Murder Packs a Suitcase by Cynthia Baxter Read Free Book Online

other journalists and the publications they wrote for. Admittedly, none of the magazines or websites had the same status as
The Good Life.
But that didn’t keep her from fearing that all four writers would be much more seasoned and sophisticated than she, and that she’d end up feeling like a geeky kid on her first day at a new school.
    The only plus she could see was that she’d automatically have someone to eat lunch with—even if it was in an ersatz teahouse. After the hostess sat her at an empty table for six, Mallory took stock of her surroundings. The Tiki Tiki Teahouse was really just a coffee shop that had been dressed up with a scattering of potted palm trees, wicker furniture, and more of those tribal masks with expressions as friendly as smiley faces. As for sophistication, it didn’t exactly appear to be the order of the day. Not with the toddler in the corner tossing his hamburger bun as if it were a Frisbee and another young child at a neighboring table dipping her Cinderella doll’s head into her dish of chocolate ice cream.
    To mask her discomfort over sitting alone, Mallory pulled out her notebook.
    â€œThe Polynesian Princess Resort is extremely child-friendly,” she wrote, continuing her quest to find the fun in everything she experienced. “No pompous waiters shaking their heads disapprovingly here. Instead, the coffee shop off the main lobby, the Tiki Tiki Teahouse, offers the perfect spot for a relaxing meal. Even the menu is geared toward young visitors, with entrees like Banana-Fana Pancakes and Tiki-Tacky Tuna, which youngsters are guaranteed to enjoy….”
    She jerked her head up when something bumped against the table.
    â€œYou’d think after all these years, I’d have learned to bring earplugs whenever I come to Orlando,” the short, barrel-shaped woman complained in a gravelly voice. She seemed completely oblivious to the fact that she’d nearly sent the small vase of brilliant red tropical flowers at the edge of the table flying. “The worst thing about Orlando is that it’s crawling with kids. If they could fix that, it wouldn’t be half-bad.”
    At first glance, Mallory assumed the woman was in her fifties. She wore a rumpled white blouse and an un-flattering gray pleated skirt that hung unevenly from her thick waist, an outfit that made her look as if she’d just mugged a Catholic school student. Her black hair was pulled back into a crooked bun and held in place by a plastic contraption that operated like a giant binder clip. Loose wisps that hadn’t quite made it inside hung down haphazardly. Yet upon closer study, Mallory realized that the woman’s face was youthful enough to put her somewhere in her thirties.
    Peering at Mallory through squinting eyes, the woman asked, “Are you here on the press trip?”
    â€œYes, I am,” Mallory replied, smiling. “How did you know?”
    â€œYou’re sitting alone at a table for six, you don’t have any kids with you, and you’re taking notes,” the woman replied tartly.
    She dropped into the seat opposite Mallory, smashing her big, clumsy black pocketbook against the edge of the table. “I’m Annabelle Gatch,” she announced.
“Travel on a Shoestring
magazine.” She shook Mallory’s hand, offering only three limp fingers.
    â€œNice to meet you. I’m Mallory Marlowe. I write for—”
    She stopped mid-sentence, distracted by an older woman she’d suddenly spotted wandering around the restaurant, looking confused. She was barely five feet tall, dressed in a purple sweat suit with silver sequins running up the sides of the baggy pants and along the collar of the zippered jacket. Her white sneakers, which made her feet look almost as big as Mickey Mouse’s, were festooned with shiny silver patches and tiny red lights that lit up each time she took a step.
    â€œSomeone should help that poor