Duke paused. "I must've heard you wrong, girl, 'cause there's no way you just said let's take a worthless painting and get an appraisal. Jeff would fire me in a heartbeat! Hell, I'd fire myself."
I clattered dishes as I prepared my food. "Sorry about the noise. You heard me right, I said let's get an appraisal."
Duke sighed. "Does the smart lady lawyer have a reason for doing something so dumb?"
"Yes," I said, "she does."
Chapter Twenty-Six
"An appraiser determines the value of a painting, right?" I asked.
"Sure," Duke said, "if it's a le-gi-ti-mate painting."
"Exactly!" I flipped my omelet over to cook the other side. "And how does he do that?"
"Beats me, but it's startin' to look like a triple Bloody Mary morning over here…"
I laughed. "Don't blame me for your bad habits, Marmaduke. Did you figure it out yet? Or should I tell you?"
"Wait, don't tell me…to determine the value, he first has to be sure it's the genuine article."
"Right!" I said. "And so…"
"And so he can spot a forged painting. But we already know the picture is a forgery! Just tell me already, I give up," Duke sounded bummed.
"You were so close," I said, splashing Tabasco liberally over my beautiful omelet--speaking of a work of art. "Here's my thinking. A good appraiser will have seen his share of forgeries. Since there are probably a limited number of decent forgers out there, he might--"
"Know who they are!" Duke said triumphantly. "Smart thinkin', Jamie."
"I can't take the credit," I said. "You taught me everything I know."
"Yeah, I did, didn't I?" That was Duke, humble to a fault.
"If you could borrow the painting from Jeff, I'll make the appointment with the appraiser. It might cost around three hundred dollars."
"I'm on it," Duke said. "You coming?"
"I'd love to. If you don't mind..."
"Why would I mind? We're a team," he said.
"Yeah, like Laurel and Hardy, Abbott and Costello…" I said.
"Cheech and Chong..."
"Turner and Hooch?" I added.
Duke laughed. "I'll catch ya later, Ms. Esquire."
"Later, Duke."
***
After spending an hour planning my upcoming seminar, I ran out to buy a birthday gift for Katie. I didn't want to show up empty-handed, but had no idea what to get her. She was a talented artist with so many art supplies already she could open her own store. She adored Mr. Paws and I would've happily given him to her (with a big bow on his head to annoy him), but Mike and Sandy would have immediately sent him back. Besides, they were thinking of getting her a puppy for Christmas. Maybe I should get a puppy, too--that would really annoy Mr. Paws…
The toy store was overwhelming with way too many options, some of them incredibly expensive. The technology available in children's toys was mind-boggling. I read somewhere that a musical birthday card has more computing power than the Allied Forces had in 1945. And we all know what happens to that card post-birthday-- it gets tossed in the trash. Given a little time, those expensive toys would probably wind up in the same landfill.
As I wandered the aisles, I tried to remember what it felt like to be eight. I was never a big fan of Barbie dolls, but I did like puzzles and board games--and books, lots of books. Yes, I was a child nerd, a mini-me of the nerd I was destined to become. I even took a book to a sleepover once, which made me very popular as you might imagine. Okay, not popular, but it did get me shaving cream in my hair. The other thing I liked when I was eight was visiting the antique store. Thinking of Clarence Petersen gave me an idea for the perfect gift for Katie, a gift that never went out of style. A salesperson directed me to the right aisle and soon I was on my way home to wrap the present.
I showed up at my neighbors' house at the same time as the pizza delivery guy, his arms stacked high with boxes. I rang the doorbell for him so he wouldn't drop his precious cargo. We were greeted with squeals of excitement and when Katie gave me a hug, the other girls did too. They were so sweet I wanted to take them all home with me.
Sandy walked over to me looking quite frazzled; her long hair had escaped its neat ponytail and she had pink frosting on her white blouse. She handed me a slice of pizza on a paper plate and wiped her greasy hands on her jeans. Motherhood seemed like a messy undertaking.
"Thanks for coming, Jamie, you're a real trooper!"
I laughed. "Thanks for the invite. It seems like you have everything under control."
