Twisted: A Tracy Turner Murder Mystery Novel (The Tracy Turner Mystery Series Book 1) (2 page)

“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.

“Where’s Frisky, Millie?” I asked, referring to her Persian cat, who was usually her constant companion.

“I don’t know, dear. It’s quite unlike her to be off for this long. Can you two keep an eye out for her please?”

“Of course,” I said and Ryan nodded in agreement

“So, Trace, are you getting ready for tonight’s gala event? I wish I could be there. I hear Jessica B is on the guest list. I would just die to see her. She wears the most darling outfits. Don’t you think?” asked Ryan.

I laughed as I was reminded of Ryan’s obsession with celebrity lifestyle and clothing. “I think I saw Kim Kardashian on the list as well,” I said with a quick wink at Millie. I really didn’t know if any one of the Kardashians would be there, but I knew he was completely taken by the family and it would get him going.

“You don’t say. So will you be there?” he repeated, his eyes sparkling with anticipation.

“Yes, I will, Ryan, and wipe that silly look off your face. I don’t look forward to it. I’m filling in for Amanda. You know she’s away on maternity leave.” I closed my eyes and pictured myself amongst a sea of celebrities. The mere thought of it made me feel nauseous.

“I heard from Catalina that the Queen Bee made quite a dramatic exit yesterday morning,” he said. “Don’t worry, Trace, you will do superbly without her,” he said, with a quick flick of his hand.

I tried to smile, but I couldn't manage it. My anxiety of the evening’s event was compounded by the dreaded to-do list that I had to tick off by the day’s end, which I knew would only grow longer as the day wore on.

By now the activity in the café had revved up and service was in full gear. Resort guests were streaming in to get coffees and catch a bite. Some waiters keyed in orders on their tablet devices, while others delivered steaming hot breakfasts to guests. I was about to leave to the business center when I noticed two uniformed police officers walking in through the door.

Some guests looked up from their conversations and a few had begun to nudge one another. Others simply buried their heads in their magazines and smart devices. They searched for information and news of the world, but were oblivious to the stories that unfolded around them.

The officers stopped and talked to a waiter, who pointed to our table. They were in no rush as they ambled right up to us with dull, expressionless faces and flashed their badges at such a speed I only caught the word
officer
. The short, stocky one said, “I’m Harvey Ormand, Miami PD” —pointing at his wafer-thin colleague— “…this is my partner, Curtis Flint. We’re looking for Ryan Evans.”

Ryan had not noticed the officers walking into the room. He turned at the sound of his name and when he saw them his eyes widened. “I-I’m Ryan.”

Before he could say another word, Officer Ormand said, “Ryan Evans, you are under arrest for the murder of Frank Walters.” He proceeded to rattle off his rights. It was the first time that I had ever seen Ryan at a loss for words.