by Keyla Hunter
In the next instance she regained her composure. “Now, if you will excuse me, I need to get back to my meditation. Thank you for checking on me. Nobody thinks of my loss, you know.”
“Thank you for your time, and once again my sympathies.” I moved fast toward the door in case her emotions got the better of her again.
“Oooouuummm…”
My conversation with Katherine earlier that day had me thinking that Gina, Frank’s mistress, had killed him for the insurance money. Having spoken to her, however, it seemed that there was no policy. Had Katherine been trying to throw suspicion on Gina to hide her own wrong doings? I wondered if there was a way to verify Gina’s story. My chat with her earlier that day left me with the notion that she couldn’t do up her own shoelace, let alone murder a man and frame another for his killing.
The next question was, who was this man Bruno Burns? His name came up so many times today. Could he have killed Frank because he had not been making good on his debts? Then again, what good would Frank be to him dead? Perhaps he knew that Frank was filing for bankruptcy. Could that have made him angry?
I wondered how I could find out more about Burns. I Googled his name, but nothing came up. I bit my lower lip in frustration and ran another query. A LinkedIn entry popped up of an Anthony B. Burns as a CEO of a global conglomerate. His business interests included a stake in Katherine’s confectionery company. Was this the same man who fought with Frank in the casino? What if he and Katherine were in on this together? I tapped out an electronic note.
I reached for the telephone on my desk and punched zero for reception. Imogen Adair responded.
“Hey, Imogen, it’s Tracy from PR and Events. Could you please let me know if there’s a Bruno Burns staying at the resort.”
“Give me a moment, Tracy. Putting you on hold.” The light and airy trills of Beethoven’s “Fur Elise” filled the silence. It made the wait bearable and lifted my mood.
“Tracy, are you there?”
“Yes, Imogen, I’m here.”
“No, I’m sorry, Bruno Burns is not a guest here.”
“Could you try Burns, or anyone with the surname. May be he had been a guest in the past?”
“Just a moment while I check through guest profiles.”
In order to improve customer service, Maxwell had put in place a number of new initiatives. One of these was installing a guest information system to capture visitor records.
“No, there’s been no record of a Bruno Burns or anyone with the same name on the system, but the records only go back two years. He may have been here before that.”
“Thanks for checking.”
“Sorry, I couldn’t be of more help. You could try Admin for manual records.”
“Yeah, but that’s probably a long shot. Those records are not very accurate,” I said in a small voice.
“Okay, good luck, Tracy. There’s another call coming in.”
“Thanks again, Imogen.”
I was disappointed that the records didn’t show up anything either. The man might as well have been a ghost.
Joseph mentioned that Burns and Frank had fought at the casino. I remembered how his expression had changed when he realized that he had been caught on the CCTV recording. Perhaps that was the answer! The security footage could tell me more, but how could I get access to it?
I could ask Brett. Perhaps I should call him now. Using the staff intranet, I found his extension number. With each number I punched I felt my heart beating a little harder. To my relief the number was busy. I consoled myself with the thought that calling him could have given the wrong impression. Although there was a tiny part of me that hoped he would pick up.
My thoughts turned to the notes of my conversation with Katherine and her lawyer who she seemed to be carrying on with. Without the protection of the pre-nup, she was the one who stood to lose the most had the divorce gone though. So, perhaps it was she who had killed Frank.
She was open about the fact that she hated Frank. Gina also said that Katherine went ballistic when her relationship with the white-haired man was revealed. She had the same reaction when I showed her the incriminating photo, so Gina was telling the truth.
Perhaps, I was complicating things by trying to find Burns. Maybe Katherine, the most obvious person, was the killer after all.
I turned my mind back to the to-do list which I had not looked at since morning. A quick call to F&B told me things were on track for tonight’s event. This morning all I had to worry about was some truffles, and now it seemed so trivial and meaningless.
A sharp ping called my attention to my computer screen. It flashed:
New Message from Brett Cooper
* * *
To: Tracy Turner
From: Brett Cooper
Subject: Our Meeting
Hey Tracy,
Just a quick note to confirm our meeting this evening.
I should have asked. Would you like me to give you a ride?
Take care,
Brett
* * *
* * *
To: Brett Cooper
From: Tracy Turner
Subject: An update
Hi Brett,
Great timing.
Thanks, but I’ll find my way.
Here’s a quick update on our project since we met earlier today. I went through the photographs. They were a wealth of information. It’s true what they say, a picture is worth a thousand words.
I also had a chat with Katherine Walters. Like I told you when we met, on the TV clip she threatened to kill Frank on the courtroom steps a couple of weeks ago. When I caught up with her, she couldn’t hide her happiness about his death. She tried to pin the murder on Frank’s mistress Gina Fey.
Gina’s a new age yoga guru or something like that (a scanned copy of her card is attached). She bawled her eyes out when I brought up Frank. Although she’s a piece of work herself, her feelings for him seemed genuine. I strongly believe that it’s Katherine Walters who did it.
