Twisted: A Tracy Turner Murder Mystery Novel (The Tracy Turner Mystery Series Book 1) (7 page)

~T~

Nat.

~T~

Nat.

I made myself comfortable in my favorite hideout, an old meeting room tucked away behind the reception area that was unused by anyone in the building. I came upon it by chance, and it was the place that I went to when I needed alone time to think and get away from Amanda and the hustle and bustle of the Administrative Department who shared our workspace.

Maxwell was big on open-plan offices. He believed it supported collaboration. If you asked me, there was plenty of that in any case. So much that I couldn’t help but wonder if any real work got done.

I looked over my notes which were fragments of information that I needed to piece together. I pulled out the photographs. The smell of cedar tickled my nostrils. I was overcome by a rush of excitement as my mind drifted to the conversation I had with Brett earlier that morning. I let myself indulge in the memory for a moment and pushed the thoughts out of my mind. I had work to do.

I reached into my bag and pulled my glasses out of their case and sat them on the comfortable spot on the tip of my nose. The first few photos I picked up were ones of Frank sprawled on the bed. A wave of nausea rose up into my throat. I always found it hard to look at blood, even my own. The details Catalina provided about the gunshot wounds were accurate. What she had left out was the fact that Frank’s face was covered with a hand towel. I noted that this was an indication of remorse, which meant that the killer was not a stranger.

I fanned out the photos over the circular table, spread them out, and picked out a broad shot of the entire room. In the past Frank booked an executive suite, which was double the price of a regular room. Perhaps, Joseph was right; Frank was down on his luck. Nevertheless, the room was still opulent and as was expected of a five-diamond resort. What was strange was there were papers, books, and files strewn across the room. Was it Frank or was it the intruder who took his life that had made the mess?

It seemed that someone was looking for something in particular because it was only the books and files that had been disarranged. A thief searching for jewelry and valuables wouldn’t rifle through books.

There was also a set of golf clubs leaning against one end of the bed, so Frank had been out that morning playing a round or perhaps practicing for the upcoming tournament.

The next shot that caught my eye was Katherine Walters’ earring. It was beautiful and just as Catalina described it. I recalled seeing the earring somewhere. Yes, I remembered it was in one of Ryan’s magazines. It was a Tiffany’s piece. A dreamy turquoise with touches of silver. The color was one of my favorites, and the exquisite design had stuck in my mind.

What more I could learn about Katherine? How had her earring gotten into Frank’s room? During the argument on the courtroom steps she had threatened to kill him. That was only a couple of weeks ago. It was hard to imagine that she was invited into his room. What if she had slipped into the room and done it… but why?

I tapped in the password on my iPad and went straight to the Google app. In the search bar I entered the phrase: Frank and Katherine Walters divorce. 167,849 results turned up. That was not surprising given their celebrity status.

I clicked on the first news article. It was a detailed account of the couple’s messy split. The grounds for divorce was noted as adultery. Katherine was quoted as saying, “Frank was unfaithful from the moment that we were married.” The article listed a string of alleged infidelities. It recounted the story of how Frank had French kissed the maid of honor at their niece’s wedding. Apparently, this had been the final straw.

The article went on to say that they had a pre-nup in their marriage contract which stated that the cheating party would get nothing in the event of the marriage ending on the grounds of adultery. This meant that had the divorce gone through, Frank wouldn’t be entitled to a dollar of Katherine’s ten billion dollar confectionary empire, which she had inherited from her father, or her private American folk art collection of an undisclosed value.

The next photo was of Frank’s briefcase lying open on the ground, its contents spilled out on the bedside rug. It showed papers, a checkbook, and a photograph. A close-up of this photograph featured a couple sitting across from each other in an open terrace that over looked blue mountains with snow-white peaks.

I held the image closer and there was no mistaking her. It was Katherine. She was dressed in a pair of white slacks and a white cotton shirt. Around her slender waist was a slim red belt. A yellow-and-white-striped cardigan was draped around her shoulders and tied in a casual knot at her neck.

Across the table from her sat a man. He looked considerably older than her, with a mass of straight, shocking white hair parted to one side. He wore a casual dark blue polo shirt and beige slacks.

They looked at each other across the table, holding hands and starry-eyed. Her face was soft and a picture of pure serenity. The photograph was date stamped from three weeks ago.

I looked back at my iPad. This time I chose to read a Google news item that carried the headline
Frank Walters Divorce: Did Katherine kill Frank?
I glanced over the article noting the important points. Most of the information on the divorce I already knew from the TV clip that Channel 10 aired earlier today.

What caught my attention was the reporter’s speculation on what caused the outburst. He opined that it was the fact that Frank had been contesting the divorce and demanding a fifty percent stake in the company because Katherine didn't have concrete evidence to back up her claim to affect the pre-nup.

