Twisted: A Tracy Turner Murder Mystery Novel (The Tracy Turner Mystery Series Book 1) Read online

  KEYLAHUNTER.COM

  Copyright Notice

  Twisted

  Copyright © 2014 by Keyla Hunter All rights reserved.

  First Epub Edition: 2014

  keylahunter.com

  Editing & proof reading: polished-pen.com

  Cover design: jeroentenberge.com

  Formatting: streetlightgraphics.com

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to locales, events, business establishments, or actual persons—living or dead—is entirely coincidental.

  To my family with love and gratitude

  TWISTED

  Florida's elite Regency Spa and Golf Resort has a new Head of PR and Events. Tracy Turner is out to prove herself, but a pro golfer's murder is not the kind of event that she's prepared for.

  Just a day into Tracy's promotion, Frank Walters is dead and her best friend Ryan Evans has been framed. The case against Ryan seems iron-clad--no one believes he's innocent but her. The more she digs into the murder, the further from the truth she gets. And the closer she gets to the real killer, the closer she gets to dying.

  Tracy has to save Regency's reputation, but first she has to clear Ryan's name and stay alive.

  Twisted is a stand-alone murder mystery thriller novel and the first book in The Tracy Turner Mystery Series.

  TRACY TURNER MYSTERY SERIES

  Twisted (Book 1)

  Betrayed (Book 2)

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  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  A NOTE FROM KEYLA

  CHAPTER ONE

  “Oh, Pierre, just do without the truffles!” I said. My high heels clanged across the poolside’s black and white checkered tiles as I hurried to the Ethereal Room, where tonight’s banquet was being held.

  Chef Pierre Marcell rolled along behind me, doing his best to keep up. A puff of white cloud billowed around his puckered face. Around his ample waist was a brilliant white starched apron held together by a delicate bow with two inches of cord to spare. I stopped for a moment as he raced to catch up.

  Even at this hour, the South Florida sun didn't disappoint. It created silvery gossamer threads on the delicious blue rippling water and invited early-morning risers to take a dip before breakfast. Numerous celebrities, and the wannabes by association, lounged by the pool, dressed to kill in the latest Ralph Lauren and Melissa Odabash swimwear.

  The stringy variety barely covered the essential bits, the age defying designs concealed the sagging bits, and the swishing silk wraparound sarongs that hid the bulging bits. Their mostly tanned bodies had endured the rigors of sunburn—or for the more impatient, a quick visit to the resort’s salon for a full body spray tan—which was worn as a matter of course and as a testament of the good times they had in the tropics.

  “But we need the truffles. You do not understand. How can I make Truffled Truffles with Truffle ice cream , without the truffles?” asked Pierre, his round face pink and scrunched into a tight ball. The beads of sweat that had gathered on his forehead snaked down upon his right eyelid, and then in a flash dripped onto his cheek. He reminded me of my nephew when he begged for a lolly, only the anguish on his face was greater. For a brief moment, and despite my aversion to touchy-feely expression, I wanted to give him a quick hug, but better sense prevailed.

  “Amanda would make it happen… she makes things happen, like how do you say? Maj-eeek,” he said as he snapped his fingers and waved a hand up into the air, clutching the imaginary truffles he had conjured up. In slow motion, he looked up at his hand with love then ran the tip of his tongue over his tufty mustached upper lip, sighed, and smiled a contented smile.

  Amanda Stone was my boss, and Head of PR and Events at the Regency Spa & Golf Resort. The resort hosted the Twenty-fifth Annual International Golf League Tournament, and tonight was the game’s launch party. Amanda was in her seventh month of pregnancy. No one could tell, of course. She was just a little fuller , but still looked fabulous—one of those lucky women who stayed prim and tight throughout their pregnancies.

  Every aspect of Amanda’s life was planned down to the minute. She had a spreadsheet for everything. In addition, her iPad and her two mobile phones (one for work and one for pleasure), with their regular reminders, ensured she was on top of her professional, social, and personal lives. So, when her baby decided to surprise her with an early entry, she was caught off guard.

  Her water broke at precisely 10:02 yesterday morning, which she noted with a quick flick of her wrist and an audible curse. I made the 9-1-1 call, and as she was whizzed away on a stretcher, with her phone in her hand and her mouth drawn in a tight, straight line. Her voice was quieter than usual, but as always firm, when she commanded, “Turner you take over. And for God’s sake don’t mess up.”

  Openmouthed, I stared after her. What did I, Tracy Turner, aged twenty-six, five foot nothing, know about heading the PR & Events Department of one of the largest and most prestigious resorts in the world? The only reason I was bestowed the honor was because Amanda’s planned replacement was not going to be in for another six weeks.

  It certainly was not my looks that got me there. On the scale between ordinary and ravishing, I weighed heavily toward the former. My hair was probably my best feature; it was a combination of my Irish mother’s fiery red locks and my English father’s dark brown. It was auburn and it had bounce. I tanned somewhat, but yet had a smattering of freckles on my cheeks. The most annoying was the one on my upturned button nose. I needed to stop rubbing it because I swore it got larger every day.