The other possibility is Bruno Burns. Remember I mentioned the fight at the casino last evening? I was thinking that may be the CCTV cameras would have picked up some clues. Can we review the footage so we can rule him out? I can meet you in fifteen.
Cheers,
Tracy
* * *
* * *
To: Tracy Turner
From: Brett Cooper
Subject: Re: An update
Hi there,
You seem to be working this case harder than me. I will let you know if an opening comes up in my dept. I think we’ll make a great team.
Yes, sure come over to my office and I will show you what the cameras have picked up. I will need some time though. An hour from now will work for me.
I hope you are getting ready for this evening’s meeting.
TC,
Brett.
* * *
* * *
To: Brett Cooper
From: Tracy Turner
Subject: Re: Re: Re: An update
Ha ha… very funny. I’ll keep my day job thanks.
I’ll see you then at your office.
~T~
* * *
At 3:00 p.m. sharp I arrived at the door to Brett’s office. I knocked once, the second knock was louder, but still there was no response. I felt a little disappointed that he was not in, but there was also a sense of relief. I paced the narrow corridor for a couple of minutes since there was no place to sit. I tried the door and the handle turned with ease. I poked my head into his room.
The office was painted in a drab shade of gray and illuminated by fluorescent white lighting. A pile of unopened brown cardboard boxes were piled up under white steel venetian blinds on the opposite side of the room. In the center of the room was a glass desk with crisscrossed wooden black legs and a black office chair that looked new.
It was so quiet that I could hear the air-conditioner’s gentle hum. The familiar scent of cedar clung to the air and added a sens
e of warmth to an otherwise chilly room. The interior seemed void of any personal affects, except for a single-framed picture that sat at the end of the table and faced the chair and away from me.
Without a second thought, I made a bee-line into the room toward the table. I picked up the photo. A loud beep came from the end of the room. Looking toward the direction of the sound, I spotted a door on the back wall. I moved fast to keep the photograph back on the table, but it slipped from my hand and fell with a soft thud on to the gray carpet below. Feeling the loud pitter patter within, I took two long deep breaths and waited.
I glanced down at the photo that was at my feet and was torn about picking it up, taking a quick peek, and replacing it, but the thought of Brett catching me and thinking I was a common snoop paralyzed me. Two more beeps from the same direction and the sound of a keyboard helped me make up my mind. I gave the photo a swift kick away from me. It whizzed across the floor and wedged itself under the chair. I straightened myself up, smoothed my shirt to remove its creases, and looked toward the door expecting Brett to walk in.
I heard a couple more clicks and then a long lazy yawn. Was Brett in the back office? Had he forgotten about our meeting? I felt the indignation rising up inside, but I calmed myself. I needed to see that footage, and he was the only one who could help me. I swallowed my pride and went to the door that led to an interior room.
I peered inside. The room’s walls were lined with flashing lights, beeping gizmos, and high definition TV screens. I couldn’t see Brett inside. There was, however, a fellow perhaps in his early twenties wearing a white long-sleeved shirt, blue denim jeans, and a pair of dazzling white sneakers. He was a pile of skin and bones, swiveling about in a straight-backed computer chair.
I knocked on the door, but he wore a pair of headphones that didn’t help my cause, so I walked in and stood behind him. His knobby knuckled fingers tapped a quick tune on the keyboard and video footage from various locations in the resort flew across the screen keeping time.
I touched the boy on his shoulder to get his attention. He leaped out of his chair and hit a button. Both screens zoomed in and went black. He turned around at once, his pockmarked face was sheet white against his sandy blond hair. A pair of bulging gray-colored eyes stared at me. I had seen him somewhere before, but I couldn’t place him.
“I’m sorry, did I startle you?”
“Not used to people sneaking up on me.”
“I did knock. I guess you didn’t hear me.”
“Who the hell are you?”
“I’m Tracy, Tracy Turner - PR and Events.” I extended my hand.
He put his own in his pocket. “Mike - Mike from IT.”
“IT?”
“Aren’t you a bit young to be working here?”
“Summer internship. Old man called in a favor.”
“Old man?”
“Doug, down in the bar.”
“You’re Doug Mitchell’s son?” I smiled.
He shrugged and pulled his eyebrows toward his forehead. “Regular Einstein, aren’t you?”
“I was expecting to meet Brett. What are you doing in his office?”
“Yeah, he said that you’d be coming.”
“Is he here?” I asked, looking around.
“Was… got a call. He had to go.”
I bit my lip and frowned. “Did he say where?”
“Nope, was in a hurry. Just said that there were some clips you were after.”
“Actually, I just noticed you watching some clips of Doug talking to Frank Walters. I’d like to see those please.”
He leaned his body toward the screen and half rose from his seat. “What? How long have you been standing there?” He spoke slowly, his jaw tight.
“Not long. It’s the bit you were watching just now when I tapped you.”
“Dunno, I got two screens going here. I may have missed it.” He continued to stare at the blank screen.
“Just put it back on,” I said and clicked on the switch.
