Jeopardy in July: A Jamie Quinn Mystery (Jamie Quinn Cozy Mystery Book 5)

by Barbara Venkataraman

  "They think it was his heart, but they don't really know," Jessie said. "At least he didn't suffer. But I called to talk about something more pleasant. How would you like to do a little side work?"

  "You mean, like bathing dogs at the shelter? Sure, I can help."

  "Not washing dogs, silly, real work, lawyer work."

  "If it's a messy divorce," I said, "I'll pass. I'm kind of burnt out right now, to tell you the truth."

  Jessie laughed. "Nothing like that, this is easy money."

  "My favorite kind. Go on."

  "La Vida Boca has a lawyer come once a month to explain living wills, health care surrogates and family powers of attorney to the residents and then help them fill out the forms," Jessie explained. "He's retiring and they asked me if I knew anyone."

  "That guy has been ripping them off," I said. "Those forms are available online for free, along with instructions."

  "Nobody's ripping anyone off," Jessie said calmly. "You clearly haven't spent much time with old people. How many of them do you think even have computers? Anyway, it's a benefit for the residents but it also helps the facility. If residents have living wills and health surrogate forms on file, La Vida Boca doesn't have to hunt for next of kin when things happen."

  "But what about competency? How is the lawyer supposed to judge their mental capacity?"

  "Not to worry. People diagnosed with dementia can't participate," Jessie reassured me.

  "Why every month?" I asked.

  "Because new residents are constantly moving in, if you catch my drift."

  "Got it," I said. "Alright, I'll do it. If nothing else it'll give me a break from my divorce clients." Those good vibes I'd sent out to the universe were already bouncing back.

  "Don't you want to know what it pays?" Jessie teased.

  "You bet I do."

  "Does six hundred a month sound good?

  "You bet it does."

  "And they provide lunch," Jessie added.

  "No thanks," I said. "Their cook thinks salt is a four letter word."

  "You could always bring your own."

  I laughed. "If I bring the salt, will you bring the Margaritas?"

  ***

  It just so happened that I had a hearing scheduled for Thursday morning in West Palm. Since La Vida Boca was on the way, I decided to stop in afterward to complete the paperwork for my new job. I'd hoped to do it in the comfort of my office and e-mail it in, but Wilma, the director, wanted a face-to-face. On the phone, she'd said come anytime, she was always there, but it turns out that being there and being available were not synonyms in Miss Wilma's lexicon.

  When I arrived at ten o'clock the lobby was strangely empty. Where were the residents? Breakfast was over, it was too soon for lunch--maybe they were playing Bingo. Glenda the receptionist didn't recognize me from my previous visit but I didn't take it personally. I did take it personally, though, when she told me the director couldn't be disturbed. It seemed like Wilma was starting our new relationship by playing hard to get. Well, I wasn't leaving without seeing her because if I walked out that door I wasn't coming back. It's not like I needed this job. At least Wilma's picture was on the wall so I knew who to look for as I hunted her down.

  I checked the Bingo hall, the card room, the lunch room, and the library, but no Wilma. What bothered me more were the missing residents. Where was everybody? I passed the exercise room and the movie theater (unfamiliar territory) but stopped when I heard organ music coming from behind large double doors. I quietly turned the knob so I could poke my head in and check it out. The huge room was fully occupied. Then I realized where I was. This was the chapel and the service was about to begin. I was right on time for Clarence Petersen's memorial.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Now I understood why Wilma was unavailable, but I still didn't want to come back another day. I was about to exit the chapel when I heard someone call my name.

  "Jamie, over here." The voice was coming from my left.

  Although she wasn't dressed for gardening, I still recognized her.

  "Nice to see you again, Jodi," I said.

  Jodi Martin gave me a friendly smile and patted the empty seat next to her.

