Peril in the Park: A Jamie Quinn Mystery Read online

  PERIL IN THE PARK

  A Jamie Quinn Mystery

  By

  Barbara Venkataraman

  PERIL IN THE PARK is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2014 by Barbara Venkataraman

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or parts thereof in any form whatsoever.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  For all of their support, advice and enthusiasm, I want to thank my "reader girls:" Janet, Jaya, Jodi, Joette, Leslie, Linda, Myra and Nanette.

  Books by Barbara Venkataraman

  Death by Didgeridoo (A Jamie Quinn Mystery)

  The Case of the Killer Divorce (A Jamie Quinn Mystery)

  A Trip to the Hardware Store

  (Quirky Essays for Quirky People)

  I'm Not Talking About You, Of Course

  (Quirky Essays for Quirky People)

  If You'd Just Listened To Me In The First Place

  (Short Story)

  The Fight for Magicallus

  (Children's Fantasy Story)

  Chapter 1

  "You know how Floridians always say, 'We don't care how you did it in New York?'" Kip asked me, exasperated.

  "Nobody actually says that," I joked, dropping bread in the toaster with one hand while I scrambled eggs with the other. "They just write it on bumper stickers."

  "My point is--they don't care how I did it in California either." Kip laid his forehead on the edge of my kitchen table and stared dejectedly at the floor, deep in thought, or deep in denial, maybe both.

  Only six months ago, Kip (who wasn't my boyfriend yet, well, actually he was still my ex-boyfriend--it's a little complicated) had moved here from California to take over as Director of Broward County Parks, and he was having a rough time of it. When he first started, it was all about org charts and flow charts, flora and fauna mapping (both indigenous and invasive), and employee morale boosters. Honestly, nobody could've been more gung-ho than Kip, but all that went out the window when he realized that he had bigger problems--like the Machiavellian politics of upper management. Instead of doing their jobs, park supervisors spent all their time sabotaging each other, while lower level employees spent their time complaining about supervisors. The only thing everyone agreed on was how much they hated the new director. So, in a way, Kip had brought them all together. Minus the morale boosting, of course.

  Then the vandalism started, jumping from park to park with no obvious pattern. It seemed to be the handiwork of one person--a person who liked to leave snarky messages at the scene. The latest incident had occurred just two days earlier at Markham Park, in the southwest part of the county. Boy Scout troop number 256 had awoken from an overnight camping trip to find what looked like crop circles in a nearby field. Hoping to see aliens, they stampeded across the campground to check it out. When the first scouts arrived at the scene, they gave a whoop of excitement and soon laughter was rippling through the crowd of adolescent boys like the wave at a football game. Even the scoutmasters snickered at the message mowed into the field in twenty foot letters, as if written by a cranky giant. Someone had gone to a lot of trouble to express himself and there was no mistaking the sentiment. As clear as the morning dew, the words, "Bite Me!" were etched in the grass for all to see.

  "Jamie, do you know how long it will take for the grass to grow back?" Kip complained, after he'd told me about it. "I can't leave it like that."

  "Hmmm, why don't you add some letters to change the message? Like, I don't know, how about, Bite…um, Bite...Mel…Gibson! That works. And who knows? Maybe it'll teach Mel Gibson to play nice." I snorted with laughter. I crack myself up sometimes.

  Kip was only slightly amused. "Just what I need," he said, "a lawsuit from Mel Gibson. And my defense will be what--my lawyer girlfriend told me to do it? Who would believe that?"

  "Anyone who knows me," I said, as I plunked our breakfast down on the table. I took a seat next to my hunky boyfriend (I know--I can't believe it either) and proceeded to drown my eggs in Tabasco. It's the one sure way to wake myself up because, let's face it, I'm not a morning person.

  "How's your breakfast?" I asked, waiting for accolades.

  "Great, but it's missing something," Kip gave me a half-smile as he buttered his toast.

  "Not that again!" I groaned. "Don't say it, Kip."

  "Where's the bacon?"

