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

Copyright Notice

Florida's elite Regency Spa and Golf Resort has a new Head of PR and Events. Tracy Turner is out to prove herself, but a pro golfer's murder is not the kind of event that she's prepared for.

Just a day into Tracy's promotion, Frank Walters is dead and her best friend Ryan Evans has been framed. The case against Ryan seems iron-clad--no one believes he's innocent but her. The more she digs into the murder, the further from the truth she gets. And the closer she gets to the real killer, the closer she gets to dying.

Tracy has to save Regency's reputation, but first she has to clear Ryan's name and stay alive.

Twisted is a stand-alone murder mystery thriller novel and the first book in The Tracy Turner Mystery Series.

Title Page

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

A NOTE FROM KEYLA

“Oh, Pierre, just do without the truffles!” I said. My high heels clanged across the poolside’s black and white checkered tiles as I hurried to the Ethereal Room, where tonight’s banquet was being held.

Chef Pierre Marcell rolled along behind me, doing his best to keep up. A puff of white cloud billowed around his puckered face. Around his ample waist was a brilliant white starched apron held together by a delicate bow with two inches of cord to spare. I stopped for a moment as he raced to catch up.

Even at this hour, the South Florida sun didn't disappoint. It created silvery gossamer threads on the delicious blue rippling water and invited early-morning risers to take a dip before breakfast. Numerous celebrities, and the wannabes by association, lounged by the pool, dressed to kill in the latest Ralph Lauren and Melissa Odabash swimwear.

The stringy variety barely covered the essential bits, the age defying designs concealed the sagging bits, and the swishing silk wraparound sarongs that hid the bulging bits. Their mostly tanned bodies had endured the rigors of sunburn—or for the more impatient, a quick visit to the resort’s salon for a full body spray tan—which was worn as a matter of course and as a testament of the good times they had in the tropics.

“But we need the truffles. You do not understand. How can I make
Truffled Truffles with Truffle ice cream
, without the truffles?” asked Pierre, his round face pink and scrunched into a tight ball. The beads of sweat that had gathered on his forehead snaked down upon his right eyelid, and then in a flash dripped onto his cheek. He reminded me of my nephew when he begged for a lolly, only the anguish on his face was greater. For a brief moment, and despite my aversion to touchy-feely expression, I wanted to give him a quick hug, but better sense prevailed.

“Amanda would make it happen… she makes things happen, like how do you say? Maj-eeek,” he said as he snapped his fingers and waved a hand up into the air, clutching the imaginary truffles he had conjured up. In slow motion, he looked up at his hand with love then ran the tip of his tongue over his tufty mustached upper lip, sighed, and smiled a contented smile.

Amanda Stone was my boss, and Head of PR and Events at the Regency Spa & Golf Resort. The resort hosted the Twenty-fifth Annual International Golf League Tournament, and tonight was the game’s launch party. Amanda was in her seventh month of pregnancy. No one could tell, of course. She was just a little
fuller
, but still looked fabulous—one of those lucky women who stayed prim and tight throughout their pregnancies.

Every aspect of Amanda’s life was planned down to the minute. She had a spreadsheet for everything. In addition, her iPad and her two mobile phones (one for work and one for pleasure), with their regular reminders, ensured she was on top of her professional, social, and personal lives. So, when her baby decided to surprise her with an early entry, she was caught off guard.

Her water broke at precisely 10:02 yesterday morning, which she noted with a quick flick of her wrist and an audible curse. I made the 9-1-1 call, and as she was whizzed away on a stretcher, with her phone in her hand and her mouth drawn in a tight, straight line. Her voice was quieter than usual, but as always firm, when she commanded, “Turner you take over. And for God’s sake don’t mess up.”

Openmouthed, I stared after her. What did I, Tracy Turner, aged twenty-six, five foot nothing, know about heading the PR & Events Department of one of the largest and most prestigious resorts in the world? The only reason I was bestowed the honor was because Amanda’s planned replacement was not going to be in for another six weeks.

It certainly was not my looks that got me there. On the scale between ordinary and ravishing, I weighed heavily toward the former. My hair was probably my best feature; it was a combination of my Irish mother’s fiery red locks and my English father’s dark brown. It was auburn and it had bounce. I tanned somewhat, but yet had a smattering of freckles on my cheeks. The most annoying was the one on my upturned button nose. I needed to stop rubbing it because I swore it got larger every day.

About two years ago, I had joined the resort as an intern, having completed a double degree in Media Communications and Psychology in the UK, where I had lived most of my life. Amanda ran a tight ship and prided herself on running her department with minimal permanent staff. She had burned a number of interns before me, but I managed to survive the initial six-month onslaught.

When Amanda offered me the role of PR & Events Coordinator, I weighed up the prospect of working for her and going back to the bleak British weather. The
brrrr…
factor was high in both cases, but I felt drawn to remain in the U.S. It somehow felt like home.

Pierre was a Master Pastry Chef, and had been snipped a few weeks ago from the legendary Le Meurice: a luxury, chic hotel in the heart of Paris. It was the perfect fit since the resort was also well-known for its fine food. The rich and famous came from across the world for their scrumptious delicacies. Tonight’s cocktail and dinner was for the golfing world’s elite and their celebrity A-list guests. Only the best would do.

Our usually reliable supplier of fine gourmet fresh produce had delivered half the quantity of truffles, which was inadequate for the occasion. Truffles had a long history as an opulent delicacy. However, a few weeks ago they had been featured in
Gourmet Masterchef
and truffle suppliers couldn't keep up with demand as the full-flavored fungi flew off their shelves.

If Amanda was around I was pretty sure she would have found a way to make the truffles happen. It was not the first time she would have whipped a rabbit out of a hat. Truffles were a delicacy even in France, so where could I find truffles in this part of the world?

As if reading my thoughts Pierre continued, “They can only be the finest truffles in the world. France - that’s where they must come from. None of that stuff grown in America. Only the best will do, for my guests. You must think about my reputation Trace-ieee,” he continued as we hurried on.