  About two years ago, I had joined the resort as an intern, having completed a double degree in Media Communications and Psychology in the UK, where I had lived most of my life. Amanda ran a tight ship and prided herself on running her department with minimal permanent staff. She had burned a number of interns before me, but I managed to survive the initial six-month onslaught.

  When Amanda offered me the role of PR & Events Coordinator, I weighed up the prospect of working for her and going back to the bleak British weather. The brrrr… factor was high in both cases, but I felt drawn to remain in the U.S. It somehow felt like home.

  Pierre was a Master Pastry Chef, and had been snipped a few weeks ago from the legendary Le Meurice: a luxury, chic hotel in the heart of Paris. It was the perfect fit since the resort was also well-known for its fine food. The rich and famous came from across the world for their scrumptious delicacies. Tonight’s cocktail and dinner was for the golfing world’s elite and their celebrity A-list
guests. Only the best would do.

  Our usually reliable supplier of fine gourmet fresh produce had delivered half the quantity of truffles, which was inadequate for the occasion. Truffles had a long history as an opulent delicacy. However, a few weeks ago they had been featured in Gourmet Masterchef and truffle suppliers couldn't keep up with demand as the full-flavored fungi flew off their shelves.

  If Amanda was around I was pretty sure she would have found a way to make the truffles happen. It was not the first time she would have whipped a rabbit out of a hat. Truffles were a delicacy even in France, so where could I find truffles in this part of the world?

  As if reading my thoughts Pierre continued, “They can only be the finest truffles in the world. France - that’s where they must come from. None of that stuff grown in America. Only the best will do, for my guests. You must think about my reputation Trace-ieee,” he continued as we hurried on.

  “I know, let’s take it off the menu and you come up with a new dessert. You can do it, Pierre,” I said. I hoped that this would be a practical solution. In any case, it was the best that I could come up with.

  The panting Pierre snorted his protest and looked at me, his puffy eyes reduced to slits. It seemed that I had insulted him. I gulped. “I could never…,” he began.

  “Oh yes you could. You are the one in charge. You are the Head Pastry Chef,” I said in a smooth, gentle tone. I had learned at a young age that there was nothing that a dollop of ego rub couldn’t fix. I held my breath, crossed my fingers, and hoped he would bite.

  “Of course, of course.” He smiled, his body puffed out. “Maybe I could,” he said. His eyes rolled into his head as he mulled over the possibilities.

  My chest heaved up and I blew a sigh of relief.

  “But, then what do we do with those?” he asked. I looked as he waved an arm at a large brown cardboard box marked “MENUS” that sat at the entrance of the banquet hall.

  I peered inside, bit my lower lip, and picked up one of three hundred and sixty creamy white papers rolled into scrolls. Each one was complete with a delicate teal satin ribbon and a tag printed with a dainty scrawl that read: Bon appétit.

  I rushed across to the business center through the resort’s main lobby, which was a buzzing hive of activity. The large open area had cool, creamy-peach marble columns that were thirty feet high. They supported a segmented glass dome that added to the expansiveness of the room. As the light streamed through the multifaceted skylight, a constellation of opulent crystal chandeliers burst into brilliant shades of color that twinkled and danced in the sun.

  Deep maroon and dark green accents punctuated the interior. A mixture of customized off-white fine linen and smooth leather sofas and arm chairs formed sitting areas for large groups of noisy holiday makers. Amidst the columns and lush palm trees sitting in waist-high wooden pot holders were cozy nooks for business and solitary travelers seeking a quiet reprieve.

  To the right of the lobby’s main entrance was a bubbling fountain, which cooled the room and invited the resort’s many visitors in. Millicent Henderson sat, book in hand, at her usual spot by the fountain, enjoying its bubbling, gurgling, and drip-dripping sounds as she reread her old battered copy of Pride and Prejudice. From time to time she would raise her head to acknowledge the regulars and watch the bustling activity.

  She caught sight of me, raised her arm, gave me a quick wave, and beckoned me toward her. She used her chair’s arms as a support to rise from her seat, placed the tips of three fingers on an occasional table, and stood with some effort. She reached for her hand-carved ebony cane, with its Fritz handle and slim gold collar. I changed direction and went toward her. As we approached each other, her lithe form trembled gently, but her smile was large and warm.

  Millie and her husband, Edward, were the founders of the resort. Attracted by the warm climes, they had moved to escape the bitter cold Chicago weather. That was over fifty years ago.

  Millie was a wonderful cook with a natural flair and an eye for detail. Her love for food and the couple’s knack for hospitality led them to opening an inn, which became a haven for travelers and tourists, who to their delight returned year after year.

  Her husband’s administrative skills and business tenacity meant that the venture grew rapidly. After his death, she allowed herself to mourn only for a short while. She chose to devote her energies to bringing up her son, Maxwell, as a single mother and running the growing business on her own terms.