  "Now, you've done it! You've hurt Mr. Paws' feelings," I chided.

  Kip looked at me like I was crazy. "Why would your cat care about my missing bacon?"

  I rolled my eyes. "You know he's best friends with Miss Saigon."

  "Huh? Is that another one of your Broadway references?"

  "No. Miss Saigon is the Vietnamese pot-bellied pig that lives next door. The cat adores her."

  Kip laughed. "You can't make me feel guilty about eating bacon, Jamie. And you'll never convince me to become a vegetarian, either."

  I jumped into his lap and started nuzzling his neck. "I can be very convincing, you know."

  He pulled me close. "Really? And what are you trying to convince me to do right now?"

  "Go in late to work…"

  "I don't know," he murmured. "What would the boss say?"

  I nibbled his ear. "You are the boss."

  "Oh, that's right, I am," he said, and kissed me. "You smell delicious."

  "I do, don't I?"

  Kip scooped me up and started carrying me out of the kitchen. "Yes, you do. Almost as good as bacon."

  Chapter 2

  Allow me to introduce myself: my name is Jamie Quinn and I'm a family law attorney. I've lived in Hollywood, Florida my whole life (so far, anyway) and I share a house with a cantankerous cat that I inherited (along with the house) when my mom died of cancer a few years back. I used to have an ordinary life where nothing much ever happened; I went to work every day, hung out with friends, and watched way too much TV. After my mom died, I was in a fog for a long time, but then my autistic cousin Adam was accused of murdering his music teacher with a wind instrument called a didgeridoo and everything changed. Now my life is anything but boring, and I wouldn't have it any other way.

  Speaking of big changes, six months ago, I ran into my high school boyfriend, Kip Simons, at T.Y. Park where we both used to work. Kip had attended college out of state, returning to Florida a mere fifteen years later. Lucky for me, his first career in corporate America bombed, forcing him back to school where he pursued his true calling, forestry and park management. I like to think that he applied for his current job as Broward County Parks Director because he was secretly pining away for me.

  Then there's my father, Guillermo Franco. He was a mystery I thought I'd never solve--especially since my mother never talked about him and I had no idea who he was. After my mom died, I decided to look for him with nothing to go on but a name, which, as it turned out, wasn't even his real name. After a few false starts and a lot of help from my friends Duke and Grace, I had the happiest surprise of my life: I spoke with my dad for the first time. He was pretty surprised, considering he didn't even know he had a daughter, but he took the news very well. In fact, he was thrilled, as was his wife, Ana Maria, who lives in Miami and is working tirelessly to bring him here. My dad and I still haven't met in person because he's stuck in Nicaragua (after being exiled from Cuba), but we talk and Skype as often as we can, and try to catch up on a lifetime's worth of stories. He has more stories than I do, naturally, but his are dark and surreal, like the plot of a Russian novel
(if it were set in Cuba). He says he likes my stories because I make him laugh, and because I remind him of my mother.

  My parents met at a political rally when they were only twenty and soon after they joined the Cuban Dissident movement together. They thought they could change the world, but their dream of a free Cuba would simply remain a dream. In the end, their fight against injustice would accomplish nothing except for my dad being deported back to Cuba, my mom losing the love of her life, and me growing up without a father. They tried to make a difference and I admire them for that, even if it turned out pretty lousy all around. My dad had it the worst, of course, spending many years in jails and detention centers, and, when I asked him about it, he said something surprising. He said he'd rather be in jail than be in limbo, not knowing if he would ever be free again. For that reason, he didn't mind his current situation--waiting in Nicaragua for a visa that might never materialize-- because at least he had hope, he had a job, and he had the two of us, and that's saying a lot.

  After we'd caught each other up on our lives, my dad and I started looking for a common interest to keep the conversation going. We found one that's practically universal, what with the internet, streaming videos and that gold standard of mediums, books. I'm talking about science fiction, the never-ending source of entertainment for people who like to spend time in alternate universes or exploring the galaxy without changing out of their pajamas. Our most recent conversation went like this:

  "Hola Papi, did you ever finish watching 'The Matrix'? Wasn't it mind-blowing?"

