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

by Keyla Hunter

  I had never done this kind of thing before. As my mum would say, “There’s always a first time to anything and then it becomes automatic.” Is that the way Mike felt about murder?

  Spurred on by the thought of seeing Ryan again, I had to keep a cool head. I missed my friend. Life was not the same without him. In my heart I knew I would be seeing him soon. I held on to that feeling. I also knew that I had to be extra careful. I had seen firsthand what kind of monster Mike could be.

  As I had thought, the Mitchells’ house was located at the resort’s staff accommodation facility. It took one call to human resources to confirm their address. As trusted members of Team Regency, older employees were offered the privilege of stand-alone accommodation. Newer staff didn’t have the luxury and were quartered in an apartment block within the same gated premises. These perks were offered to them at a nominal fee. I could have saved some bucks if I had stayed there, but I chose to stay off site because I valued my privacy.

  I parked Ole Guzz under the shade of a Frangipani tree and sat in the car for a couple of minutes observing the house. It was a single-story building with no walls or a fence in front. At the edge of the sidewalk was a free standing letter box. The number eight painted on the rusted box had faded. The slots were stuffed to capacity with junk mail. Either there was no driveway or it had been so overrun with weeds that it was impossible to see. No cars were parked in front of the house or in the street.

  I reminded myself to focus on the task at hand and began to wonder what I would find inside, but first I had to get inside. I walked up a makeshift path where the grass and weeds lay flat. It led me to a front verandah of dark wood floor boards. The varnish on the floors were burnt and scratched.

  Looking around, I searched for signs of security cameras or alarms. There were none. The approach to the place was a good enough deterrent to criminals, but I had to be sure. The front door was locked. I tried again to make certain. It was impossible to get in that way.

  I walked across the lawn of weeds to the nearest window. A thick layer of dust sealed the opening shut; they had not been opened in months, if not years. The dirt had stuck as I rubbed the grimy window pane, and my wet wipes wouldn’t cut it.

  The back of the house was cordoned off with a wooden fence. Compacted slats surrounded it and were about six feet high. I couldn’t see beyond. At the edge of the fence and toward the house was a dip in the partition; it was a gate made of the same material. I would have missed it had it not been for the latch on top of the gate.

  Standing on tiptoes, I cranked up the latch. It was stiff, but with some effort I lifted it up and over. I pushed the gate open, but it wouldn’t budge. Was it locked? Another hard nudge with my upper arm, but it did not move. I shoved it with both arms, the force of all my weight behind it. The gate creaked and finally opened.

  The backyard was enclosed by a wall that was as high as the fence. The rear looked as bad as the front and was dominated by two steel sheds bolted shut with padlocks.

  The driveway led to an open garage. A Ford station wagon parked in front. Was it Doug’s vehicle? I had not checked on him before coming over. A closer look revealed a chain of daisies finger painted in dust on the windscreen. The car had a couple of deflated tires and a missing hubcap. It lay against a wall-mounted shelving unit at the end of the garage. Doug was probably still at the bar. This car had not moved in a while.

  Every shelf of the cupboard was in disarray and crammed with car cleaning liquids, oils, tools, gadgets, and a multitude of bits and bobs. In line with the wall unit was a door. It was a back entrance to the house and I hoped this would be my ticket inside.

  I tried the handle and it wasn’t locked. My spirits soared. It only opened a crack so I pushed against the door and yanked it hard. It didn’t budge. Something was in the way. I took a deep breath and a couple of steps back and gave it a mighty heave. This time it opened enough to wedge my body between the door and frame. Cursing my womanhood, a rush of electricity coursed through me as I squished myself against the wood.

  I was almost there, just one more… Rip! My blouse had got caught in the lock on the door, but I couldn’t let that distract me. I would deal with it later. I was in, and that was all that mattered.

