Peril in the Park: A Jamie Quinn Mystery Read online

  I arrived at the office to find a stack of messages waiting for me. The first was from the judge's assistant informing me that calendar call had been canceled. Yeah, I figured that out already. There was a message from my vet about scheduling a check-up for Mr. Paws; a reminder about a charity lunch; a "courtesy call" from someone trying to sell me something; and a message from my accountant, Marvin, questioning why I took a "day spa" expense as a tax deduction (it wasn't for me, I swear). The rest were from clients, opposing counsel, and a potential new client, but nothing that couldn't wait. I finished my iced latte and turned on my computer to check the schedule for the afternoon.

  Being a one-person operation has its disadvantages, to be sure. My officemates and I share a receptionist, but I don't have a secretary to schedule hearings, type pleadings, or deal with cranky clients. The worst part is that every crisis, real or imagined, is always my problem--and divorce clients have lots of crises, let me tell you. Take my client, Kathy Sue. She was a down-to-earth, middle-aged woman from North Carolina whose husband, Walter, wanted to trade her in for a younger model. Poor Kathy Sue was so shocked and hurt by Walter's infidelity that she lost the capacity to make a decision, and I mean any decision. She called me daily for advice. Her latest issue had to do with the marital home, where she was living, which was listed for sale. The judge had ordered Walter to maintain the yard until the house was sold, but Walter was too busy with his mid-life crisis (by that, I mean girlfriend) and he refused to do it. Kathy Sue called me up, all in a tizzy.

  "Jamie, I don't know what to do! I'm supposed to be showing the house today to this sweet little couple who might want to buy it, but the yard looks awful! Walter hasn't mowed the lawn in weeks and it's a damn jungle! Now, I could mow the lawn, but if I did, then the judge would think I could do it all the time and that I don't need Walter to do it, but the truth is, Jamie, with my bad knees and that bursitis in my hip, I need him to mow the lawn!"

  "Well--" I said.

  "But, Jamie, if I don't mow the lawn, there's no way that couple is gonna buy this house--they won't even get out of the car! I swear to you, it looks like it's been condemned. There's probably rats running around out there, spreading diseases!"

  "I'm sorry, Kathy Sue, I was distracted by the rats, what's your question again?"

  "Should I mow the lawn, or shouldn't I?"

  I sighed. "You want to sell the house, right?"

  "Of course I do! I can't move back to North Carolina until it's sold."

  "And nobody will buy it the way it looks now, right?"

  "That's right."

  "Then you should mow the lawn, Kathy Sue."

  "But Jamie--"

  "Here's what we'll do. I'll write to his attorney and tell him that if Walter doesn't start mowing the lawn, you're going to hire a yard service and the cost will come out of his share of the house. Does that work? "

  "You bet. As soon as that cheap bastard hears he has to pay, he'll be right over. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to go mow the damn lawn. Wish me luck!"

  By the time I finished making decisions for my clients every day, (I mean helping them make decisions) my brain was so fried I couldn't even decide what to have for dinner. Sometimes I wished I could give each client a Magic 8 Ball to help them with their decision-making. But I knew what would happen. They'd just ask it, 'Should I call Jamie?' and the Magic 8 Ball would respond, 'Without a doubt.'

  I was about to start returning calls when I got a text from Kip.

  Really sorry, but I can't make it to dinner, he wrote. Tomorrow?

  No prob. What's up?

  I have a meeting.

  For work?

  Sort of.

  Very mysterious…I texted

  That's me, Mr. Mysterious.

  Okay, Mr. M., call me later?

  Depends. What will you be wearing?

  You'll hv to call me to find out, I wrote.

  Then we should Skype instead, Kip answered.

  Trust issues? Lol

  No, lust issues.

  Sounds like a serious problem, I responded.

  It is… he said.

  I guess we'd better Skype then.

  Excellent idea! Kip wrote.

  Glad I thought of it, I answered.

  Chapter 5

  But Kip didn't Skype, and he didn't call either. As the night wore on, I went from feeling annoyed that he forgot, to angry that he blew me off, to afraid that he was lying unconscious in a ditch somewhere. I vacillated between worry and wounded pride until midnight, when worry finally got the best of me. While it was tempting to send my missing boyfriend a sarcastic text, like--Forget something? --I decided not to, on the off chance that he had a good excuse, or was actually in trouble. Instead, I opted for "What happened to you?" which could be interpreted as concerned OR pissed off. That way, I'd covered all my bases.

