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

by Barbara Venkataraman

  I licked the last bit of caramel off my fingers. "Is the insurance company still around? They might have some info on the purchase. You could also research that certificate of authenticity Jeff has."

  "Not bad, Ms. Esquire, I'll look into that. But I'd rather be tailing somebody or doing some real P.I. stuff."

  That made me laugh. "P.I. work isn't all fun and games and being a pretend rapper, you know."

  "Yeah, I guess sometimes you have to pay the bills," Duke agreed.

  "Some of us pay our bills all the time," I said. "Now, get going, Marmaduke Broussard, III."

  ***

  With a full belly and a guilty conscience, I went back to my office to try to do a little work. Considering how unproductive I'd been and how long it would take me to drive from Boca to Hollywood, I decided to listen to the Probate seminar I'd downloaded. I really tried to pay attention, but it was so boring my mind kept wandering. I thought about Kip, how I promised we'd talk, and how I was dreading it. I wondered if I'd get to meet my father soon and whether I'd like Nicaragua, the Land of Lakes and Volcanoes. My dad told me it was beautiful with lots of nature and seven hundred species of birds.

  Suddenly, a loud honk jolted me out of my daydream. The blast wasn't meant for me but still produced a rush of adrenaline that made me pay attention to my surroundings. I realized I was driving through Dania, a small town lined with little stores and restaurants just north of Hollywood. One particular block held about a dozen antique shops that brought back a slew of memories. When I was eight, my mom and I had decided to start a collection together. We chose antique bells because they were sturdy and inexpensive and because we could have fun with them, arranging them by size or by sound. Whenever our favorite songs came on the radio, we would grab a bell and play along. On Saturdays, we liked to go to breakfast and then drive to Dania to hunt for bells. We even called it 'the hunt'. My favorite store had a fleur-de-lis on the front window. The owner was a nice man with a Swedish accent who told silly jokes and pulled quarters out of my ear. Whenever a new shipment of antiques came in, he would always set aside the bells for us in a separate drawer. After my mom died, I kept the bell collection. It still resides on the windowsills in my house, right where my mother left it.

  When I saw the store with the fleur-de-lis on the glass, I had to stop; it was like a sign after all these years. I parked my car around the corner and went in. When I opened the door, it jingled just the way I remembered it. Then, I had to do an about-face, I couldn't believe my eyes. Above the fleur-de-lis etched on the glass was the name of the store which I'm sure I'd seen a hundred times but it had never meant anything to me before. Now, the gold letters linked my past to my present in the strangest of ways. The store I was about to enter was Petersen's Antiques. To my surprise, I realized I did know Clarence Petersen.

  Chapter Twenty

  The store smelled just the way I remembered it, a comforting bouquet of furniture polish, musty books, cedar, and potpourri. Instantly, I was eight years old again, butterflies in my stomach, looking for hidden treasures. I don't know if other kids loved antique stores as much as I did, but I know that if history class were taught in an antique store we'd all be experts. I remembered how patiently Mr. Petersen would answer my barrage of questions--what was this called, what did it do, where did it come from. Everything there was old, but it was all new to me. I learned that before washing machines were invented, clothes were scrubbed by hand on aluminum washboards (glass boards for delicates), then fed through a wringer before being hung up to dry. I learned that in the 1930's people used wooden ice boxes with large blocks of ice to keep food from rotting, and that ice had to be harvested from cold places before being transported by train--a big business until refrigerators came along. Often when Mr. Petersen would explain an item to me, my mom would chime in with, "See how easy we have it now, Jamie?" No matter how many times she said it, I still hated cleaning my room.

  Once I had the lowdown on the basics, I could focus on my favorites, like the delicate porcelain dolls with their long lashes and pretty glass eyes. I wondered if the little girls who owned them had passed them down to their daughters and how the dolls had ended up at Petersen's. I remembered an ornate walnut dining table with knobby legs in the center of the store where I used to sit and imagine a family having dinner, the parents discussing their day, passing the food while the kids horsed around. In my mind, it looked like a Norman Rockwell painting and I wanted to be in it. As an only child, I loved the idea of a loud, bustling family.

