enemies wherever he went. He was about as sensitive as a herd of buffalo.”

“So it seems. But I can't help being curious about Phil's business venture. The one he started back when he was still writing for the
Observer.
”

“Ah, yes. Crypt Castle.” Patrice picked up the plastic salt shaker and toyed with it, feigning fascination with the back-and-forth motion instead of making eye contact. “That place was haunted, all right. In ways that had nothing to do with ghosts and goblins.”

Mallory's ears pricked up. “What do you mean?”

“Everything that surrounded it seemed to be tainted. And it practically started on day one.”

“Maybe you could take me back to the beginning,” Mallory suggested.

Patrice sighed, as if she was about to tell a long and difficult tale. “In the late eighties, Phil decided to go into business with a guy named Desmond Farnaby.”

“I know him,” Mallory interjected. “He's the general manager at the hotel where I'm staying.”

“I heard he went into the hotel business,” Patrice said, nodding. “Anyway, this guy Farnaby had originally planned to open a haunted house with another man, Henry Hollinger, who everybody called Huck. But the two men apparently had creative differences, and their business relationship fell apart.

“When Phil heard about it, he pounced. He didn't even care that Hollinger went ahead with his plans and opened Monster Mansion, which was inevitably going to be in direct competition with Phil's attraction. Phil worked on Farnaby, convincing him that the two of them would make a great team. Of course, Farnaby was the creative one. He had all the ideas, many of which I suspect he stole from his former partner. I believe he came up with most of the financing, too.”

“So Phil and Desmond Farnaby operated Crypt Castle together?”

Patrice smiled grimly. “For a while. At least until Phil ripped off the poor guy. It turned out Phil was dipping into the company funds for his own purposes.”

Just as he had with Frieda, Mallory thought. But she kept silent.

“Phil had a way of getting the best of people,” Patrice went on. “He always managed to come out on top. The haunted house was just starting to take off when Farnaby was forced out. Thanks to Phil, the poor guy's dreams of becoming a successful entrepreneur went up in smoke. That was when he got himself a regular job.”

Mallory nodded. She had known about the partnership between Phil and Desmond, of course. And she'd known that Desmond had gotten out of the haunted house business. But up until now, she hadn't known about the circumstances—or the bad feeling it had undoubtedly left behind. Patrice's tale also explained why Desmond hadn't been mentioned in the
Sentinel
articles she'd found at the library.

“At first, Crypt Castle was a success,” Patrice continued. “But then the facility started having flooding problems. A couple of rooms suffered major water damage, the parking lot turned to mud…. Phil brought in an engineer, who figured out that the land Crypt Castle was built on was too swampy to support the structure. It wouldn't surprise me if that was discovered
before
the Castle was built, and Phil had been paying off some government inspector. But whether he had or not, he was suddenly faced with a major problem. Even though his haunted house was starting to take off, he kept having to close it so he could dry it out.

“There was only one solution: rebuilding part of the facility on another piece of land. The good news was that there was a huge empty lot right next door. The bad news was that the owner wouldn't sell it to him.

“So in the end, they both failed,” Patrice concluded. “First Hollinger's haunted house, then Phil's. But the really sad part is what happened to Huck Hollinger after his business went under.”

“What happened?” Mallory asked, wide-eyed.

Patrice grimaced. “I thought you might not know anything about that part. So I brought this along.” She reached into her purse and pulled out a yellowing newspaper clipping stored in a sandwich-size Ziploc bag.

         

HENRY “HUCK” HOLLINGER, ORLANDO BUSINESSMAN, DEAD AT
33

         

She began to read.

Orlando native Henry “Huck” Hollinger, who is perhaps best known for creating Monster Mansion, a haunted house attraction, was found dead at his home earlier today. According to police, Mr. Hollinger committed suicide….

“Hollinger killed himself?” Mallory cried.

“Like I said,” Patrice replied solemnly, “everything about that whole haunted house episode was bad news.”

“Did he commit suicide because his business failed?”

“I'm afraid so.”

Mallory was silent as she skimmed the rest of the obituary. Born in Ocala…settled in Orlando after college…sold insurance and encyclopedias before investing his life savings in an innovative tourist attraction…incorporated special effects and live actors to provide visitors with a spooky yet fun experience…

There was nothing new here. In fact, she was about to hand the obituary back to Patrice when her eyes lit on the last line.

“He is survived by his wife, Lynn, and his daughter, Courtney.”

Courtney?
she thought.

Mallory's head was suddenly buzzing even louder than the clinks and bleeps from all the electronics surrounding her. Of course, Courtney was a common name. There were undoubtedly thousands of Courtneys in Florida.