  He texted back almost immediately, I'm sorry, Jamie. Work is out of control & there's other stuff going on. Talk tomorrow, PROMISE. Xo

  Seriously--that was his excuse? How stressful could his job be that he couldn't call or even send a text? I mean, isn't that why people worked for the government, so they could leave at the stroke of 5:00? I didn't know what was going on, but I did know I'd totally lose it if I answered his text, so I didn't. I gave him the (virtual) silent treatment instead and hoped he'd notice.

  I should explain that, up to that point, Kip had been the ideal boyfriend: considerate, romantic, fun, reliable (!). On our first date, he'd taken me horse-back riding at Tradewinds Park, patiently teaching me the basics of riding while we got reacquainted (we'd last seen each other in high school). I couldn't have been happier (or more surprised) when he asked me out again, especially after he realized that we are polar opposites: he's adventurous and athletic, always looking for an adrenaline rush, while I'm a homebody with a fear of heights and rats (among other things) who thinks a trip to Barnes and Noble is a fun time. In my defense, I like a good 'Happy Hour', too.

  But this wasn't your typical romance. Kip was the newly-appointed Director of Parks and he needed to familiarize himself with each of the thirty-two parks and natural areas in Broward County, so that became our regular Saturday date. I soon found myself a tourist in my own town, and it was amazing! We used every mode of transportation available--bikes, boats, trams--and then we hiked until my feet begged for mercy, trekking through scrubland, swamp, hammocks and pine forests.

  We tried everything the parks had to offer. We went water-skiing at Quiet Waters Park, rode an airboat at Everglades Holiday Park, skated at Brian Piccolo Park, and went skeet shooting at Markham Park. We went to the annual Chili Cook-Off, the petting zoo, and, my favorite, Butterfly World. We'd planned to go to the Renaissance Festival the following Saturday, but this wench wasn't sure she was still going. She was pretty mad.

  It was one in the morning by then, which did nothing to improve my mood. Unlike most people, the later I stay up, the more awake I am; there's no point in trying to sleep; it's just how I'm wired. Unfortunately, I was too bleary-eyed to read a book and there was nothing on TV except reruns and infomercials, which are loud and annoying any time of day. At least I had company; I'm embarrassed to say that I've turned my cat into an insomniac, too. Whenever I'm awake, Mr. Paws is right there beside me and I don't think a warm bath or chamomile tea would do him any good. Lord knows, they've never worked for me.

  With limited options, I turned on my computer, hoping to find something gossipy and light to read before I resorted to YouTube. Whenever I can't sleep, I look for old TV shows I used to watch with my mom when I was little because they always cheer me up. It's been three years since she died, but I still miss her so much.

  I noticed a new e-mail which hadn't been there a half hour earlier. Since my e-mails go to my phone, I usually see them right away (yes, I'm a bit obsessive). Maybe the sender had insomnia, too, but more than likely it was spam. Unless I knew the source, I had no intention of downloading any attachments, clicking on any links, or wiring money
out of the country to a 'friend' who'd been 'mugged'. New scams popped up every day, some aimed specifically at attorneys. Since every attorney in Florida is listed on the Bar website, our e-mail addresses are no secret. For that reason, most attorneys maintain two e-mail accounts, one for work and another for personal use, but I had only the one address to keep things simple.

  I didn't recognize the e-mail address, which was a strange one. Instead of a name, there were just three letters: [email protected]. I wouldn't have opened it except for the subject matter, "Regarding Kip Simons". My stomach did a little flip, what was this about? I clicked on the e-mail and then sucked in my breath. There were photos pasted into the e-mail, photos I didn't know existed, all of me and Kip! There we were, petting a goat at the petting zoo, boarding the airboat at Everglades Holiday Park, and enjoying the Chili Cook-off, laughing and dancing to the band. What was going on here? This was freaking me out! I scrolled down to read the text below the pictures.

  Hello Jamie. I have a message for your boyfriend. You tell him to back off! If he doesn't, bad things are going to happen. DO NOT GO TO THE POLICE.

  Remember this, no matter where you go, I-C-U!