  The room smelled sharp and putrid—a combination of vinegar and rotting fruit. In the dark I could make out that I was in a room full of boxes, but not all of them were full. There were cartons of different sizes and descriptions piled up on every available surface of the room. There was everything from empty egg cartons to cereal boxes. There was even an old Singer sewing machine box. Nothing had been thrown away in years. Then it hit me, the weapon could have been anywhere.

  The adjoining room was a bigger space comprised of an open plan kitchen and a sitting area. There was a silhouette of dishes piled up in the sink. The room was not as bad as the last but it was as musty. I tucked back the faux suede maroon curtains. The dirt on the windows competed with the sunlight, but the little that got through was comforting. The stream of light put a million particles of dust on display as they drifted about the room.

  The closest door to the kitchenette led to a small room with soft floral cotton curtains at the windows. In the middle of the room was a convalescent bed with fresh white bedding. On a trolley beside it were pill bottles and a plastic vase crammed with faded pink and blue silk cut flowers. This was probably Barb’s room.

  Opposite the bed was a wall devoted to family photographs. They were the same ones that Doug had shown me the other day, except that they were blown up— fleeting moments of happiness enshrined on a wall. Perhaps he had thought that they would help to cheer her up.

  Beside the bed was a vinyl upholstered chair with flaking arms and an imprint etched on its seat. I imagined Doug sitting there through sleepless nights alternating glances between Barb and their wall of memories. I felt a lump forming in my throat. “You certainly pick your moment don’t you? Get on with it,” said the voice in my head again. I must admit that for once I was thankful for its message.

  I peeped into the next room. It was twice as large as the first bedroom and the odor of citrus and bleach greeted me. There was a clothes horse with Mike’s jeans and shirt folded over its rails. A college baseball cap hung from a hook attached to the end. The bed was made so precisely it would have put Catalina and the rest of the housekeeping team to shame.

  There was a door in one corner of the room, which I guessed was as an en suite. It was strange that Mike should be using what seemed to be the master bedroom, but when I thought back about what Elaine had said and how Doug treated him, I was not surprised.

  On one side of the room was a built-in wardrobe. I held my breath and opened one of the doors, starting from the one closest to the door. The first one contained shirts ironed and hung by color. It was strange that every hanger faced inward, as was the case with every door I opened.

  In the enclosure closets to the en suite were two rows of shoes—a row for leather shoes and another for sneakers. Each one was lined up in precise order, polished, and immaculate. Like the shirts, they too were color coordinated.

  There were two pairs missing: one from the row of leather shoes, which was probably what I saw Mike wearing today; the other missing pair was from the row of sneakers. Going by the order of the shoes, it should have been red. It was hard to imagine that he had forgotten to put that pair back. There were sneaker prints at the scene of both crimes. Could the missing shoes account for these?

  On the desk beneath the window was a single framed photograph of a smiling Barb. Aside from this, the table was devoid of personal effects. There were information technology manuals and textbooks on one side and industry related magazines on the other. The manuals were piled largest to smallest, and the magazines were stacked up with the latest on top. All the publications were organized up with their spines facing forward.

  There was a hole in the table that made allowances for cables, but there was no computer in sight. It was usual to carry
a laptop so I thought nothing of it. I opened the top drawer there was some stationery organized in a compartmentalized drawer. The second drawer contained a binder with a black felt cover and frayed edges. With bated breath, I pulled it out and opened it.

  It contained photos, paper clippings, and printouts of golfing legends, stories of players in history, and news of tournaments. I thumbed through them, but nothing caught my attention.

  A paperclip indicated another section. I flipped the pages to it. It was more memorabilia in the same vein as the others. The only difference was that it was devoted to a single person: Frank Walters.

  There were newspaper cutouts of Frank teeing off and lifting trophies, ones taken at the resort, and detailed statistics, as well as Mike’s own adoring commentary.

  In some photographs Frank’s face was circled in red ink, and another person was in these pictures and similarly marked out. It was Mike, first as a child, then a teen, and then more recent images. Seeing the two together, it was hard to ignore the resemblance. The only difference was that Frank had a constant grin, while Mike wore a dismal pout.

