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

by Keyla Hunter

  Her solitary dissent was of no avail. In deference to her being one of the resort’s founders, however, the casino was housed in a separate building quite apart from the main resort buildings with its own staff and parking facilities. Six months ago Le Grande opened its doors with all the pomp and pageantry expected of a cool multimillion dollar investment. The media hailed it as South Florida’s version of Caesar’s Palace.

  I made my way through a maze of lush green landscaped gardens to get there. Cosmos, zinnias, and marigolds offered bursts of color and the fragrance of jasmine was exquisite.

  Despite the happenings of the morning, the tranquility of the garden was surreal. The melodies of Carolina wrens and Northern cardinals competed in harmony and filled the warm tropical air with their music. It gave me a sense of peace and confidence. Deep inside, I knew that I was doing the right thing.

  The casino’s cream granite columns loomed ahead in the distance. I needed to find out from Joseph what happened at the casino last night. I pulled out my mobile phone and checked the time. Joseph’s shift was ending in half an hour. If I followed the track it would take me at least twenty-five minutes to get there. I couldn't take a chance. I needed a better plan.

  I looked around and there wasn't a soul in sight. A second quick look told me that it was safe. I ignored the signs to stay off the grass. I picked up my heels and dashed across the green, taking care not to step on the blue daze. Puffed out, I stopped for a moment. Boy was I unfit.

  I felt a gentle pin prick on the back of my hand. It was the tiniest drop of water. Then there was a second one on the tip of my nose. I looked up at the sky and searched for signs of rain. Too much glare made it impossible to tell. Fingers to forehead in salute, I shaded my eyes and took another look. There wasn't a cloud in the sky. It was as blue as it had been since the morning. Had I imagined it?

  Then there was another and another one still. I heard a whirring sound that became louder and the drops got bigger. I spun around and saw that a sprinkler was the source of the rogue drizzle. I laughed and took a couple of steps forward.

  Then another sprinkler ahead of me came on and made me jump. I moved to the right and another one sprang to life. Then, like a magical chain reaction, I was surrounded by whizzing rotating sprinklers.

  I crouched down low on my haunches, rolled my body into a ball, and covered my head with my hands. As far as I knew the automated sprinklers were set to go off a couple of times during the day and ran for a full ten minutes, but they were not due for another half hour.

  Had I set them off when I walked across the lawn? I should have stuck to the path, but it was too late now. Trapped by sprinklers of all things, and now I would miss Joseph. I bit my lip and kept low.

  A minute or so later the deluge subsided. I uncurled my head and looked around. Silvery drops of water glistened on my eyelashes. My hair felt a bit wet to the touch. I looked down at my light blue cotton shirt and was relieved it was only slightly damp. Thank God I chose to wear a black bra or I’d have looked like my college mate Wendy Harris on wet T-shirt day, and trust me it was not a good look.

  “That’d be yer first warnin’,” boomed a voice behind me.

  I swiveled around in time to see a large man with a wide-brimmed straw hat clutched at his belly, doubled over and making a sound like a donkey in heat.

  “Earl Garvey was that you?” I asked, my voice sharp and indignant.

  He stopped his ridiculous guffawing and glared. “You ain’t the one who should be askin’ the questions. What yer doin’ on my lawns?” he thundered. “D’yer know how many hours a day I spend takin’ care of these ’ere gardens? Most of me life, if yer ask me.” His gnarled, brown face was stern, and his thick lower lip curled into a pout.

  “I… I was just going over there,” I said, pointing toward the casino. “I was in a rush.” My face felt taunt and I could feel a flush beginning in the center of my face and spreading across toward my hairline.

  “Yer know better than to zip across my lawns and tramp on my beds. Ne’er do it, yer hear. There’s always some’un watchin’,” he said, eyes bulging, and he wagged his pointer finger at me.

  “I’m sorry.” My earlobes were in flames.

  His face broke into a smile, then a soft chuckle, and then into thundering, rumbling laughter.