"Not at all!" She laughed. "You missed the breaking of the piñata, that was intense. We had to do it outside because I didn't want blindfolded girls swinging a baseball bat in the house. In the end, Mike had to rip the piñata open with his bare hands and the girls almost ran him over diving for candy. Jamie, you didn't have to bring a present."
Taking a bite of pizza, I said "Of course I did, Katie's my buddy."
"Well, what is it?" She shook the large rectangular box.
"You'll have to wait and see, but I promise it's not noisy and there's no assembly required."
"Give me another hint," she said.
"Let's just say everyone needs a little magic in their lives."
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Sunday was errand day and I couldn't have been less enthusiastic. If only Katie's new magic wand could make my chores disappear. Snuggled up cozy under my quilt, I would've happily stayed there all day but eventually had to drag myself out of bed. I was a reluctant housekeeper on my best day and kept hoping someone would invent a self-cleaning house--like a self-cleaning cat, minus the attitude. Until then, not only did I have to dust, vacuum, take out the trash, do the laundry, shop for groceries and pay the bills, I also had to schlep to my office to make copies for La Vida Boca. Whose dumb idea was that again? Oh yeah, mine. The only bright spot in my day would be my weekly Skype call with my dad in Nicaragua. I decided to call from the office while the copy machine was doing its thing.
I always started my cleaning by dusting and vacuuming, to work up some momentum before tackling the bathrooms. The rhythmic back and forth of vacuuming coupled with the white noise of the motor allowed my mind wander free as the dust motes floating in the air. After vanquishing the tumbleweeds of cat hair with my mighty Dyson, I rested for a minute. I knew I'd only won the battle, not the war, and soon a new army of tumbleweeds would lay siege to my house. If my vacuum cleaner ever broke I'd just have to move.
Sundays didn't use to be such a drag. Before Kip took off to save the wombats, we had fun running around town. We would go to the Yellow Green Farmers' Market to buy fresh produce and wolf down free samples of chocolate chip banana bread, Amish cheese, Greek olives, and local honey. We would play with the puppies at the dog rescue booth and once, we even danced to the Jimmy Buffett cover band playing near the picnic tables. Afterwards, we usually stopped at a Broward park so Kip could check on something for work, like how the Scottish Festival was going or whether the baby turtles had hatched overnight. I never knew what to expect. One thing I loved about Kip was his endless curiosity--whether it was a bug, an app, or a new theory of time travel, he always found it fascinating. He could take it too far though. I didn't mind if he wanted to check out a cool bug, but after ten minutes of that I'd have to drag him away. I'm sure all couples had the same arrangement.
If it sounds like I'd put my life on hold when Kip left, I can't deny it. I can't explain it either. It seemed like all I ever did anymore was wait around--wait for my dad, wait for Kip--and now I was waiting for both of them. It wasn't like the Yellow Green Farmers' Market had a poster with my picture on it and the caption Keep out, Jamie (you eat too many free samples). I could've gone there anytime I wanted, but I never did. Well, I was through waiting. First order of business would be to plan my trip to Nicaragua (again). If Kip happened to come home while I was gone, then he could wait for me for a change. Who was in favor of taking charge of her own life? Show of hands, please. It's unanimous, the res
olution has passed.
***
I parked my Mini Cooper in the empty lot behind my office and unlocked the mailbox to collect Saturday's mail. Pleadings and correspondence came by e-mail now and snail mail had become fairly sparse. My bills were also paid online which left only checks and advertisements to fill the box. In a good month I received more checks than junk mail. I skimmed the stack and saw that most of the mail was for Nelda so I decided to sort it later. Yes, it's true, Nelda's clients hogged the mailbox the same way they hogged the waiting room.
I punched in the alarm code, suppressing my usual panic that my brain had somehow lost the sequence and that shrieking alarms would summon a SWAT team in short order. I wasn't just being paranoid because: a) I'd set off the alarm before, and b) I was that girl in school who always forgot her locker combination after winter break. If this were the movie Memento, I would have tattooed the critical information on my arms like the protagonist did. Now, there was a guy who understood his shortcomings and compensated accordingly.