  I shook my head. "Oh no, I'm not staying,"

  Just then, the organ music stopped and the minister asked everyone to be seated. I wanted to leave, but didn't want to be rude. Then I realized I didn't care what these people thought; they couldn't shame me into attending a stranger's funeral. I looked for Jessie in the crowd, but she wasn't there--why would she be? My only reason for staying would be to catch Wilma on her way out. While patience wasn't my forte, I'd learned that sometimes the long way around is the fastest. Like when you try to pass a slow car only to find yourself behind them again at the red light. What I'm saying is some things are beyond our control. My new philosophy was to suck it up and smile because life's too short and, if you're lucky, you'll be calling the Bingo numbers when you're a hundred and two. With a sigh, I took a seat next to Jodi.

  "I'm going to miss Clarence," she said. "He was a lot of fun."

  "Really?" I was starting to wish I'd met him.

  "Oh, yeah," Jodi's hazel eyes shone. "He was the king of practical jokes. One time he brought delicious caramel apples to the potluck dinner..."

  "And?"

  "They were caramel onions!" Jodi laughed.

  "Funny," I said.

  "Another time, he put whoopee cushions on everyone's chair."

  "Of course he did," I said. "It sounds like old age is a return to childhood, à la Benjamin Button."

  "I suppose," Jodi agreed, "except nobody here ever turns into Brad Pitt."

  "What a shame," I said.

  We shared a discreet laugh and then settled down for the sermon which was mercifully short and mildly inspiring. The Unitarian minister was a pleasant man who had come well-stocked with generic platitudes and words of comfort, but it was clear he was a rent-a-rev who'd never met the dearly departed. I swore that my send-off would be different. When it was my time, I wanted a big-ass party where people told funny stories--and they'd better damn well know me. While I hoped to die a hero, the odds were I'd choke on a sandwich tripping over my cat. At least that would be a good story to get the party started.

  When the minister finished, he called Clarence Jr. to the podium. A trim man in his fifties walked purposefully towards the microphone. After fishing note cards from his jacket pocket, he donned a pair of half-moon reading glasses and cleared his throat.

  "Thank-you for coming," he began. "My dad would've loved seeing you all here--mainly so he could try out his new jokes. As you know, my father wasn't very discriminating--good jokes, bad jokes, it didn't matter, he just liked to have fun." Everyone laughed and Clarence Jr. smiled back at the audience.

  "Being a prankster," he continued, "was actually my dad's second career. Everyone who ever visited my parents' apartment admired their exquisite antique furniture. My dad used to be an antiques dealer and he was the best in the business. He opened Petersen's Antiques when I was just a baby and I'm proud to say the business is still thriving today. Dad used to say that collecting antiques was like being a world traveler and a time traveler all in one. He told me that the pieces whispered their stories in his ear, but the truth was he did tons of research and he did it the old-fashioned way because there was no internet back then. He had an eye for rare books, fine furniture, art, and china. The only thing he wouldn't buy was vintage clothing. He said he didn't have the figure for it."

  Everyone chuckled at that, even me. Then Clarence Jr.'s expression turned serious.

  "I know everyone would agree that my father was a good man and a great father and husband." Then he choked up and said, "I'll miss you, Dad," and walked back to his seat with his head bowed.

  I thought the service was over, but then Clarence's widow, Shirley, stood up. Her son rose from his chair and whispered something in her ear, but she shook him off with an angry gesture before marching over to the podium. He
r snow-white hair and bent posture made her look fragile, but her blue eyes were fierce when she turned to face us.

  "Let's stop pretending everything was alright," she said. "Everyone knows my husband hadn't been himself for months and one of you knows the reason why. Somebody here betrayed Clarence's trust and it destroyed him." She pointed a bony finger at the crowd. "You know who you are!"

  Chapter Eighteen

  Shirley Petersen had kicked over a hornet's nest with her accusation. In no time, the quiet hum of the room had escalated to an outraged buzzing and people were shouting to be heard above the din. Funeral decorum flew out the window and Clarence's memorial service became a free-for-all.

  "Who was it, Shirley? Tell us."

  "Clarence seemed fine to me…"

  "Shirley's lost her mind!"

  "Will someone tell me what's going on?"

  "WHAT DID SHE SAY? I TURNED MY HEARING AID OFF."

  But Shirley had no intention of responding to anyone. After she finished her shocking speech she exited through the back with a bewildered Clarence Jr. close behind.

