Twisted: A Tracy Turner Murder Mystery Novel (The Tracy Turner Mystery Series Book 1) by Keyla Hunter Page A
Authors: Keyla Hunter
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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.?”
“Mrs. Walters, Katherine Walters.”
“Mrs. Walters let me escort you back to your room.” I picked up her bag and she grabbed it from me holding it against her chest. Ignoring her stare, I handed over her earring that she had left on the table. She nodded and smiled.
“I don’t know what happened,” she said. Her voice was breathy, but polite. She turned to the waiter and glared. “Who is that man? I have never seen such incomp…”
“Mrs. Walters, I’ll have a therapist from our salon come down to your room and do your hair, with
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.?”
“Mrs. Walters, Katherine Walters.”
“Mrs. Walters let me escort you back to your room.” I picked up her bag and she grabbed it from me holding it against her chest. Ignoring her stare, I handed over her earring that she had left on the table. She nodded and smiled.
“I don’t know what happened,” she said. Her voice was breathy, but polite. She turned to the waiter and glared. “Who is that man? I have never seen such incomp…”
“Mrs. Walters, I’ll have a therapist from our salon come down to your room and do your hair, with
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