The office was peaceful on the weekend, no ringing phones, no crabby clients, no noise at all. But that wasn't enough reason to visit; my house was quiet too, and had better snacks. After turning on the lights, the computer, and the copy machine, I set up my packet to copy and collate. It was already one o'clock, which was eleven a.m. in Managua, and my dad would be expecting my call. I stopped in the bathroom to make sure my hair wasn't sticking up (any more than usual) and that I didn't have food in my teeth. I was ready to Skype.
"Hola Papi!" I said when he materialized, curly white hair and plentiful eyebrows framing his weathered, pleasant face. His olive skin looked more tanned than usual, but there was something else different, something I couldn't put my finger on.
"Ah, Jamie! How wonderful to see you, mi hija."
He beamed at me from the laptop that I'd bought him. The connection was so crisp he might have been sitting across the table from me. I felt like I could reach over and touch his hand, yet my mind knew he was a thousand miles away. We had grown so close over our many months of Skype calls that our relationship felt genuine and solid. It was hard to believe we'd never met in person, never been in the same room. Using Skype had allowed me to watch myself star in my own live action film as I spoke with my dad. Seeing the two of us juxtaposed on split screens was like looking in a mirror, or through a window into my future. We were so alike in our expressions, our mannerisms, our curly, frizzy hair, how we laughed, our love of sci-fi. We even hated the same foods--all of that it had to be genetic, there was no other explanation. As soon as I could isolate that gene for sci-fi geekiness that we shared, I'd be rich. Until then, I would have to keep showing up for work.
"I have a surprise for you," I announced.
"And I have a surprise for you," he said with a deep belly laugh.
"You go first," I said.
"Are you sure?" he teased.
I realized then what was different about my father. He looked happier, more relaxed, even the pinch between his eyebrows had vanished.
"I'm positive. Tell me, Papi, what's your surprise?"
"I'm glad you're sitting down because this is big, big news. I finished my studies and got my degree! It took over thirty-five years, but I finally did it. Por fin!"
I squealed with excitement. "Wow, that's incredible! I'm so proud of you! Why didn't you tell me you were doing that? What's your degree in?"
His brown eyes were shining with emotion. "To hear my daughter say she is proud of me is all I could ever ask." He sniffed and wiped his eyes. "To answer your question, my degree is in agriculture. It's from UNAN, la Universidad Nacional Autónoma de Nicaragua."
I smiled fondly at him through my webcam. "Ana Maria must be so thrilled about this. I'm sorry I missed your graduation, but I'll make it up to you. Do you want to hear my surprise now?"
"Of course I do!" He wagged his finger at me for doubting him.
"I'm coming to visit you, Papi!"
This is where things got strange. Instead of expressing the joyful exuberance I expected, my dad looked like a deflated balloon.
"Um…is that a problem?" I stammered. "I mean…I didn't buy the ticket yet--"
"No, no," he said, trying to recover his composure. "Of course I would love to see you, Jamie, it's just that…things aren't…how do you say it, settled right now. My job has me traveling around, you know?"
I didn't say anything for a few seconds. I could tell he was lying but I had no idea why. One thing about Skype--it made it harder to lie, but I had an advantage from years of dealing with clients; I had an excellent poker face.
"Oh, okay. I thought the job was over with," I said, keeping my voice neutral. "I must have gotten that wrong. You let me know when it's a good time, okay?"
His relief was almost palpable as he gave me a broad smile. "Nothing would make me happier than to see my beautiful daughter at last! I can't wait until that day comes."
I could tell he meant it. What was going on here? Maybe I could corner Ana Maria and get some answers. So much for me taking charge of my life.
After we said our good-byes, I sat in front of the dark computer screen lost in thought. How had my dad managed to make me feel so loved and so rejected all in a span of fifteen minutes? I was on an emotional roller coaster that I didn't remember buying a ticket for. Here he had the chance to meet his only child, the one he didn't even know he had, and he blew it. The men in my life were stressing me out and I wished I knew what to do about it.
