Twisted: A Tracy Turner Murder Mystery Novel (The Tracy Turner Mystery Series Book 1) (18 page)

I was there and he was playing and that’s what guys did—that Georgie Porgie thing. I bet if I showed him how I really felt, he would run away pretty fast. What was I thinking? I needed to clear my head.

I went down to the beach and ducked under a clump of sea oats. It was peaceful there and not many people were about. There was nothing like the warm sun and a cool breeze to help make sense of things.

If Brett was convinced that the killing had something to do with Burns, so be it. He could think anything he jolly well pleased. To me it was obvious that Doug had a huge part to play in this.

Anyone looking at it rationally would see that much. That night before Frank was killed they had argued over the letter. He lied to me about it. I know, because the tab was smooth. It was the letter that was crumpled. I bet that this was what they had fought over, but how did it end up in Katherine’s room?

Why was he confronting Frank that night? Paternity issues were a big deal in the celebrity world. Maybe he was trying to extort money from him, but Elaine’s take on him was that he was a good person.

He seemed nice enough, but he was quick to flare up the other day. What if he had a violent streak? What if he had killed Frank in a frenzy of anger and then got Elaine to plant those things in Ryan’s locker? It made perfect sense. Besides, if he wasn’t guilty of anything what was he doing in Katherine’s room the night she was killed?

“It also made perfect sense when you thought it was Katherine,” said that annoying voice again. I shook my head and tried to ignore it.

I had to know the truth. I had to find out if Doug had anything to do with Frank’s death. I would confront him and show him the letter. What if he had sent me that text? The police had not found the gun, and if he kept it at the bar, he could blow my brains out.

I wouldn’t show him the letter. That may have been what he was looking for. He might kill me to get it. I would go to the bar and talk to him when there were people about. He wouldn’t shoot me in broad daylight in front of witnesses.

An icy cold gust of wind made me shiver. I hugged myself, rubbed my arms, and looked up at the sky. I saw a couple of helicopters in the distance and remembered the aerial display that was scheduled for the evening. I clicked on the weather app. A storm was expected in the late afternoon and I hoped that it wouldn’t affect the display or the play-offs later today.

Should I tell Millie what I planned on doing? For all I knew Brett had already gotten to her. I didn’t want her to put a stop to my plan. It was not like Brett was my boss and I had to do as I was told. I would work my plan and felt a little lighter now that I had made a decision.

I would solve the case myself and show Brett Cooper that I was not a child.

The sleeves of Doug’s white shirt had been rolled up to his elbows. His back was turned away from the bar and he was hunched over a stainless steel wash basin. His ungloved hands indicated that this daily regimen had conditioned him to withstand the heat from the steamy, bubbling, frothy water.

I watched as he went about his routine. He hummed a tune over the sound of running water. Nobody would have guessed that he was a murderer. If he was up to no good last night, his demeanor didn’t show it. Perhaps he was a cold-blooded killer after all. After two kills he seemed to be cool as mint-ade. Who knows, maybe he had years of experience?

I felt pins and needles in my right foot as it threatened to fall asleep. I swung my leg and knocked down the stool next to me. The loud bang made Doug jump, and he twisted around at his waist. Seeing me, he turned around, faced me, and puffed out his rotund red cheeks in a wide smile.

“Oh, it’s just you again. Gave me a fright.”

“I’m sorry about the stool. I’ll get it.”

There was a sharp ping. “That’s my phone,” he said, reaching for his mobile phone that was on the counter top, and picked it up, tapping a tubby finger on the keys. “It’s my boy. I tell him to call me, but he sends me messages. He knows I’m not good with these things but keeps sending them to me anyway.” His lips flapped as he exhaled.

“Can I help you?”

He extended his arm over the bar and handed the phone to me. As I took it I shuddered. Perhaps this was the very phone that was used to send me that horrible text. The phone was archaic, a model from at least eight years ago. The keypad had faded and the screen was scratched and compacted. It was impossible to send a text from this phone. Maybe he used another phone to send me the text—a burn phone.

“I can’t read it.” I gave it back to him.

He wore a pair of round spectacles that looked too small for his face. He took a dirty dish cloth and wiped the screen, which probably made it worse. He tried again. This time he raised his apron that was cleaner than the cloth and rubbed it once more.

“The screen’s broken. Has it always been like that?”

He shrugged. “It belonged to my Barb God rest her soul.” He drew a sign of the cross in the air.

Watching him fumbling around with the mobile device, he looked alien to his ultramodern surroundings. Any other organization would have let him go by now. I wondered if Maxwell chose to keep him on as a mark of respect to his mother’s choice, or simply compassion. It would have been impossible for him to secure other work in this economic climate.

He was so engrossed in his phone that he didn’t look up when I called his name. He muttered under his breath, and I was getting impatient. I had to talk to him and find out if he had always known about the boy and why he and Frank really argued the other night, but how should I broach the subject?

He spoke in a rasping voice, “You heard the news about Katherine? Bad things happen to good people all the time.” He cleared his throat.

At first it sounded ominous, like a veiled threat. He stared again at the spot near the cash register. He went closer, leaned over the counter top, and took a photo that was pinned onto a cork board. He handed it across to me. “There she is with our boy.” His smile was gentle and his eyes gleamed with pleasure. The photo had a yellow hue and was frayed at the edges. “We were happy back then. There were no problems. Everything was alright. I had everything I needed.”

