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

by Barbara Venkataraman

  "Afraid so," he said, closing the case. "It's been interesting, but I'll be on my way now."

  He was halfway out the door when I said "Wait--"

  "Yes?"

  "Can you tell me a little bit about your proposal for Herb? Not the confidential stuff, just why you want to see him."

  "Why do you care?" Bob asked, surprised. "You don't seem like a corporate spy."

  "I don't know," I said honestly. "I like to connect people, I like puzzles, I'm curious as hell…"

  "Three interesting reasons," he smiled and put the briefcase down. "It also sounds like one of those NY Times obituaries."Ms. Quinn liked to connect people, she liked puzzles, and she was curious as hell."

  "And she loved ice cream," I added. "Mint chip, especially. Obit done!" I made a check mark in the air. "What's yours say?"

  He looked thoughtful for a moment. "Mr. Beckman was a genius and everyone loved him."

  I clapped my hands. "Excellent! So, what does Mr. Genius want to say to Herb Lowenthal?"

  "He wants to say Mr. Lowenthal, you're the reason I became an engineer. I've studied all your designs and products. You solve problems so elegantly, but I'm afraid I found a mistake in one of your designs, a mistake that could kill people. I also know how to fix it."

  "Whoa!" I backed into a chair and sat down. "Are you for real?"

  He nodded.

  "Then I will get you in to see Herb. Right away!"

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  "You will?" Bob asked. "You'll introduce me to Herb Lowenthal?" He shook his head in amazement. "What are the chances that I'd bump into the right person at just the right time?"

  "And steal her briefcase," I added.

  "Yeah, it was those delectable grapes--who could resist?" he joked. Glancing at his fancy watch, he said "Do you want to go over there now?"

  "I can't," I said, remembering that Duke was waiting. "I have an appointment, but I can go in the afternoon."

  We agreed to meet in the parking lot of La Vida Boca at two o'clock. On his way out Bob turned to give me a wink. "Louie," he said, "I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship".

  "Okay, Bogey," I said, "but I hope this has a better ending than Casablanca did."

  After Bob left, I felt the weight of responsibility settle on me. Knowing that lives were at stake made me feel like I had to deliver--but what if Herb refused? Herb Lowenthal was a wild card and he wasn't even in the poker club.

  After hitting the drive-thru at Dunkin' Donuts on Sheridan Street, I pulled into the multiplex where Duke lived. As usual, broken toys and sports equipment littered the front porch, courtesy of Duke's neighbors. A muscle car on blocks in the side yard had weeds growing around it and a litter of kittens living under it. Someone had left food and water for them and I could see two adorable kittens poking their heads out. I tried to imagine Mr. Paws having to rough it but I couldn't. He was so spoiled that if he had to live under a car he'd insist on a Bentley. I was smitten with the kittens and didn't see Duke until he banged on the passenger window.

  I rolled down the window. "Jeez, Duke! What happened to stealthy like a ninja? The door's unlocked, Mr. Private Eye."

  He smirked and held up a large rectangular object wrapped in brown paper. "But the back door isn't. I'm not gonna hold this on my lap, now am I, sweet-pea?"

  "Well, you could if I put you both back there." I said as I opened the lock for him.

  With the fake Chagall in the back and Duke in the front, I pulled out of the driveway and pointed my Mini Cooper south towards the city of Dania.

  "There's your--" I was going to say "coffee", but Duke was already gulping it down.

  He smacked his lips. "Ah, good stuff! You didn't happen to get me one of those pink frosted donuts with sprinkles on it, did ya?"

  "Have you met me?" I said and handed him a banana I'd brought from home.

  Duke handed it back. "You're no fun."

  "Of course I'm fun, I'm the life of the party." I turned right on U.S. 1 and stopped at the red light.

  Duke snorted. "Maybe at the old folks' home. I can see it now--you walk in and they yell: Jamie's here, hooray! Bananas for everyone!"

  I laughed. "I am pretty popular there." Sniffing the air, I said "Someone smells good, like coconut and lime." I turned to take a gander at Duke's ensemble. "Ditched the rapper getup, I see. Two questions--how can you wear alligator boots in this heat and why are you dressed so nice? Hot date later?"

  "Nah," he shook his head and his shoulder-length brown hair swayed back and forth. "I dress for success, Ms. Esquire. I fake it til I make it. And who knows when I'll meet a pretty lady? It could happen anytime, anywhere and I gotta be ready."

  "There are no smokin' hot babes in the antique store, I'm afraid."

  We had arrived and I was circling the block to park behind Petersen's.

  He shrugged. "That's okay. The day is young and I'm good-lookin'. Just admit it, Darlin', you think so too."

  I flicked him on the shoulder. "At least you think so and that's what matters." He laughed. "Before we go in," I said, "I meant to ask if you found out anything else about the painting. Or did you get all those paper cuts for nothing?"

  Playing dumb, he said, "You mean like something important? Like maybe who sold Earl the painting?"

  I gasped. "What? Really?"

  "Before I say another word, you have to answer one question," he said.

  "Come on! What is it, Duke?"

  "Are you gonna do it?"

  "Duke, you're a pain."

  "Okay, ready?"

  "Ask already." I said.

  "Who is…the greatest P.I. in Hollywood?"

  "How many guesses do I get?"