  "It was fascinating, but also disturbing. I liked it. I've often felt like my life was a bad dream and I might wake up somewhere else. Tell me, hija, which pill would you take, the red one or the blue one?"

  "Hmmm, take the blue pill and the story ends. You wake up in your bed and believe whatever you want. That sounds more like me. What about you?"

  "The red one, I'm afraid," he said. "I need to know how deep the rabbit hole goes. Age doesn't always bring wisdom, Jamie."

  "So, if we were living in the Matrix right now, you would want to know?

  He laughed. "Oh, yes! Maybe I'd learn I'm not really in this tiny apartamento in Managua, I'm sitting on the Boardwalk with you, eating ice cream and watching the people go by."

  "I’d love that. Is mine a waffle cone with mint chip ice cream and chocolate sprinkles?"

  "It is."

  "Then count me in," I said.

  My dad sighed. "I'm looking forward to the day when we can really do that."

  "Me too. And when that day comes, the ice cream's on me."

  Chapter 3

  You'd think that after more than a decade of practicing law, I could get the timing down. I'm not talking about all the deadlines for discovery, mediation and trial prep--I have that under control, but I seem to have lost the knack for getting to court on time. It was Tuesday morning, I had a calendar call at 9:15, and what should have been a breezy morning was turning into anything but. Between ignoring my alarm clock and spending way too much time on my messy, impossible hair, I was so far behind schedule that I was stressing over which traffic lights were the longest and how I could avoid them. It wouldn't have been a problem had I been going to the Hollywood courthouse, but my hearing was at the main courthouse and downtown Fort Lauderdale was ten miles away.

  It was already 9:06 by the time I parked my mini-cooper, so I started jogging the long block to the courthouse. I felt strangely off-balance, as if the sidewalk were uneven, and then I realized why--I was wearing two different shoes! Both were black, but one had a low heel and one was a flat. That's what happens when you’re running late, you can't even dress yourself. The line of people entering the courthouse was snaking out to the sidewalk. Damn it, I was going to be late! I knew there was another entrance to the courthouse on the third floor of the parking garage, so I clomped my way over there. After waiting for an elevator that never arrived, I hit the stairs, first removing my mismatched shoes (I had another pair just like them at home), then running up two flights in my stocking feet. There was no one in line (thankfully), so I threw my file into the x-ray machine and walked briskly through the metal detector. For no reason at all, the machine beeped and I had to wait for the guard to wave her wand over me in a virtual frisk. Sweat was starting to seep into my newly dry-cleaned suit and I still had to get to the eighth floor. Why did I keep doing this to myself?

  When I reached my destination, it was 9:25 and I was panting like I'd just finished a 5K. As I focused on simply trying to walk, it suddenly dawned on me that there was nobody there. Calendar calls are usually swarming with lawyers looking for trial dates, all of them asking for the latest possible date in hopes of a settlement, or possibly a miracle. Then I saw the note taped to the door. It said, 'Calendar Call canceled.' No explanation, no apologies. I didn't know whether to laugh or cry.

  I sat on the deserted bench in the hallway to take a much needed rest. They say comedy equals tragedy plus time and since it had already been ten minutes I decided to text my friend Grace and give her a good laugh. I'd known Grace since we were students at Nova Law where we'd bonded over marathon study sessions and Grace's crazy sense of humor. These days, Grace worked at a big securities firm on upscale Las Olas Boulevard where she kept her wit under wraps--well, most of the time, anyway. Although she usually couldn't take personal calls at work, she could always text, and that was fine with me.

  Want to hear about the hottest new fashion trend? I texted.

  Will it get me on the cover of Cosmo? I'd settle for Vogue.

  More like The National Enquirer. Next to the story about women who married aliens.

  Forget it, I can't afford the bad publicity. So, what'd you do this time?