  Holy crap! My heart was racing and my hands were shaking and I had to fight for control of my body, just to calm myself down. Okay, I definitely wasn't mad at Kip anymore. He'd tried to tell me there was something going on, but this, this was beyond my comprehension. If we couldn't go to the police, I knew someone who could help us, but one thing was for sure--there was no way in hell I'd be getting any sleep!

  Chapter 6

  The first thing I did after that (besides hyperventilate) was forward the creepy e-mail to Kip with the subject line: READ THIS! CALL ME!! Then, I tagged it urgent (in case writing in all caps didn't get the point across) and sent it to Kip's personal e-mail. If I'd sent it to him at work, our e-mails would've become public records that anyone could read--even Mr. ICU! All he'd have to do was request a copy under the Sunshine Law. Not that it made a difference; he seemed to already know our every move.

  Kip didn't respond, of course (why would he at two in the morning?), but I knew he'd see the message when he woke up. He always read the news online and checked his e-mail before going to work. Now, I just had to find a way to distract myself for the next four hours. I opened my craft closet where I had about a zillion unfinished projects ranging from cross-stitch to soap-making to tie-dyeing, a fad so out-of-date it was back in style. There were half-knitted sweaters for babies who were now in college; yarn to crochet afghans for the harsh Florida winters; and a basket of cake-decorating supplies for my short-lived baking career. As much as I'd tried, my frosting roses had always turned into gardenias--not to mention the five pounds I'd gained from eating my mistakes. There were boxes and boxes dedicated to scrapbooking, a hobby I'd intended to try (and spent a bucket of money on), but had never even started. Maybe I could sell the stuff on E-Bay to some other deluded person who would rather chronicle their life than actually live it.

  I gave up and closed the closet door, my mind still reeling from the thought of being stalked and threatened. It made me wonder if I was being watched that very minute and I shuddered. Just because you're paranoid, doesn't mean they're not out to get you; I'd heard that quote so many times, but now I got it. Boy, did I ever! Desperate for a distraction, I went on YouTube to look for a soothing guided meditation. I found a video that came with a warning: Please do not listen while driving or operating heavy machinery. They seemed so sure of themselves that I decided to give it a try. About thirty seconds in, I felt like throwing something at the computer. It was that annoying.

  Then I found just what I needed: videos of my favorite comedians, Jim Gaffigan, Mike Birbiglia, and the late, great, Mitch Hedberg. Those guys always cracked me up. This is classic Mitch Hedberg: "I bought eight apples at the grocery store and the cashier asked me if I needed a bag. I said, 'No, man, I juggle!'" Or Jim Gaffigan explaining how cake is a true symbol of gluttony. "If you eat a whole pizza, people will say, 'Wow, you were hungry!' But if you eat a whole cake, they'll say, 'You got a problem!'"

  Before I knew it, it was morning and my phone was ringing, well, not exactly ringing; it was playing Bach's Brandenburg Concerto #1 (my new ringtone). It was so lively I almost jumped out of my skin. Poor Mr. Paws skidded right off my lap and onto the floor. I knew I should've gone with Concerto #2.

  It was Kip calling, right on time.

  "Oh my God, Jamie," he said, out of breath, "I just saw the e-mail! Do you want me to come over? Are you okay? I'm so sorry you got dragged into this, babe. I want to kill this guy for scaring you!" His voice was shaking with anger.

  I felt surprisingly calm, probably because I'd had my buddies Jim, Mike, and Mitch telling me jokes all night, while Kip was still dealing with the initial shock. That was so four hours ago…

  "I'm okay now--really, I am," I said, "but I'd love to know, what exactly have I been dragged into? What is going on, Kip? This is so bizarre!" I walked into the kitchen to feed the cat and make myself a cup of cinnamon tea. I put Kip on speaker and held the warm cup while I sipped from it. Ah, that was nice.

  He paused, as if deciding what to tell me. "It's complicated, Jamie. There's so much going on at work, all of it bad. I don't know who sent that e-mail, or how he got those pictures, but I'm going to find out, I promise! Can you meet me for lunch so we can talk some more?"

  "Sounds good, where?"

  "There's an Indian buffet on University Drive, it's called Woodlands."

  "Perfect, I'll see you at noon."

  "Miss you, can't wait to see you, Ms. Quinn."

