Murder Packs a Suitcase by Cynthia Baxter Read Free Book Online Page A

woman,” Mallory remarked. “She seems completely disoriented.”
    â€œWhat are you talking about? That’s Frieda Stein,” Annabelle said. “Frieda!” she cried, waving her arms in the air and half standing. As she did, she bumped against the table, once again sending the vase of fake red anthuriums trembling. “Over here, Frieda!”
    Mallory cringed. Even if Frieda happened to be hard of hearing, there was no way she could have missed the grating sound of Annabelle’s voice. So Mallory wasn’t surprised that the older woman made a beeline for the table, although her pace was closer to a snail’s than a bee’s.
    â€œGoodness, I was afraid I was late,” Frieda said in a singsong voice that sounded almost like a child’s. “But I see I’m not the last to arrive.”
    Up close, Mallory saw that her bright orange-red lipstick wasn’t the only makeup Frieda Stein wore. She had also applied brown eyeliner. Unfortunately, the thick, uneven lines that squiggled like caterpillars were perched about a quarter of an inch above the actual edge of her eyelids.
    Gesturing toward the newcomer with her thumb, Annabelle said, “Frieda here writes for
Go, Seniors!
magazine.”
    â€œThat’s right,” Frieda agreed in her melodious voice. Patting her silver pageboy primly, she added, “And we seniors are no longer spending our vacations playing shuffleboard on cruises or golfing from dawn to dusk. We’re trekking in the Himalayas. We’re hang gliding in Jamaica. We’re bungee jumping in the Grand Canyon!”
    â€œNot this trip,” Annabelle said. “The only thing around here that’s likely to raise your blood pressure is the Revenge of the Mummy roller coaster at Universal.”
    â€œNonsense,” Frieda returned indignantly. “Last time I was here, I went skinny-dipping in the World Showcase Lagoon at Epcot. That was for my article ‘Grin and Bare It.’” Winking at Mallory, she added, “Almost got myself arrested by a very handsome police officer. But I managed to flirt my way out of it.”
    â€œSo you must be
The Good Life
’s new travel writer,” Annabelle said. “The Florida tourism people e-mailed us on Friday, saying there was a replacement.”
    â€œThat’s me.”
    â€œThat’s not a bad magazine. Not bad at all.” She sounded impressed. “Who did you write for before?”
    Mallory paused to take a sip from her water glass. She wondered just how forthcoming to be.
    But the moment passed when she and Annabelle and Frieda all turned their heads at the unexpected sound of an argumentative voice just a few feet away.
    â€œWhaddya mean I can’t smoke in this stupid restaurant?” a man in khaki shorts and a garish Hawaiian shirt sputtered. “This is a coffee shop, for God’s sake. What goes better with coffee than a cigarette?”
    â€œMust we go through this every time you’re a guest at my hotel?” another middle-aged man asked crisply. He couldn’t have looked more different from the other man. He was impeccably dressed in a beige suit that, despite the fact that it was linen, was as smooth as if it had just been run over by a steam roller. Even more distinctive, however, was his yellow bow tie, which was splattered with big black polka dots.
    â€œIf I’d wanted to be tortured by people who act like smoking cigarettes is in the same category as shooting heroin, I’d have stayed in California,” the first man shouted.
    Mallory immediately recognized him as the man she’d seen on the plane—the one who had tried to steal her seat and then been so rude the flight attendant had looked ready to throw him off. It appeared that he didn’t limit his boorish behavior to the friendly skies; he’d brought it along to the hotel, keeping it with him like a carry-on bag.
    â€œHere at the Polynesian