Why had the police not considered Mrs. Walters as a suspect? Then again, her track record as a successful business woman and as a spokesperson for battered women was well-known. She was a pillar of the community, who was a regular invitee at the mayor’s charity events; it would be hard to imagine that someone of her stature would be arrested in the blasé manner that Ryan was.

I then went over the damning photos that were taken at the spa: the uniform with the gunshot residue and the brown leather wallet etched with the initials FW; a pair of silver cuff links with filigree work and a thick men’s bracelet that matched. The items looked like they had been thrown into Ryan’s locker and sat there on a shelf at eye level. My heart sank at the thought of him still being behind bars. It strengthened my resolve. I looked through all the photos one by one and stacked them up into a neat pile.

What should I do with my suspicions? It was obvious that Katherine had a hand in this. Should I take it to Brett or Millie? The problem was at this point there was nothing solid to back up my claim. It was a hunch—a strong one—but a hunch nevertheless.

All I had were some news articles about an ugly divorce. If divorce was a motive for homicide, then half the married population of America would be in for a murderous end. I thought if I could speak to Katherine myself, maybe she would reveal something more to me. I would have to be careful about how I went about it. That way, I could find out if she was hiding something without offending one of Regency’s most honored guests.

I peered through one of the many glass doors that led inside the Blue Horizon Restaurant. The terrace outside was abuzz with guests who enjoyed the sunshine as they devoured the scrumptious seafood offerings for which the restaurant was known.

Katherine Walters chose to lunch inside. She sat in a cozy corner at a table for two, her back turned away from the ripples of the brilliant blue waves that lapped up on to the shore. Was she saving the view for a friend? When she called the waiter and placed her order, I didn’t think that anyone would be joining her.

She wore a cream-colored crepe cotton halter neckline dress that stopped above her knee. A gold cross hung on a slim chain around her neck. On her feet were brown Roman sandals with muted gold detailing. She caressed a flute of champagne that bubbled and fizzed. The interior of the restaurant was empty for a change and she was alone, so I reckoned that this was the perfect time to have a word with her.

I began to make my way over to her with only a vague idea of what I would say. I had planned a few conversation starters, but each one sounded dumber than the last. It wasn’t like I could go up to her and say, “Excuse me, can you please tell me if you killed your husband?” It had to be something cleverer than that, and after some thought I resolved to play it by ear.

I was about three feet away from her when her honey-toned Hermes crocodile bag began to vibrate and emit a sharp trill. She reached down into it and pulled out a mobile phone encased in a pouch that matched her bag. With care she removed a chunk of yellow sapphires that glistened and clung to her left lobe as she placed the phone to her ear.

At first her voice was soft and her eyes glazed over. As she spoke she became more animated and her twinkling eyes suggested someone special was on the line. I held my breath. Could she be speaking to the white-haired stranger from the photograph?

My heart began to pound. What could they be conspiring? I whisked out my own phone and held it tight against my ear. Then I inched closer and closer toward her table, engrossed in juggling my deception and straining to listen to her side of the conversation.

Out of the corner of my eye, I spied a waiter heading toward me. In the stiffened fingertips of his right hand, he balanced a silver tray laden with Spaghetti Marina for six. A pristine white napkin was folded over his left arm, and he moved fast with the grace of a ballerina.

To step out of each other’s way, we moved in tandem. I to my right and he to his left. At the last millisecond we realized our mutual error in judgment, but it was too late. We were too close. He collapsed, like a puppet who had lost its strings. The platter of pasta flew up into the air. In slow motion it rained down, the majority of which landed on the unsuspecting Katherine.

“Ugh!” She howled and jumped up out of her seat. She slammed down her phone with a quick word. Sputtering, bits of green garnish flew out of her mouth. She stood their gaping and blinking in quick succession, pulling bits of spaghetti from her hair, and tomato sauce dribbled down her chin. She glared daggers, her mouth curling up into a nasty sneer, and silenced the giggle that bubbled up inside.

The waiter ignored her steely stare and rushed to her side to help. “I’m so sorry. Please forgive me,” he said.

“What were you thinking, boy?” she demanded.

“I’m sorry,” he repeated. “I… I don’t know what happened.” To my relief neither did she. She had been too wrapped up in her conversation to have noticed. The waiter grabbed a napkin and scooped up more bright red sludge that had landed on Katherine’s lap. Then he turned around and looked straight at me. I crouched under an adjoining table where I had taken cover. My eyes pleaded with him to keep mum.

I felt myself boiling now. I was mad at myself and had only heard snippets of the conversation. Nothing that made sense, and I missed a golden opportunity to find out who the white-haired man was.

Part of me wanted to stay curled up right where I was but found that I couldn’t as I felt myself standing up. I pulled down my skirt, smoothed it over with my hands, and pulled myself tall into my full height. Snatching a pristine white napkin from the table, I walked straight up to Katherine and offered it to her. “I’m Tracy Turner, PR and Events. I do apologize for what happened,” I said. “I’m sorry, you are Mrs.?”