“No - don’t.” He held my wrist with calloused fingers and pushed it away. “Now look what you did.” He was seething and began hyperventilating. He pulled out a bottle of clear liquid from his pocket and pushed down on it, pumping two blobs of gel into either palm. He muttered something about germs. A sharp smell of a mixture of antiseptics and bleach filled the air. He applied the stuff onto his fingers, which looked red and raw. He used short, deliberate strokes working it through the crevices and under his closely-filed nails. Once he was finished, the shortness of breath subsided. “Don’t do that again.”
“Sorry. Are you okay?”
“Yeah.” His voice was husky and he swallowed hard.
I cleared my throat. “The clips?”
“Brett said you wanted to see what happened at the casino the night before he was killed.”
“You could show me whatever footage might lead to finding out who really killed Frank Walters,” I said.
“Who really killed him?” He raised his sparse eyebrows. “Ryan did. Always thought that guy was a kook.”
I felt my ears get hot and closed my eyes to take a deep breath. “Okay then, just show me the scenes from the casino.”
With a few taps he found the footage. We saw Bruno Burns—a short, burly man—shouting at Frank, who was a foot taller than him. They were too far away from the video recorder’s microphone for their voices to be captured. Frank tried to calm him down, and put his hand around his shoulder pulling him close. Burns got angrier and yanked his hand off and yelled at Frank again. Frank laughed.
Burn’s first punch clipped Frank on the chin. Frank squared his fists and started weaving and bobbing, and despite his age, the tall man was as nimble on his toes as a flyweight.
The shorter man’s anger propelled him and more than compensated for his lack in stature. His next punch sent Frank reeling into the gasping crowd. Frank staggered back, fists readied, and lunged at Burns who ducked. The pillar behind him took the blow. Frank nursed his hand and casino security broke up the fight.
Mike’s fingers danced a bit more, and we moved on to footage from another camera, which also picked up the conversation. Frank had followed Burns as he walked out. Waving his ring finger in the air he called after Burns, “You fool, you destroyed my lucky charm and you will pay.”
Burns turned toward him and held his wrist and said, “Oh, I’ll destroy more than that. I’m just getting started. Tick tock, Frankie boy.” His face cracked into a smile, then a mixture of hysterical and eerie laughter.
For a moment we both were silent. The footage kept on running. I tried to keep a straight face and maintain an air of aloofness.
“Okay, now I want to see the clip you were looking at. There, there it is. Stop, stop right there.”
The screen went black.
“Now look what you made me do.” He banged his hands on the table and threw them up in exasperation.
“What? What happened?” My face went cold as the blood drained from it.
“I pressed the wrong keys.” He hissed the words like a snake and tossed his head.
“And?”
“It’s been erased,” he said, his voice shaking. “Now Brett will be mad at me and it’s all your fault.”
“My fault? What did I do?”
“You confused me.”
I ignored his chilling glare. “Was this the only copy?”
“We can download it again, but it will take time to render.” He rolled his eyes up into his head.
“So it’s not lost.” I exhaled.
He was tapping on the keys again. “Don’t know for sure, don’t think so.” Snippets of footage flew across the screen.
“Can you work on it?” I crossed my fingers and hoped it would be alright.
“Maybe. Anyway, show’s over. It’s time you left. Don’t want you ruining everything.”
Shivers ran through my body when I recalled Burn’s conversation with Frank. Was he the killer? I hoped that Brett would be able to tell me
more when I meet him tonight.
What about the footage Mike tried to conceal from me? What did it mean?
Frank was at the bar with Doug. He grabbed a paper from Frank, who snatched it back. They began to exchange words and that was all I had caught.
Had Mike been genuine? Had he erased the footage by accident or had he tried to conceal something from me? What if he was trying to protect his Dad? Perhaps Doug was somehow mixed up in all of this. What if Katherine and Burns were mere bystanders and it was Doug who killed Frank and Mike knew about it and was trying to cover it up?
I made a mental note to talk to Brett to get another copy of those clips. I replayed the scene that I saw over and over again in my head until they were etched in my mind. Whatever it was, I knew that I needed to speak to Doug.
I found Douglas Mitchell at the Breeze Bar. He held a wine glass from its elongated stem, pushing a grubby, old dishcloth into the mouth of the glass and twisted it dry, then lifted the glass up to the light before working on it a bit more. When he was satisfied, he turned it on its head and hung it on the glass racks overhead, pushing it back in place with two fingers. He was focused on the task at hand and didn’t notice me slipping into a stool at the end of the bar.
The place was busier toward the evening, but now there was only the odd straggler. Doug had plenty of time to work through glasses of various shapes and sizes that were stacked up on a stainless steel counter against the back wall of the bar.
A row of employee achievement certificates in gilded frames hung on the same wall. They featured images of Doug from early years to the more recent. He looked almost the same: rotund body and merry cherubic face. The only difference was that now his crop of wild, dark hair had thinned at the temples. Like his receding hairline, his awards had diminished in the last few years. There were whispers that he had not taken his wife’s passing well and that he was not the same. If this had been the case, Doug hid it well, and so strangers always regarded him as a big guy with a big heart.