  Wore two different shoes to court. I looked really cool!

  Lol!! How did you walk? Can't wait to see your picture in the courthouse gossip blog!

  OMG, hope not! I didn't see anyone. I was at calendar call all by myself…

  You just wanted some alone time?

  Yeah, something like that. Hey, guess what the park vandal did this time?

  Hmmm…Spray the picnic tables with WD-40?

  That's gross! Maybe it's you, Grace--you're the park vandal!

  Not me, but it could be one of my other personalities. I can't vouch for them. Okay, I give up, what did he do?

  Mowed the words "Bite Me" into the grass at Markham Park.

  Hilarious!! He may not be classy, but he does have style.

  I'll introduce you--as soon as Kip figures out who it is, I texted.

  Poor Kip, it didn't take him long to make enemies

  It’s not him, it's the park system, it’s so messed up! That's why they brought in a director from the outside--they sure as hell couldn't promote anyone. I just hope Kip doesn't give up and quit.

  Me too, Grace texted. Why don't you try to look for the park vandal? I bet Duke would help you.

  That’s not a bad idea, and Duke loves that kind of stuff. He's the only P.I. around who thinks like a criminal. When he isn't too busy checking out the ladies, of course.

  Of course.

  Glad you're on my side, Gracie. You're the brains of this operation.

  And you're the fashionista!

  Chapter 4

  After my wasted morning, I drove back to Hollywood, stopping at my favorite drive-through coffee shop on the way. It always gave me a lift to go there and the coffee was excellent, too. Most importantly, I didn't have to get out of the car.

  "Mornin' sweetheart, how ya doing?"

  Joey, a transplanted New Yorker in his late twenties, was so cheerful you'd think he had the best job in the world--or at least he thought he did. Although I knew he called all the girls 'sweetheart' (and all the guys 'buddy'), hearing it still made me feel special.

  "Doing great, thanks. I'll have the usual--but can you make it a double? I need the caffeine."

  As I waited, the whoosh of milk being steamed and the aroma of fresh-brewed espresso were a symphony for my s
enses. I inhaled deeply, closing my eyes and savoring the moment.

  Joey laughed when he saw me with my eyes shut. "You sure need that coffee, huh?" He handed me my latte along with the change, which I dropped in the tip jar.

  "You know, Joey, you're the first person I've talked to today. Can you believe it?"

  "I hear that a lot," he said with a grin. "I'm like the morning DJ. I help you wake up and face the world so you can get yourself off to work." Joey's enthusiasm was contagious; he was like a life coach and barista all rolled into one.

  I smiled. "You keeping busy?"

  "For sure. Everyone who works downtown comes through here, well, just the coffee drinkers, y'know, but I got commissioners, cops, teachers, doctors--you name it, they show up same time every day. I could set my watch by 'em. I've even started playing softball with some of them, we got a team going over at the park. You should come watch us sometime."

  "Sounds like fun. I bet you hear some juicy gossip," I teased.

  "You'd be shocked by the stuff I hear," he said, looking halfway serious. He gave me a conspirator's wink, pretending to zip his lips and toss away the key. Just then, a car pulled up behind me.

  "See you next time, sweetheart." Joey said with a wave. "You have a good one."

  I chuckled to myself as I drove away. No wonder Joey loves life, he thinks he's living in a spy novel! I'm sure everyone sees themselves as the hero (or anti-hero) of their own life, but if my life were a novel, I'd want it to be a big fat Dickens story. Not "Bleak House" or "The Old Curiosity Shop," mind you, they're way too dark (little Nell dies!) but something like "Nicholas Nickleby" or "David Copperfield" would do nicely. I'd want lots of interesting characters, bad guys who get what's coming to them and good people who wind up happy in the end.

  Of course, another reason I don't like "Bleak House" is that it gives us lawyers a bad name; I mean, we're the villains in the story, for heaven's sake--as if our reputations weren't bad enough already. So, thanks for your help, Mr. Dickens, but we've got that covered.