I was flabbergasted by what he said. “But Elaine said that Barb was ill,” I said in the most soothing voice I could muster. I was careful not to use the D-word, in case it upset him and he stopped talking.

“Oh yeah, she had her moments, but at other times she was as happy as a lark.”

“Here’s us at Disney World.” Then he drew some more photos from the drawer in the counter and began showing them to me, some more recent than others, but in all of them his family looked happy, especially Doug.

“How did she, uh… pass?” I chose my words carefully. “I heard that she had OD’d on her medication. Is that true?”

Doug’s face turned scarlet and his entire body began to jiggle. Tears flowed down his face. I reached out my hand and patted his clenched fist. “It was an accident he said. It was an accident, and it’s all my fault.”

“What do you mean? What did you do?”

“She said she was tired and that she wanted to sleep. She had trouble sleeping, not as bad as me. She asked the doctor for pills, but he refused. She was on too many already. That night she had taken my pills.”

“What happened next?”

“She’d taken them all. She’s not supposed to take them. I should’ve kept them where she couldn’t reach. It’s my fault. It’s my fault that my sweet angel is dead.” His voice heavy with anguish.

I pursed my lips and nodded.

“I have taken her to the hospital before, but this time it was different, she was so quiet.” He sobbed. “She was dead.”

“So you took her to the hospital before?”

“Yes, when she got sick. Sometimes she didn’t know what she was doing. I’d take her and they had to tie her hands.” He pressed his arms straight down against his body. “See, the doctor gave me this. I still… still keep it close. It’s so I can ’splain to people about her illness,” he said, breaking down again. “Here, you read it.”

The note was penned on a local doctor, Neil Drummond MD’s letterhead. The contents revealed that Barb had suffered from bi-polar disorder and had episodes of manic depression.

His face was buried in his meaty hands. “No, it wasn’t my fault. It was Frank Walters’ fault. She was fine till he walked into our lives.”

“It’s been over twenty years, Doug,” I said in a whisper. “Is that why you fought with him?”

“No, I told you he was having too much. We have a policy here.”

“Are you sure, Doug?”

“I thought that you had stopped snooping about. You better get out of here if you know what’s good for you. You better get out of here now.”

He reached into his drawer again. Was he going for his gun? I jumped off the stool and began to run for all I was worth. I didn’t know if he was chasing me. I didn’t stop to find out, and I didn’t look back. I just ran for my life.

I walked fast, toward the fountain where Millie usually sat. Her chair was empty. I looked around, but she was nowhere to be seen. My heart sank. I punched in her PA’s line and asked after her. She was at a meeting with her lawyers, no doubt, tending to the multitude of legal formalities to safeguard the interests of the resort. I didn’t see her allowing a couple of murders to ruin what she had worked so hard to build up.

She wouldn’t be finished any time soon, so I sat across from her chair. This was where I’d sit on our long conversations together. Her stories were always interesting, charming, and mostly inspiring. Listening to her, I wished that I could do my own thing. For a mad moment I couldn’t help but wonder what it would be like to solve crimes for a living. It was a lot of fun. Alright then, fun when you left out the ugly bits like almost getting my head blown to bits a few minutes ago.

The gurgling sound of the water felt soothing and comforting. A million scenarios played out in my head. Running out of the bar minutes ago, I promised myself never to go near Doug again. It was amazing how quickly his demeanor changed. Within seconds he had gone from a gentle dove racked with the guilt of his wife’s death, to a seething pit viper ready to strike.

I did learn a lot, though not so much about him and Frank but more about Barb and the fact that he was illiterate. That explained the strange scratch marks on the tabs.

The most important thing was getting to know that Doug couldn’t read or write, because that would mean that the old man couldn’t have sent me the message. But he still could have got someone else to do it.

He seemed to be many things, but certainly not someone who was manipulative; he was open and unassuming. Well, I have been a pretty rotten judge of character so far, so I could well be mistaken.

In today’s world, it was hard to imagine that someone illiterate could get by. I remember reading an article about how there were many people, particularly dyslexics, who interpreted patterns, created their own codes, and found other ways to fake their way through life.

Likewise, Doug would have used the doctor’s letter to access hospitals. He probably had others reading and filling in documentation for him. When Barb was alive, she probably read and answered his communications. No wonder he was on the edge without her; in a world of words, he was probably lost.

Didn’t Elaine say that she had read him Barb’s letter? What if Doug had got Elaine to send that text? She didn’t seem to have had it in her. Besides, what did she have to gain with the deaths of Frank and Katherine? No, there had to be another explanation.

What about his son? Why would he have sent his father a message? Perhaps he didn’t know about the handicap. Maybe it was something that Doug didn’t want Mike to know. This family seemed to have so many secrets, no wonder things had gone awry. Secrets and lies never helped anyone.

I wondered if there was something I had overlooked. Perhaps the video footage would reveal more. If I could confirm that Doug had not been at the crime scenes at the time of the murderers, I could rule him out.

I had to review that footage again, but that would mean getting Brett’s help. Based on the way our last conversation ended, I seriously doubted that I could get his support. I sighed. As things stood, I had no choice. I would have to sweet talk him. Problem was that this was not my strong suit.

The only thing I could do was to try.