  In honor of her husband’s legacy, within a few years she turned the inn into a magnificent hotel. She went on to buy adjoining properties with the vision of transforming the hotel into a world-class resort.

  Eight years ago, when her arthritis got the better of her, Maxwell took over from Millie. Armed with a business degree and a sound work ethic instilled in him by his parents, he built the place up, and in the last two years renovated it to be an ultramodern resort that was sought after by visitors from all over the world.

  “You look worried, Tracy. What could possibly get you down on a morning as wonderful as this?” I offered her the crook of my arm. She took it without hesitation as she had done many times before. Looking at me with keen eyes, she patted my hand. “Tell me child, what’s troubling you?”

  Her presence comforted me. For a moment I forgot why I was in such a hurry and slowed down. Millie’s friendship was one of the main reasons I had decided to stay on at the resort. She was in her late seventies, but she understood me well. I knew I could always depend on her wise counsel.

  She had probably dealt with these kinds of things many times when she ran the resort. I told her about the problem with the truffles, how Pierre was getting on my nerves, and how I contemplated changing the menu. I hoped she would sympathize, but her eyes twinkled and her lips twitched in amusement.

  “Well, dear, I have come to understand that you do your best thinking when you are relaxed,” she said, “and well fed I might add. You are looking quite thin these days, Tracy,” she added. She made a quiet clucking sound, shaking her head from side to side, and offered to buy me a muffin.

  I was torn between her suggestion and getting back to work. I had made some calls earlier and it was clear that there was no way I could whip up the truffles in the quantity that Pierre needed by this afternoon, so I called him down in the kitchen and talked it over again. He was calmer this time around and had thought my suggestion of creating an alternative dessert. He gushed on about how he had dreamed up another decadent delicacy: Red Velvet Stacks served with Cappuccino Foam and Raspberry Caviar .

  I was relieved, but my work was not over yet. I still had to deliver all the reworked menus to F&B within the next couple of hours. There were also all of the other things that I had to tick off my to-do list before tonight’s event.

  The growl in my tummy that I had ignored since I awoke that day grew louder and angrier. It reminded me that I had not had breakfast. Millie had led me to Nom Nom Café, the odor of burnt coffee beans wafted through the air and tantalized me. Its hypnotic lure beckoned me inside, and I was a slave to its call.

  “That’s a great idea, Millie.” I smiled and thanked her for the offer. The thought of a warm blueberry muffin made my mouth water.

  The menus could wait.

  I wolfed down the last of my delicious blueberry muffin and was thinking of grabbing a second when a familiar figure sauntered into the room. A pair of low-rise pale blue denim jeans hung on his lanky frame. He had matched it with a form-fitting white vest and a multicolored striped anorak. On his feet were a pair of bright red Olanthe pull-on sneakers with snow-white round noses, soles, and cotton laces. His beach-blond hair was swept up and he sported a few bangs. It seemed somewhat like a buzzard’s nest, but it was a look that he had grappled with to set to perfection.

  Ryan Evans was a massage therapist at the resort’s day spa. He was on a perpetual high and his mood was infectious. A friend, a counselor, and a confidant, he was the type of therapist who was happy to lend his A
-list clientele a sympathetic ear, and it made him one of the resort’s most sought after masseurs.

  When I first joined the resort I was in a new country, in a brand new role. I was unprepared for the real world and fitting in was a challenge. Ryan was generous with his advice as he was with his time and we soon became good friends.

  “Hello, ladies,” he said in a high-pitched, sing-song voice. “Who have you been gossiping about without me”? His blue eyes twinkled in response to his upbeat mood.

  He had the latest edition of Cosmo folded in two tucked under his arm. Placing the magazine on the table, he looked around. Smiling and nodding at the familiar faces, he acknowledged the ones calling out his name with a quick, staccato movements of three fingers and a giggle.

  Without waiting to be invited, he pulled up a chair, slipped into it, and extended his long legs. He stretched his torso and wiggled about, then hooked one leg over the other in a tight twisted plait and called out to a waiter for his usual.

  “Not working today?” I asked.

  “I had a job this morning, but I’m free for a couple of hours so I thought I’d just chillax.” Through a straw he drew a Ginger Breezer in long lazy sips. It was a refreshing concoction of orange and lime juice with ginger ale and a dash of mint leaves. He stared at his reflection on the mirrored wall of the café and pushed back a strand of stray hair.

  “Nice anorak… Leather?” asked Millie.

  “Oh, darling… it’s faux… you know that I never wear animals.” He flicked his pointer finger over the tip of his tongue and whisked through the well-thumbed magazine to a page in the center. “Look, Alicia Silverstone is wearing it,” he said. A moment frozen in time had captured the flash of the starlet’s dazzling white teeth across a double-page spread. She sat on the ground in a casual pose in jeans and a tee with an anorak that looked like Ryan’s. Her head was cocked to the side, and she held her tousled blond hair in her right hand. The headline read: Vegan and Loving it.