  It made no sense. I had taken all the trouble to break in, and all I found so far was the possibility of a missing shoe. Aside from this, I knew that Doug was a slob and hoarder and the boy that he raised was the polar opposite. No wonder Mike was always in a foul mood. Beyond that, he was crazy about golf and probably Frank’s number one fan. It was hard to believe that he had killed Frank. As for Burns, that could well have been an accident.

  I closed the book with care, ensured that nothing stuck out, and put it back in the drawer and closed it softly. I took a step back and checked that everything was as I remembered it. Puffing my cheeks, I berated myself for coming out on this wild goose chase.

  I must have been there for a while because the room began to feel cold. This was not right. I shouldn’t be here and needed to leave now. I picked up my bag and slung it across my shoulder. Just as I turned around, Mike stood at the door, his glaring eyes as wide as saucers. I had not noticed him, but how long had he been watching me?

  “What are you doing here?” He closed the door behind him and sneered.

  I gulped.

  “I told you to stop snooping… I thought that I had made myself clear.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  A heavy metal drummer blasted a beat inside my head and I couldn’t make it stop. The odor of gas, rubber, and mud made my stomach churn. Waves of nausea rose up into my throat and I swallowed it back.

  I felt a cotton fabric against my cheek and my eyelashes squished up against it. He must have blindfolded me because I couldn’t open my eyes. I tried to raise my arms to my head, but my wrists were bound. When I tried to pull them apart the friction of the ropes cut into my skin.

  I lay on the floor rolled up in fetal position. Bristled synthetic carpeting softened the hard surface beneath me. My body ached from being still. I tried to stretch my legs, but the cramped enclosure didn’t allow it.

  Then there was a jolt. I felt myself being thrust forward and I heard the hum of an engine. Of course, I was in the trunk of a car. Suddenly it began to come back to me. It was Mike’s car.

  He had come into the room and was furious. He threatened me. I had to get out of the house, so I ducked under his wrangling arms, ran to the closed door, and turned the handle. It didn’t budge. He held it shut and nudged me aside. He turned the key in the door and I was stuck like a fly in a spider web.

  Pulling out a silver flask with a brown leather trim and the initials FW engraved on one side from his hip pocket, he guzzled down the liquid and smacked his lips. His smile was a mixture of triumph and stupidity.

  He went across to a chest at his bedside and from the top drawer pulled out a pair of disposable gloves from a pack. I looked at his pocket, into which the key had disappeared, but I knew that my chances of getting at it were slim. Looking around the room, there had to be another way out.

  Spinning around, he now wore gloves that fitted like a second skin on his calloused hands. “I won’t let you or anyone else ruin my plans.”

  “Plans? What plans?” My voice was a low whimper.

  “You’ve still not learned your lesson, have you?” His voice was seething as he held me by the neck and pinned me to the closet.

  I gasped. “Are… are you going to kill me?”

  “I could kill you…” his eyeballs rolled around at the prospect “…but not now. Not just yet.”

  “Then what? What do you want from me?”

  “It’s not what I want from you. It’s what you want from me.”

  “You’re making no sense.”

  “Are you saying I’m mad?” His grip became as hard as steel.

  “No, no, I didn’t understand.”

  “If you want me to spare your life, you will do as you’re told. Get it?”

  “I, yes, yes, I will.” I choked on my words and he softened his grip.

  Why hadn’t I gone to Millie or Brett when I had the chance? They would have known what to do. “Oh no, Miss Smarty Pants had to take matters into her own hands.”

  He released my neck and I broke out in a coughing fit.

  “Shut up.” He covered his mouth and nose and turned away.

  When the coughing subsided, he drew his other arm across and rested his weight on his hand onto the wardrobe behind me. He stooped down, his face a foot away from mine. I smelled the alcohol and shivered, holding my breath.