  “Was jus’ playin’ with yer.” From the pocket of his navy blue shorts, he pulled out a flat, black device the size of a credit card. “Master Henderson, he got this set up for me,” he said and pressed a button. The sprinkler to my left came on and I ducked low. He chuckled at my reaction and enjoyed playing with his new toy.

  “Remote controlled sprinklers, very impressive,” I said and smiled at his enthusiasm. I liked Earl and I was relieved that he was back to his usual happy-go-lucky self.

  “Sure come a long way since I was a young ‘un like yer. I tended these gardens with me bare hands back then.” He looked around the garden, his face shining and wet with perspiration. It wore a deep sense of peace and accomplishment. “Take a lutta work to make pretty things, missy.”

  “I’m sorry, Earl. I didn’t mean to cause any damage, I was in a bit of a hurry. I did keep off the beds.”

  “Yer a’right. We all do it suntimes. Don’t make a habit of it, dat’s all.”

  “I don’t intend to,” I said with a grin.

  From his back pocket he pulled out a bottle of water. He flicked back the lid and offered it to me. I declined. Shrugging, he stuck the opening into his mouth and guzzled down. He splashed a little water on to his face and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

  Smoothed back his tangle of black hair with strands of white and copper, he put his hat back on and looked up at the sky. “It’s gonna get a lot hotter today. They’er predictin’ the hottest day in twen’y-five years. You’ll be dry in no time, missy.”

  I smiled and nodded.

  “Yer, heard ‘bout the goings on with the Walters killin’?”

  “Yes, I did hear about it.” I didn't say I was there when Ryan was arrested because I wanted to find out what he knew.

  “Nasty, nasty hap’nins. In all me days, I never did see som’in’ so nasty. Mis’er Walters was a gentleman if yer ask me. He’d always nod ’n’ smile at me when I was roun’, poor fella, he would've taken the cup tomorrow fer sure. Some folks are sayin’ its ’em bookmakers who wanted ’im dead,”

  “Who? Who’s been saying?”

  “It’s jus’ some folks, staff, dey probably know nutin’.”

  “Can you let me know if you hear anything more, Earl?”

  “On hot days like dis, anythin’ could happen, missy. So yer take care, yer hear?”

  It seemed like he had not heard me. “You will let me know, Earl, if you hear anything else? Please it’s very important,” I repeated.

  “Ah sure will, missy. Ah sure will.”

  After a long night of high rolling, some stragglers ambled through the reception area of the casino. There were resort guests among them, and also locals and tourists from other holiday accommodation facilities around the area. Big-name professionals came in for a game or two, others came only for tournaments. They used the casino’s rooftop helipad to fly in and out, while some chose to stay in the purpose-built suites on-site.

  A girl, who I guessed was in her early twenties, came out to where I sat, waiting for the go-ahead from the receptionist, Kimberly White. She wore a pair of large brown-framed glasses. The plastic lenses were at least an inch thick and they had a gentle tint.

  She wore a battered pair of dark blue denim jeans and a white shirt with multicolored pin dots. Her face was ashen and her matted hair was mousy-colored. It seemed like it had not been washed or brushed for days. She stopped at the reception and stretched her body up like an arrow, throwing her arms out wide, and expelled a ferocious yawn.

  “Long night, but totally worth it,” she said to Kimberly. “Cleaned the suckers right out.” She punched her fist in the air. “Yes, again.” She winked and
this time stifled a yawn. “Time to hit the sack.”

  Kimberly had picked up a call from an irate guest who had left a handbag on the premises, so she couldn't speak, but nodded in response to the girl’s comments.

  Then almost to herself she muttered, “Damn midterms. At least this pays the bills.” She pointed toward the gaming area and called out, “Back tonight.” Kimberly responded with a thumbs-up.

  I wondered who the girl had cleaned out. Was it the short, stocky, and pensive man in the Armani suit? He looked disappointed. Was it the lady in the slinky sequined dress and silvery laugh, who carried her lucky pooch Peaches under her arm? They both somehow looked like they fit right in, but the girl from college didn’t. Who knows, maybe that was how these two had started out as well.