  Walking around the store, I was surprised at how little had changed in almost thirty years. Aside from a small sign on the door that said "Follow us on Facebook", Petersen's looked basically the same. Different inventory and new carpet didn't take away the feeling that my mom, Sue, could've been just out of sight, bending over a box of vinyl records and humming Moon River. I was standing there admiring a gold mirror when I heard someone behind me say, "Let me know if you need any help." I turned around, but the only other person in the store was a lanky black guy with close-cropped hair. He was college-age, with an open, sincere face like my cousin Adam.

  Puzzled, I asked, "Do you work here?"

  He laughed shyly. "No, I'm just extremely helpful. Sorry, I'm Darren and yes, I work here."

  "Really?" I joked. "You seem kinda young to be an expert on all things antique. I believe I have clothes in my closet older than you."

  "Interesting analogy," he said, with the confidence of a debate team captain. "But can your clothes appraise the value of Star Trek and Star Wars collectibles?"

  I laughed appreciatively. "Only the ones I wore to Comic-Con, they're super nerdy. The rest of my clothes always make fun of them."

  "They're just jealous," he said.

  "Obviously," I said. "Can you blame them?" I glanced around the store. "Where are these cool collectibles anyway? I must've missed them."

  "Sadly, we don't have any at the moment," he replied, genuine regret on his boyish face. "Is that what you're looking for?"

  I sensed that if I said yes, I would be pulled into a virtual Star Trek convention, and that wasn't why I was there. I wasn't sure why I was there. How could I explain my nostalgia to someone too young to understand? Then I perked up.

  "Do you have any hand bells? I used to buy them here a long time ago."

  All business, Darren nodded and turned on his long legs toward a display case by the register where half a dozen bells kept company on a strip of rich green velvet. There was a Victorian lady in a wide dress holding a fan, a small Dutch woman made of brass, and a plain silver bell topped with a flying Pegasus. I felt a flush of happiness.

  "I'll take them all," I said.

  "Don't you want to know how much they are?"

  "Are they less than twenty dollars each?"

  Darren nodded.

  "Then wrap them up, my Trekkie friend, this is your big sale of the day."

  After congratulating me on my excellent choice without a hint of irony, Darren pulled out a box of tissue paper and meticulously wrapped each bell. The tissue paper had a fleur-de-lis pattern identical to the one on the window. Suddenly, I noticed the fleur-de-lis was everywhere, every price tag, every sign, it was even on the wallpaper. Pay attention much, Jamie? I turned around when Darren asked me to sign the credit card slip and that's when I saw them--business cards offering fine art appraisals. It occurred to me that Duke could bring in the fake Chagall for an expert opinion since he didn't have much else to go on. It might give him a lead.

  "Hey, tell me about this art appraiser. Is he any good?"

  Darren handed me my bag. "Of course! He's the best in the business."

  "Normally, I'd take your word for it," I said, "but I need someone who can appraise paintings. What are this guy's credentials?"

  With an air of gravitas I found adorable in a twenty-year-old, Darren informed me that their appraiser was a member of The Appraisers Association of America, The American Association of Museums, certified in Appraisal Studi
es, and held a graduate degree in art history from a prestigious university.

  I clapped my hands. "Excellent! Did you forget anything?"

  Darren broke down and smiled. "He was also on Antiques Roadshow."

  "Good enough for me." I said, pocketing a business card.

  After inhaling the aroma of yesteryear once more, I left Petersen's Antiques, a bag of jingling bells beneath my arm. On the short drive back to my office, I thought about how odd it was that I'd gone to Clarence Petersen's memorial service without realizing who he was and what he'd meant to me, and how much he had enriched my childhood with his kindness, patience and magic tricks. I took a moment to mourn his passing, better late than never. My thoughts were interrupted by the Probate CD droning on in the background which I'd forgotten to shut off. The lecture was extremely dry and boring until it became unintentionally amusing. I didn't know this, but the personal representative of an estate is required to file one last income tax return for the decedent. Thus, two of life's certainties, death and taxes go together hand in hand at the end. It made me laugh to think that someday, when he wasn't around to see it, Duke would finally have to file that tax return.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  It was three o'clock when I finally made it to the office. I was ashamed to admit that my only billable time for the day had been a brief court appearance in the morning. I was so good at slacking off I could teach a class. Fortunately, there was still time to do some work--as long as nobody interrupted me. After shedding my jacket and kicking off my shoes, I shut the door, grabbed a cold drink from the breakroom fridge and picked up the closest file. I wiggled my grateful toes in the soft carpet and began to prep for mediation. I was just starting my notes when the intercom buzzed. I'd forgotten to tell the receptionist I didn't want to be disturbed.