  Jodi Martin and I were gaping at the spectacle when Jodi leaned over to make a comment. "Can you believe what's going on here? We haven't seen this much drama since Millie and Ruth had a food fight in the dining room. That was pretty nasty, let me tell you. Chocolate pudding is permanently off the menu because of them."

  I wrinkled my nose in sympathy for her lost pudding. "So, what do you think Shirley meant?" I was curious, I'll admit it.

  She shrugged. "No idea, but I imagine the Book Club could tell us. They know all the gossip at La Vida Boca."

  "Let me know what you hear," I said, but I was thinking that if anyone knew what was going on, it would be Clarence's buddies, the Card Sharks. Maybe Jessie could ask her Uncle Teddy.

  With all the excitement I'd nearly forgotten why I was there in the first place--to see Wilma, the director. I scanned the crowd (a crowd which should have been disbursing, but wasn't) and spotted a dyed-red bouffant crossing the room. Lucky for me, Wilma hadn't changed her hairstyle since the seventies--or at least since they'd hung her picture in the lobby, which may well have been the seventies. To make my way over to her I had to squeeze past the residents who weren't budging, not even the mobile ones. When gentle prodding didn't work, I used my elbows to encourage them to get a move on. My elbows can be pretty darn persuasive. As I inched towards Wilma, I kept my eye on her hair, blazing like a four-alarm fire. The woman wasn't subtle, I could tell that already. Shame on me for forming an opinion before we'd even met. I mean, I'd only seen her hair, but that image was burned into my retinas forever.

  When I finally reached her, I found a middle-aged debutante in a loud floral dress that clashed with her hair. She wasn't tall, but her bouffant gave her height and presence, and her vivid lipstick commanded attention. Her expression was one of perpetual annoyance. Although I was standing right in front of her, she somehow managed not to see me, which was quite a feat. I must've forgotten to remove my invisibility cloak--or maybe she was just plain rude. I would have understood it had I been wearing my usual ensemble of beat-up jeans and a t-shirt, but I had on my best power suit and looked like a real attorney. What was the deal with this lady? After observing her for a few minutes (the advantage of being invisible) I figured it out. Wilma saw herself as the queen bee and the rest of us as drones, expendable and interchangeable, serving at her pleasure, useful only when she needed something. I watched in fascination as she confronted an aide struggling to move a wheelchair.

  "For heaven's sake, young lady, what are you doing?" Wilma demanded, arms crossed over her floral chest. "Do we pay you to push empty wheelchairs around? Where are you supposed to be?"

  "No ma'am, I mean, yes ma'am, I mean--" the aide sputtered

  "--It's a simple question," Wilma said, shooting daggers out of her eyes.

  As soothing as the chapel was with its non-denominational stained glass and inspirational décor, it did nothing to calm the flustered aide, so I decided to help. It was time I introduced myself anyway. Taking two steps forward, I plopped myself down in the wheelchair and, just like that, I was visible again.

  "Whew! These heels are killing me," I said, giving the aide a side wink before offering Wilma my sweetest smile. Charm and disarm, that's my motto.

  It was the director's turn to look confused, as if she didn't know whether to smile back at me or call security.

  I stood up before she made the wrong choice and extended my hand. "You must be Wilma," I said. "I recognize you from your picture, although I must say it doesn't do you justice. You're the person I'm here to see."

  Once I'd stepped out of the chair, the aide saw a chance to escape and she took it. My good deed for the day was done. Wilma was too busy sizing me up to notice.

  "And you are…?" She asked, eyes narrowed.

  I guess my honest face and kissing up hadn't impressed her. Well, I'd worked tough rooms before and I don't back away from a challenge. If it's true that everyone is a salesman, then this lady was going to buy what I was selling. She just didn't know it yet.

  I smiled. "I'm Jamie Quinn, your new lawyer, we spoke on the phone. You asked me to come in to do the paperwork."

  "Why, of course you are!" Wilma gushed, her Southern accent thick as honey. "Welcome, welcome. I've been expecting you," she lied. Then a look of bewilderment crossed her face. "Were you at the memorial? Did you know Clarence?"