  I smiled. "Can't wait to see you either, Mr. Simons."

  I finished my tea, brushed my teeth and turned off the phone. After setting my alarm for a three hour nap, I wrapped myself up in my favorite quilt and fell into bed, my insomniac cat curled up beside me.

  Chapter 7

  I was a jittery, exhausted mess after my sleepless night, a zombie girl with burning eyes and a pounding headache (can zombies get headaches?). Miraculously though, after just a few hours of sleep, I felt restored to a fully-functioning person (as much as I ever was), and woke up starving. I don't know how many calories I'd burned being a nervous wreck, but it must've been a hell of a lot. Definitely not a diet I'd recommend.

  It took me no time at all to get ready, a quick shower, a handful of cereal, and a glance at my e-mails (nothing urgent or scary this time, thankfully) and I was off to meet Kip. As anxious as I was to see him, I have to admit I was also looking forward to the Indian buffet. The forecast that Wednesday morning called for scattered showers, but the sky looked clear and sunny. It didn't matter to me either way since I had three umbrellas of various sizes rolling around in my car. This was south Florida, baby, where the dry season ain't exactly dry.

  I was dressed in casual office attire, a royal blue pantsuit and comfortable shoes, as I planned to go to work after lunch. I knew if I didn't, my boss would fire me for being a slacker. Pretty embarrassing since I was the boss. To be honest, my lack of motivation was becoming a serious problem. It used to be that just the thought of having to work for someone else, chained to a desk all day, was enough to make me get the lead out, but not lately. (If you happen to be my client, don't worry, I'm definitely working on your case.)

  Speaking of motivation, my attention was now focused like a laser on our creepy stalker. I found it odd that he'd go to so much trouble to intimidate me when all he wanted was for Kip to back off. Back off what? I wondered. And who was he--a Broward County employee? The park vandal? He knew how to send threatening e-mails, for sure, but what else was he capable of? As I pondered these and other questions, my phone beeped. It was a text from Kip asking if I'd pick him up and whether I had time to stop in. I answered yes to both. I'd never been to Kip's office and thought I could check out the staff while I was there. Maybe Mr. I-C-U actually worked with Kip--how else could he have tracked our every move? Maybe he just hacked into Kip's e-mail. Duh, Jamie! Wel
l, it was still worth taking a look, and my 'boss' wouldn't mind if I came in a little late. Okay, she would mind, but she was used to it by now. With such low expectations, she couldn't be disappointed anymore.

  Kip's office was wasn't too far from the restaurant, so instead of shooting straight up University Drive, I would have to detour a few blocks Pine Island Drive before looping back. The roads were busy with lunchtime traffic, but the lights stayed green and I made excellent time. It looked like I'd be early for a change.

  I had no trouble finding the five-story building where Parks & Rec leased an office for their administration. Their other three hundred employees were dispersed throughout the county at the various parks, which made the department one of the largest and most challenging to manage. As Kip would say, it was no walk in the park.

  The receptionist wasn't at her desk, so I let myself in. By contrast, whenever I went to the courthouse, I had to walk past armed deputies and go through a metal detector (with a possible frisk thrown in) but, at Kip's office, nobody even noticed me. The office was exactly what I expected: utilitarian and boring, with gray walls and gray furniture and an open floor plan divided into cubicles. There were two 'offices' that had doors against the far wall, but with three-quarter partitions that stopped short of the ceiling they couldn't be called real offices. The net effect was no privacy whatsoever; everyone could hear everything. Those modular walls were the worst concept in workplace design ever. I would know--I'd worked in an office like Kip's for about a year and whenever I needed to speak with my supervisor in private, we had to ride the elevator so we could talk. How crazy is that? I bet there's a "Dilbert" comic strip right on point. Probably more than one.

  I assumed Kip's office was the largest and headed towards the back. The boss always gets a window with a view, everyone knows that. As I passed the first office, I read the name on the door: Quincy Graves, Assistant Director. I could see Quincy, himself, through the glass, a middle-aged man with thinning hair and pasty skin, as if he never went outside. Ironic, considering he worked for the Parks Division. Quincy wasn't exactly a snappy dresser, in his rumpled suit and thick black glasses (the old-fashioned kind, not Clark Kent cool), and he was talking on his cell phone.