  It seemed that he had been drinking for a while. Great, that was all I needed. It only added to his bravado. On the other hand, it could also mean that he would be slow and sloppy, so I held on to the thought.

  He kept a gloved finger to the notch between my collar bones and ogled the cleavage showing through my torn shirt.

  “We are going to have some fun, you and I.” He licked his lips.

  My stomach rippled and I stood very still as hot tears ran down my face. Closing my eyes for a moment, I tried to steady the tide of surging emotions. I saw him staring at my face, taking it all in. Drunk with power, he reveled in my misery. I had to stop showing him how I felt. I couldn’t stand the thought of him getting off on my fear.

  “We can’t stay here,” he said, snapping out of his silent reverie. “We’ve got to get out of this place. Trust me you will love it where we are going. But first we’ll need…” He hummed an upbeat tune and went to the en suite.

  An overwhelming stench of bleach wafted into the room. I wanted to ask where he was taking me, but I said nothing. Getting out of this room and the house would give me a chance of getting away from this mad man.

  I remembered that my phone was in my bag, so I reached in and opened it. It was on its last bar; I had forgotten to recharge it last night. Footsteps alerted me to his return, so I pushed it back into my pocket. As I did, he returned with a length of rope and a kitchen knife. Its shiny blade caught my eye. My heart thundered in my chest and beads of sweat began to form on my upper lip. He was a sadist. What was he about to do?

  He folded the rope into two even lengths and yanked the blade though them. Pulling me close, his body against my back, he twirled me around, breathing down my neck. I stiffened. He pushed me on to the bed so I faced the sheets and held me down with a bony knee. Then he worked the ropes around my wrists and tied them. When I winced or jerked, he would pull the ropes still harder, so I gave it up and stayed very still.

  Satisfied with his handiwork, he pulled me up by my arms and set me down on the bed. He stripped a couple of pillows of their cases. A faint scent of green tea and vanilla lingered in the air. It was one of my favorite combinations. Smells tend to trigger memories, so after today I would never feel the same about that fragrance again.

  Mechanically, he rolled both cases in the air to its maximum length and tucked one into his back pocket. The other he flicked over my head and pulled it under my nose and across my mouth.

  “I don’t want you to scream just yet. There’ll be plenty of time for that.”


  He pulled on my hair, indicating that I should stand. Writhing in pain, I scrambled up. Catching our reflections in the full-length mirror mounted on one of the closet doors, he pulled me close to him and wrapped an arm around my waist. “Don’t we make an adorable couple?”

  I pushed away, my loathing for him burning in my eyes.

  “Stop it, bitch!” He ran the blade of his knife along his gloved palm. “You make it hard for me. I’ll make you regret it. You hear?”

  I nodded.

  “You can’t get away from me. I will hunt you down.”

  I bit at the cloth in my mouth.

  “I can’t hear you.”

  He pulled it up. “Do you understand?”

  “Yes.”

  “Yes, what?”

  “Yes, I understand.”

  The sun was high in the sky when we stepped outside. It would be lunchtime soon. Somebody was bound to miss me. I looked around squinting at the light. A solitary car was parked on the street. Aside from this, it was as desolate as it had been that morning and nothing stirred. I felt a rush of panic. What if no one came for me? Amanda was on mat leave. The new intern in the department had a day off. Everyone else would assume that I had gone home for the weekend.

  With the knife at my back, he led me to the car and opened the trunk. My heart stopped. The golf bag was inside.

  “Get in.”

  I said nothing, but didn’t budge.

  “I said get in, woman,” he said through gritted teeth as he pushed my head under the open door.

  “Stop it. I will get in, but you’ll need to help me,” I looked over my shoulder at my bonds.

  “You are wasting my time. Get in now.”

  He kept the knife by the bag and rummaged inside. His head was deep in the trunk. This was the moment. I needed a head start so I had to disable him first. I raised my foot and kicked him as hard as I could in the calf. If he had felt something, he didn’t show it. He turned around fast, gun in hand.