  I nodded solemnly. "He was a friend of a friend."

  She brightened. "It seems like you're already part of the family. That's our motto, you know. You're family when you're living La Vida Boca."

  "That's nice," I said. "Did you have to pay royalties to Ricky Martin?" I almost started laughing. Living La Vida Loca sounded like way more fun than living La Vida Boca but the joke was wasted on Wilma.

  As we walked towards the office, we talked about my duties. I assured her I would explain the forms to the residents and assist those who were interested.

  She stopped in her tracks. "I'm afraid you've misunderstood your role," she said in a bossy tone. "You need to highly encourage them to fill out the forms. We want every resident to have those forms on file."

  "It sounds like you're looking for someone else," I said. "Someone who doesn't follow the rules of ethics set out by the Florida Bar. I wish you luck in finding that person." I held out my hand to bid her farewell.

  Wilma was rattled. "No, no, that's certainly not what I meant, I, uh, just wanted you to understand our position, that's all."

  I nodded. "Fair enough. Let's talk salary, shall we?"

  "Yes," she agreed, "let's do that. The pay is five hundred per session, payable monthly."

  "Interesting," I said. "I was under the impression it paid seven hundred fifty per session, considering that that would be a discount from my hourly rate and there's travel involved. Not many lawyers make house calls, you know. Not even doctors do that anymore."

  Wilma sighed, as if it pained her to dig so deep into her limited budget. "I suppose I could go up to five seventy-five…"

  "Let's split the difference," I said. "Six fifty and you have a deal."

  With an air of resignation, she agreed.

  I congratulated her. "You drive a hard bargain, Wilma."

  Chapter Nineteen

  Before I left, Wilma insisted we schedule my first 'educational seminar' for the following Monday. It was short notice but I could make it work if our receptionist helped me put the documents together. If she wasn't too busy working for Nelda, that is.

  It was way past lunchtime and I'd skipped breakfast, but I didn't want to stop because the day was half over and I hadn't been to the office yet. I'd gone from home to the courthouse to La Vida Boca where I'd attended a memorial service that wasn't on my day planner. Finding a drive-thru was the sensible solution if only veggie burgers were as ubiquitous as beef. As I drove down U.S. 1 in search of lunch, I turned on the radio and sang along with Owner of a Lonely Heart. I was having a
blast until I realized how easily that could become my new theme song and I turned it off. That's right, I said no to Yes.

  I was so hungry I couldn't lower my expectations fast enough. When I saw a Pollo Tropical on the right I began to imagine steamy black beans and fluffy white rice with a dash of hot sauce having a party in my mouth, so I drove to the window and ordered a large side of each, with flan for dessert. Custard with caramelized sugar is impossible for mere mortals to resist.

  I was about to park the car so I could shovel the beans and rice down the hatch when my phone rang. "Worst timing ever, Broussard," I said. "If you talk, I'll listen, but I have to eat or I'll get cranky."

  Duke laughed. "Sounds like that ship has sailed, Darlin."

  "Hilarious," I said. "Start talking or listen to me chew. Your choice."

  "You know," he said, "I like being a P.I.--"

  "--Congrats on making the right career choice."

  "I thought you were gonna listen and not talk?" Duke said.

  "Yeah, yeah. Go on."

  "As I was sayin', I like being a P.I., but I didn't sign up to be a dang librarian. All I do these days is plow through boxes of papers and read until my eyes are bloodshot."

  I paused between bites; I had to come up for air anyway. "What's going on, Duke? Are you being audited? I told you not paying taxes would bite you in the backside one day."

  "What are you smoking, girl? I'm talking about Jeff Rappaport, my new client, your old client. Is it coming back to you now?"

  I opened the container of flan and inhaled blissfully. "Sorry, not thinking straight, I must've been delirious from hunger. I get it, you're going through Jeff's papers. Did you find anything?"

  "Not much, but I'm still digging. I found a copy of the insurance policy, so at least I know when Earl bought the painting."

  "That's something! Good work, Duke. What's next?" I asked.

  "Try to follow the money, I guess. His bank was bought out a while back but the account was too old to research anyway."