  "Yes, Nicole?"

  "Hey Jamie, a delivery guy's been calling for you all day and he's on the phone again."

  I wasn't expecting any deliveries. While I ordered almost everything online, it all went to my house. "I don't understand," I said. "Why do I need to talk to him? If he has something to deliver, tell him to just do it." Sheesh! Why did everyone need me to hold their hand?

  Nicole sighed. "You don't want to talk to him?"

  "Not really. Also, can you make sure he's legit and not some angry ex-husband with a Molotov cocktail. You can't be too paranoid, right?"

  Nicole hesitated. "Should I be worried?"

  "Nobody's out to get me that I know of, if that helps."

  "It doesn't," she said tersely. "And we need to talk about my raise." She hung up before I could say why don't you ask Nelda?

  I went back to my file and started organizing the financial docs. Not ten minutes later the intercom buzzed again. I considered ignoring it, but Nicole was in no mood and, stupid me, I hadn't told her not to disturb me after the first time.

  "What's up, Nicole?"

  "Jamie, you need to come out here right now!" Then she giggled and hung up.

  I wondered who worked for whom in this office but did as I was told. I even put my shoes on before marching over to the reception area determined to discuss some ground rules with Nicole. As I rounded the corner, my jaw dropped and then I couldn't stop smiling. Standing there were four mustachioed men in identical candy-cane-striped vests, white shirts and black pants, straw boaters on their heads, snazzy red bowties around their necks. It took me a minute to realize they were a barbershop quartet!

  "Here she is," Nicole announced gleefully.

  Nelda was standing behind Nicole with her secretary and paralegal, all of them beaming like it was Christmas in July. On cue, the four gentlemen took off their hats and held them over their hearts.

  The youngest one stepped forward and said, "Jamie, these songs were specially selected for you by Kip with love."

  He blew into a pitch pipe and they began to serenade me in four-part harmony. The first song was I Only Have Eyes for You. When they finished, I was tearing up about my wonderful boyfriend and the girls were clapping and whistling. Then the quartet launched into three more songs: I Found a Million Dollar Baby, You're Nobody Till Somebody Loves You, and Love is Here to Stay, before they stopped to take a breather. The bass in the group, an older man with pomaded hair, stepped forward and asked Nicole to hand him a dozen pink roses from the desk which he then presented to me with a flourish. For the grand finale, the foursome sang I'll Be Seeing You and added a little soft-shoe to their performance. They held the last note for an incredibly long time and we clapped until our hands hurt. Afterwards, we cajoled them to stay but they couldn't, they had songs to sing. I marveled at how they had found their calling-- making people happy while doing what they loved. I definitely took a wrong turn somewhere.

  "That Kip is a keeper!" said Nelda after they'd gone.

  "Does he have any brothers?" Nicole asked hopefully.

  I laughed. "Yes, he's a keeper and yes, he has a brother in New York."

  "Have a nice life, ladies," Nicole joked, "I'm off to the Big Apple. Wait, hang on a sec." She pulled a mirror from her purse and refreshed her glossy lipstick. "Now, I'm ready."

  "You look fabulous," Nelda said in her slight Brazilian accent. "Good luck! We'll follow you on Instant Gram."

  Shaking her head, Nelda's hip, young secretary took her by the arm and led her away. "It's Instagram, Nelda. Don't worry, Grandma, we'll keep you on track."

  I waltzed back to my office singing in one-part harmony, which I guess you would call the melody. Nothing recognizable, just snippets from each song I'd heard all mashed together. My almost-fiancé Kip was the bomb and I couldn't wait another minute to tell him. I rushed to my desk to Skype with him but he wasn't logged on--no surprise since it was seven a.m.in Queensland and he was probably on his way to work. I called his cell but it went to voicemail, so, after listening to his sexy voice, I left a message proclaiming him boyfriend of the year. Then I texted him.

