Murder Packs a Suitcase Read Free Page A

she could do it better than someone twenty years younger.
    The debate inside Mallory’s head continued to rage. In fact, she felt as if somehow the fillings in her teeth had started channeling CNN, one of those news analysis shows featuring two snarling individuals on opposite sides of the political spectrum fighting like pit bulls.
    Just because he thinks you can do this doesn’t mean you can, one of the voices insisted.
    But you’ve been writing for decades, the opposing voice countered. Trevor Pierce read your work and he liked it. And once upon a time, back when you were Amanda’s age, you dreamed about working for a big national magazine.
    What about all that traveling? the first voice demanded. For all you know, you’d be forced to cover extreme destinations like Antarctica and the Gobi Desert. Or countries with unstable governments and bad water and strikes every ten minutes that leave garbage piled on the streets and commuters stuck in subways. And what if you’re assigned to write about a nudist colony?…
    â€œWhat I need for the issue we’re currently putting together,” Trevor continued, oblivious to her hesitation, “is an article on Florida.” He leaned forward and rested his elbows on his desk. “The old Florida, that somewhat hokey, somewhat tacky but always fun place so many of us remember with such affection from our own family vacations back in the fifties, sixties, and seventies. I’m thinking plastic pink flamingo lawn ornaments. Alligator farms with gator wrestling. Roadside attractions like caged tigers at gas stations. Hot dog stands shaped like giant hot dogs. The precursors of the giant theme parks, like haunted houses and talking mermaids.
    â€œThat’s what I mean by the old Florida,” he concluded. “Your job is to find out if it still exists despite Disneyfication, not to mention the Internet, computer games, iPods, and all the other high-tech toys that have become part of everyone’s life.”
    Florida! For the first time since entering Trevor’s office, Mallory felt herself starting to relax. Florida was something she could handle—if there was anything her limited travel experience
had
prepared her for, this was it. She couldn’t help smiling as she found herself imagining a slide show that catapulted her back to her childhood.
    She could remember the thrill of pulling into the parking lot of Horne’s, a chain of roadside stops that popped up practically every five miles. Lingering over enticing displays of alligator wallets and pecan log rolls at Stuckey’s, its number-one competitor. Begging to stay at the Mexican-themed South of the Border Motel, which was advertised by dozens of billboards along the interstate and was readily recognizable by the hundred-foot statue of the motel’s sombrero-sporting mascot, Pedro.
    And that was just driving there. She had fond memories of so many things that these days were considered kitsch—a term meaning “bad taste in good fun.” Those alligator farms Trevor had mentioned, glass-bottom boats, snack bars shaped like giant ice-cream cones, Cypress Gardens with its thrilling waterskiing shows…
    All that must have changed by now, Mallory reflected. All those quirky places that endeared Florida to me and a whole generation of young travelers have undoubtedly been put out of business by the Disney parks, Sea World, and Universal. Or maybe not.
    â€œOf course, everything will be completely paid for,” Trevor went on matter-of-factly, as if free trips like the one he was describing came along every day. “Tourist destinations generally do whatever it takes to get media coverage in their strongest markets, which means Florida’s tourism bureau is picking up the tab for most of it.
The Good Life
will cover all your other related expenses, like getting to and from the airport and any meals that aren’t comped.”
    â€œComped?”