  “Excuse me, he’s free now,” said Kimberly. She looked at the monitors around her and pointed at one and said, “See, table number nine? Walk straight into the main area, keep to the left. It’s all the way down on the back wall.”

  “Thanks, you've been great,” I said, relieved she was not the common tyrannical gatekeeper who made you jump through hoops when you needed to get something done. Her directions were spot-on and I found Joseph Pale in the exact place where she had said he would be.

  Joseph was a croupier who worked at the roulette wheel and was as pale as his name tag suggested. His waxy porcelain skin was almost as white as his starched long-sleeved shirt, a stark contrast to his black waistcoat with the patterned red Regency insignia and matching bow tie. He saw me approach, lowered his head, and glared at me through his dark bushy eyebrows.

  Bent over the roulette wheel, he revealed a milky-white, bare dome about the size of a golf ball on the top of his head. He used some force and a well-worn thumb to dislodge some grime on the shiny stainless steel detailing on the wheel. Puffing through his nose, he knitted his eyebrows in deep concentration. He brought a couple of fingers close to his open mouth and licked them as you would a stamp and rubbed in circular motions over the offending spot.

  “Joseph, I was wondering if I could talk to you about Frank Walters.”

  “Yeah, who’s asking?”

  “I’m Tracy… Tracy Turner, PR and Events. Millie sent me.”

  “Oh yeah,” he said, lifting one of his shaggy eyebrows. “What about him?”

  I hesitated, feeling this was not going to be easy. “He was killed this morning. Shot.”

  He pouted and shrugged his shoulders. “Yeah, so?”

  “Well, I was wondering if you could tell me more.”

  “Don’t know no more.”

  He was not cooperating, I had to approach this in another way. “I… I spoke to Catalina this morning.” The sound of her name accentuated the gentle curves at the end of his drooping lips. Was it a smile? I tried to look for any other signs, but he averted his eyes so it was hard to tell.

  “She found the body,” I said, trying to build up a rapport.

  “Catalina, she’s a brave girl,” he responded. This time the curve was only a fraction wider, but there was no mistaking the momentary glint of joy in his dark eyes.

  “Yeah, well she said that you can… that you would be able to help me.”

  “Maybe I can. Why you asking?”

  “Well, Ryan is my friend and the police arrested him this morning. I don’t think he did it. I want to help him. Catalina and I, we both want to help him. Can you tell me what you know please?”

  “All I know is that Mr. Walters was up to his eyeballs in shit,” he said.

  “That is to say…?”

  “He had a gambling problem.”

  “He played poker?”

  “Poker takes skill. He played right here on this table, every night, sometimes in the day.” He nodded his head and pushed out his lower lip. “Dumb man’s game if you ask me. He’s been at it for years.”

  “Catalina said that his luck ran out last night. What did she mean?”

  “He’s been coming here for a long time. He used to win some, but he had not won a roll in three nights straight. So last night he drank some more and talked some more and put more down, but nothing. He didn't win nothing.”

  Then he lowered his voice and covered his mouth with his hand. I held my breath.

  “When Bruno Burns came in, that’s when things got real bad. They started shouting and name calling. Frank followed Burns into the bar. I heard he broke Burns’ chin. Got his lucky ring broke in the fight.” He looked away and nodded his head and mumbled, “Dunno ’bout it being lucky in here; at least it kept him from being dead.”

  “What happened next?” My heart pounded.

  “Dunno. I was just minding my own business. Don’t wanna mess with the Burns sort,” he said, his eyes narrowing into slits.

  “Who is he? Burns I mean.”

  His eyes grew wide and then darted upward toward a security camera. His right cheek twitched twice and he began to munch on the nail of his thumb. “I’m gonna say nothing no more.” He pulled a cloth out of his pocket and once against focused on the roulette wheel. He began to polish it with fierce concentration.

  Our meeting was over.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Wisps of information that I had gathered floated about in my head. As they did, I tried to hold on to the nuggets that would help make sense of it all. It felt like I was unraveling a ball of twine; the more I unwound, the more knots I found. It had been three short hours since Ryan was arrested. In that time I had discovered at least three people who could have wanted him dead.