The copy machine was done and I was more than ready to leave, but I still had to sort the mail. Aside from a Bar Journal and some flyers, there was only one letter addressed to me. It was thick, with a local postmark and no return address, so it wasn't from a law office, it wasn't a check, and it wasn't a bar complaint--those envelopes were thick, with the return address of The Florida Bar and the power to induce heart palpitations. I ripped the envelope open and examined the strange contents.
"What the hell is this?" I said out loud.
But nobody answered me.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
I couldn't make sense of the packet in my hand. It was an amalgamation of a lawsuit, a letter, and a contract titled Invoice Billing for Copyright Infringement, per Contract. Underneath that it read: Issued by Marcus Joseph, family of Wise, sovereign.
Sovereign? Who was Marcus Joseph Wise?
The first paragraph stated that the invoice was issued in regards to the unauthorized use of a duly recorded copyright, MARCUS J. WISE ©.
The next paragraph was titled: DEMAND FOR PAYMENT and contained loads of legal gobbledygook and an accusation that I, Jamie Quinn, had made unauthorized use of his duly recorded copyright MARCUS J. WISE © and, as a result, he was entitled to damages per contract.
We had a contract?
The next section laid out the damages, a paltry $1.5 million dollars, due within thirty days. Failure to pay within that time would lead to a ten percent penalty being added. Also, my account with him was overdrawn and now closed. My failure to pay would result in him issuing a criminal complaint for copyright infringement AND unjust enrichment.
I was unjustly enriched?
The second page (oh, yes, there was more) was even crazier, starting with the title: Truth Affidavit in the Nature of Supplemental Rules for Maritime Claims.
Apparently, we were now under Maritime Law. This guy was definitely lost at sea.
More gobbledygook and then this paragraph: I, Me, My, Myself, MARCUS J. WISE, the undersigned for We the People, Sovereigns, natural born living souls, the Posterity, born upon the land in the several States united for America, (blah blah blah) do hereby solemnly declare, say and state: I am competent for stating the matters set forth herewith.
He was competent?! I would've lost that bet.
There was so much more, but I'll cut to what seemed to be the essence of his complaint, chock full of juicy craziness:
Fact: The person known as MARCUS J. WISE is fiction without form or substan
ce, (was he a ghost?) for We the People of Florida from our Life, Liberty, Property, and Pursuit of Happiness, for their self-enrichment outside the law authority and our Courts by original jurisdiction.
Oh, boy! This guy's favorite dish was word salad.
I felt like I was back in college reading Chaucer in Old English. The words almost made sense, but in the end, they just gave me a headache. I had no idea who Marcus J. Wise was or when I'd had the audacity to misappropriate his name, but I did know one thing. I couldn't wait to violate his "copyright" again and show this masterpiece to Grace. It was worth racking up another 1.5 million dollars in 'damages' to see her face. Who knew practicing law could be so entertaining?
After locking up the office, I set the alarm without incident and called Grace from the car to see if I could stop by on my way home. When she answered, I thought I'd dialed the wrong number, which was impossible since her number was programmed into my phone.
"Gracie? You sound awful! What's going on?"
"Ah, hey James, I'm sick as a dog, that's what. My nose is a toxic waste site and I think I just coughed up a lung. Other than that, I'm peachy."
"Well, thanks for sharing! What can I do for you, my friend? Do you want some soup? Medicine? A case of Kleenex?"
"You're sweet, but I just have to tough it out. I wish I knew who gave me this cold so I could punch them in the face." She blew her nose loudly in my ear.
"I can take care of that for you, no problem," I said. "One question--what if the cold killed 'patient zero'? I can't punch them if they're dead."
"Just find their next of kin and punch them instead," she said with a hoarse laugh that morphed into a hacking cough.
"Seems a bit extreme," I said, "but I'll do it for you. I kinda hope it's Nick though. He's overdue for a punch."
Chapter Twenty-Nine
It was Monday morning and already a scorcher with heat shimmering off the asphalt in waves. Just walking from my car to the entrance of La Vida Boca made me sweat so much my make-up started to melt. Terrific, first day on the job and I looked like a reject from Madame Tussaud's wax museum. Way to make a good impression, Jamie.
Jeopardy in July: A Jamie Quinn Mystery (Jamie Quinn Cozy Mystery Book 5) Page 8
