Cyd Redondo. Redondo Travel. Yeah, I know. Travel agenting isn’t exactly a growth industry, but it’s in my blood—I’m third generation. Well, technically, fourth, as my great-grandfather actually booked a couple of excursion fares on the Titanic, but we don’t talk about that.

So, a day in my life usually involves donning something simple and professional—a Shantung silk pencil skirt and faux leopard skin stilettos—then heading down the fire escape from my attic room before there’s too much movement downstairs. I’m currently back in the house I grew up in (or the “love prison” as I like to call it), and if I go out the front door, I’m likely to get the Italian Inquisition from my uncles or one of my ten “brousins.” In my family, surveillance of single female relatives isn’t age dependent (I’m 32), probably because I’m the only one.

If I make it out, I head up 77th Street to Third Avenue, grab a bialy or a chocolate croissant and a double espresso to go, and head into the office to fire up my Krups coffee grinder. I’m one of those people who needs coffee just to be able to make coffee.

We open at 8:30, since most of our clients are up and finished with their first medical appointments by then. These days, Redondo Travel stays afloat specializing in senior citizen or “last chance” travel. Luckily, we’re smack dab in one of the few NORCs (“naturally occurring retirement communities”) in the country, and when people have been in stuck in Bay Ridge, Brooklyn their whole lives, Bermuda— or even Minsk—sounds pretty good.

So, though I spend most of the day booking golf resorts with ADA ramps, gold and silver anniversary trips to Atlantic City, and “visit the grandkids” trips to Charlotte or Memphis (Graceland entry optional), I also have a few bucket list clients who are up for safaris (with walk-in tubs), ‘round the world cruises (with on-staff attending physicians), Chinese river barge tours (with early bird seating), and the occasional Tongan “naturalist” Bungee Jump Adventure (don’t ask).

I admit, I live vicariously through them. Until a month ago, my extensive travel knowledge was purely theoretical, since my overprotective family had made sure I’d never been farther than New Jersey. When I finally escaped the Redondo zone, my first “vacation” wasn’t much of one, as I was framed by endangered animal smugglers and ended up with a bullet hole in my vintage Balenciaga bag, a favorite uncle in a minimum security prison, and a broken heart.

At the moment, I’m trying to stay under the gossip radar and focus on the things I love: Tupperware, eggplant parmesan, kickboxing, Jack Daniels, Linda Ronstadt, Fodor’s Guides (pre-1985), Paul Newman (at any age), and my dead Dad, who crashed into a chicken truck on the way to a Mets game when I was four and left me a 1929 Wilcox Crittenham compass, an emerald green 1965 Ford Galaxie 500, and a tendency to idealize unavailable men.

It’s harder to avoid the things I hate: rudeness, the Euro, snakes, soggy zucchini, yoga and anyone who talks about yoga, flats, my arch rival, Peggy Newsome of Patriot Travel, and my ex-husband Barry Manzoni’s screeching rebound wife.

So after work, I usually head to Chadwick’s—the one bar she’s not allowed in—since I won exclusive visitation rights from Barry in our annulment. It’s Tiki night, the best local substitute for a tropical drink on a deserted island. Plus, they have crab cakes.

You can read more about Cyd in Drowned Under, the second book in the “Cyd Redondo” traditional mystery series, coming March 19, 2019.

Eggnog notwithstanding, travel agent Cyd Redondo is not looking forward to the holidays. The borough of Bay Ridge, Brooklyn―along with most of her family―holds her responsible for landing her Uncle Ray in a minimum-security prison.

So, when Cyd’s ex-husband, Barry Manzoni, announces his parents have disappeared from an Australian cruise, she rushes Down Under to enlist the help of travel liaison and friend Harriet Archer, who offers a free cabin on the Tasmanian Dream and insider assistance with the search.

Cyd’s flights are delayed, so she hitches a helicopter ride to the ship―which lacks a heli-pad. She and her Balenciaga bag barely survive the harrowing drop, landing on a gorgeous man in a Speedo. When she finally makes it to her cabin, she finds Harriet dead, lying in a pool of blood.

The ship’s doctor/coroner―now wearing a tux instead of his Speedo―declares the death an accident. While Darling Cruises hurries to cover up the “unfortunate event” and sanitize the crime scene, Cyd scrambles to preserve evidence, terrified the murder is connected to the Manzonis’ disappearance, and to prevent the heist of the world’s last Tasmanian tiger.

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Meet the author
Wendall Thomas teaches in the Graduate Film School at UCLA, lectures internationally on screenwriting, and has worked as an entertainment reporter, script consultant, and film and television writer. Her novel Lost Luggage was nominated for the Lefty and Macavity Awards for Best Debut Mystery of 2017 and her short fiction appears in the crime anthologies Ladies Night (2015), Last Resort (2017), and the upcoming Murder-A-Go-Go’s. Her second Cyd Redondo mystery, Drowned Under, comes out March 19.

Visit Wendall’s website at wendallthomas.com for more information.

All comments are welcomed.