  There was this Burns fellow. Had he killed Frank because of what happened in the bar last night? Was the match-fixing rumor that Earl spoke of true, and if so could it have led to Frank Walters’ murder? Perhaps it was his wife, whose earring Catalina discovered in Frank’s room. Had she been invited into Frank’s room or had she crept in without his knowledge, and if so why? In any case, how would they have been connected to Ryan?

  My mind kept churning the possibilities around and around, and it made me quite dizzy. I saw Millie sitting in her usual spot in the lobby. She had an iPad on her lap and she called me over to her with her fingers and customary smile.

  Millie seemed relaxed despite the chaos of the morning. She reached into a deep pocket that hung on the arm of her chair, pulled out a pair of noise-cancelling headphones, and asked me to put them on. When I was ready, she tinkered with a remote control device. With a nod of her head and a lift of a brow toward the TV screen, she signaled me to watch.

  Ryan’s image flashed on the 152-inch TV screen. Despite dominating the entire screen, his face was small. It seemed like the life had been sucked out of it. There were no tears now, though the trip down to the Police station had left his eyes bloodshot, eyelids swollen, and saddled with two puffy bags under them.

  His nose quivered like a hare that had smelled a fox, and on occasion his lower lip trembled. Officer Flint shoved him through a crowd of reporters, who pounced on him and asked random questions.

  Officer Ormond walked ahead through the crowd, his head lowered and arm raised in response to the reporters’ questions. He pushed a few unrelenting ones aside and made room for the other two.

  Cameras flashed around them. Ryan blinked several times and squinted. Officer Flint walked behind him with his chest puffed out and his head held high. He stopped once to indulge the cameramen with a smile that showed off a blackish-silver second premolar.

  A Channel 10 correspondent almost rammed a microphone into Ryan’s nose and asked, “Mr. Evans, why did you kill Frank Walters?”

  “I tell you I didn’t. It’s all some kind of misunderstanding,” said Ryan. Once again his eyes filled with tears.

  I groaned and hoped he wouldn't break down. Tell them no comment or just say nothing, Ryan, you don’t want to stop to chat with those media monkeys.

  With that, Channel 10 cut over to older footage. Frank Walters’ face flickered on the screen, then a long-angled shot featured him in a black tuxedo. The images were dull and grainy. Even th
en, Frank with his blond hair and deep blue eyes cut a dashing figure, and I could imagine him being quite a catch in his time.

  By his side was a young Katherine Walters in a long white dress with an embroidered bodice that clung to her tall, willowy figure. Its sleeves were puffed and a full flared skirt bellowed around her delicate waist. A gust of wind could have carried her off had it not been for a bouquet of white arum lilies that was large enough to keep her grounded.

  The clip featured the young couple on the steps of Saint Anne’s Catholic Church in Houston where they had been married twenty-eight years ago. Frank’s golfing superstar status had brought adoring fans to line the street in a show of support. He wrapped an arm around her waist, pulled her toward him, and planted a kiss on her lips that were painted a soft shade of pink. Red-faced and out of breath, she gazed at Frank with adoring eyes then turned her head to the onlookers and together they waved to their supporters.

  The TV station then cut across to more recent footage. According to the coverage, the couple’s happiness had been short-lived. Two known infidelities on Frank’s part and a plethora of speculation had torn their marriage apart. The Walters’ divorce proceedings, which began two months ago, were as colorful as their marriage, and had been on-going headlines in celebrity magazines and gossip columns.

  This time they were featured on the steps of the courthouse leaving one of their many court proceedings. Frank wore a dark blue business suit with electric blue pin stripes. His youthful good looks were a thing of the past, but he was just as flamboyant and his smile was as charming.

  Katherine moved fast keeping ahead of Frank. She wore a form-fitting, two-toned business suit of black and gray. She held on to a string of white pearls which she rolled about between her fingers. Her lips were painted a deep shade of red and were sealed shut in an unyielding line. The light had long gone from her eyes and her aged face revealed the scars of a lifetime of battling an incorrigible womanizer.