  I think you must love me a lot, Kip Simons

  You're not sure? He texted back. Didn't those guys sing the right songs?

  I typed a row of hearts. Oh, yes! All the right songs. You won the love of every woman in my office, as a matter of fact.

  Excellent! Do I have a fan club now, like Justin Bieber?

  More like George Clooney, I replied.

  Yeah, George and I hang out all the time.

  That's what I heard, I texted. Hey, I'm sorry I got mad at you…

  Babe, I'm the one who's sorry. You know I can't wait to see you, right?

  My heart soared in response. I could never quit this guy. All I know is I can't wait to see you, I answered. Are you coming home?

  I assumed he was typing furiously because the three dots kept repeating for several minutes and then they stopped. And then they started and stopped again.

  Kip?

  He finally answered. It's complicated. I can't explain it over text, but I promise I'll be home as soon as I can. Okay?

  It depends on how you define home, I wrote. You mean Hollywood, Florida, right?

  I mean wherever you are. That's my home.

  I was choking up. I love you, my crazy tree-hugger.

  And I love you, Jamie. Don't forget, okay?

  After we said good-bye, I leaned back in my chair, eyes closed, savoring the moment. I felt lighter than air, a balloon carried by the breeze, content with the world. I was about to put my phone away when I noticed that Kip had texted me again. Still smiling, I typed in my password so I could read the message and then I stopped smiling. I don't know who Kip meant to text, but his message clearly wasn't meant for me--because it was about me. It read:

  Don't worry, I didn't tell Jamie what's going on. She'll find out soon enough.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Just because you're paranoid doesn't mean your boyfriend isn't keeping secrets! What was Kip up to? Who was he texting? Did he hire the barbershop quartet to ease his guilty conscience? Of all the people I knew, who could he be in contact with? The list was short--basic
ally anyone who had called when he was looking for me: Aunt Peg, Adam, Grace, Ana Maria and Duke. There was no way Adam could keep a secret, so he was out. Aunt Peg could keep a secret forever if she had to, but would Kip confide in her? No, cross her off. Kip barely knew Ana Maria, so that left Duke and Grace. I decided to take the direct approach and call Duke.

  "Hey, Broussard," I said when he picked up. "Do you know something I don't?"

  He sounded like he was choking on a drink, but recovered quickly. "Darlin', the things I know that you don't could fill a book, but I'm available for private lessons. First lesson's free!" He laughed like the happiest guy at happy hour, which he usually was.

  "Seriously," I said, shutting my office door. "Is there something going on? And if there were, would you tell me?"

  Duke lowered his voice to a hoarse whisper. "You mean, like some kinda conspiracy? Look, if somebody's bothering you, Ms. Esquire, you just tell me who it is and I'll kick his ass."

  "Appreciate the offer, Duke, but you have no idea what I'm talking about, do you?"

  "Not a clue. But I'm intrigued, I really am," he said. "Now, you gonna tell me or what?"

  "Nothing to tell, thanks anyway. Don’t drink and drive."

  He laughed. "Don't you worry, I'm sure one of these lovely ladies will drive me home--" A high-pitched squeal came through the phone.

  "Bye, Duke." I ended the call.

  That left Grace and I knew she'd never hurt me. If Kip were coming home and wanted to surprise me, he would need Grace's help. If that were the case, I didn't want to spoil it by confronting them. What else could it be? I hated being out of the loop and I couldn't stand it that Kip was keeping secrets. Whoever the message was intended for obviously hadn't received it and Kip wouldn't realize his mistake until he went to text me again. There was a wildly remote possibility that it was something terrible, like Kip had a girlfriend and was planning to break up with me. A cloud of jealousy fogged my brain, but picturing the barbershop quartet singing their hearts out calmed me down. I'd just have to wait--not patiently, of course, that wasn't my style--but I wouldn't obsess either, I would lock this problem in a box and walk away. When Kip realized what he'd done, he'd have to come up with an explanation--and it had better be a damn good one.