  He looked at his watch. "What a shame! The clock is running out, tick tock."

  "Fine. It's you."

  "Say it."

  "Marmaduke Broussard, III, is the greatest P.I. in Hollywood. Happy now?"

  "Oh, yeah. Especially since I recorded you."

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  "Obviously I think you're the best P.I., Duke," I said. "Why else would I keep you around?"

  "Because I'm arm candy?" He picked up the banana he'd rejected earlier and began wolfing it down.

  "Right now you look like a monkey in the zoo, but let's go with arm candy."

  He nodded appreciatively with a mouth full of banana.

  "Now tell me who sold Earl that painting. Dazzle me with your brilliance!" I nudged him with my elbow, easy to do in a snug Mini Cooper.

  Duke looked sheepish. "It's not as exciting as it sounds. I found a bill of sale at the bottom of a box."

  "And?" I said.

  "Earl bought the painting from a company called THS Investment Group. I checked it out on the Florida corporation website and it went inactive years ago."

  "Maybe you missed something." I said, pulling my phone out of my purse. I navigated to the Sunbiz website that Duke had already visited. "That's odd, there are no officers or directors listed and the company was only active for a year. Hang on, there's an agent for service of process and it's a law firm. Did you try to contact them?"

  Duke laughed, showing off his perfect teeth. "Nah, 'course not! You know you're the only lawyer I talk to. Besides, that's got to be the deadest dead end I've ever seen. That company was dissolved before you were a gleam in your daddy's eye."

  "We'll see," I said.

  I hunched over my phone and pulled up the Florida Bar website. I knew something Duke didn't--that law firm was still in existence. It didn't mean they'd have useful information, but at least I could check. I called and left a message for the office manager, always the best person to ask about an old file.

  I turned off the car. "Ready?"

  "I was born ready, Darlin'."

  We stepped out of the car and Duke collected the painting from the back seat. At the entrance to Petersen's, Duke tried to hold the door for me, but couldn't manage it with his hands full. It was fun to watch him try and I appreciated the chivalrous gest
ure. I finally had to hold the door open for him and the bell jingled our arrival. Once again, the familiar aroma of one of my favorite childhood memories filled my nostrils. I needed to visit more often, maybe work there part-time. I could organize the bell collection.

  The store had just opened and the fleur-de-lis on the window shone on the clean glass. We were the only customers and seemed to be the only people on the premises. I stored my sunglasses in my purse and Duke set the painting on the floor next to the counter.

  "It smells like my Grandma Delia's attic," Duke said, rubbing his nose.

  "Isn't it great?" I inhaled deeply.

  Duke looked at me funny. "If you say so. I prefer the smell of The Big Easy, myself. It smells like home." He crinkled his eyes, amused.

  I laughed. "Sure, if your house smells like old beer, cigarettes, and crushed dreams."

  Our scintillating conversation was interrupted by someone coming through a door at the back of the store. It was Clarence Jr. and he was perusing some papers in his hand. He looked up, surprised to see us.

  "Hello, folks, I'm sorry I didn't hear the bell. Welcome to Petersen's Antiques. Can I help you find something?" He gave us a smile.

  "Hi," I said. "We had an appointment with your appraiser at ten."

  "Right," he said. "I'm sorry, but our appraiser is out ill. I can help you though, I'm a certified appraiser. What did you want appraised?" He noticed the wrapped package on the floor. "Oh, I see it now, you brought a painting." He took his half-moon glasses out of his pocket. "Let's take a look."

  Duke hoisted the painting onto the counter and meticulously peeled back the brown paper. This was a side of Duke I hadn't seen, his usual approach was more bull-in-a-china-shop. Slowly, the fake Chagall revealed itself in all its glory and it was gorgeous, despite its lack of authenticity--which reminded me of something.

  "Did you bring the certificate of authenticity?" I asked Duke.

  "You didn't ask me to," he chided, "but I brought it anyway. That's why I'm the best P.I. in town. But you already knew that." When he snickered, I accidentally stepped on his foot.

  "Ow!" he said, "watch the boots, girl."

  "Did you say you're a P.I.?" Clarence asked.

  "Sure am," Duke puffed up with pride.

  "Some people need to get over themselves," I observed. "Once he gets started, the humble-brags can go on forever."

  Clarence laughed. "What did you bring me today?" He put on gloves and, peering through a loupe, examined the painting carefully for quite a while. He even sniffed it. "It's a beauty," he said. "Looks like Chagall…but it isn't."

  Duke piped in, "We already know it's a fake."

  Clarence laid down the loupe and looked up at us. "That's where you're mistaken."

  Chapter Forty

  Duke was surprised. "Whoa! Do you mean it's, like, the real McCoy?"

  I shook my head. "Not possible."

  Clarence Jr. cleared his throat politely. "I'm sorry if I gave you false hope, but this is definitely not a Chagall and it's not a fake either. It's a forgery, and that's an important distinction. Fakes are works by artists that are passed off as works by a more important artist. They can also be copies of a work from the same time period, which makes them difficult to identify. In the past, it was normal for the owner of a fine painting to commission an artist to make copies of a piece of art for them. But forgeries are what we call art crime—bogus works by modern-day artists made to look like the real thing." He held the painting at arm's length to take it all in. "It's such a shame…"

  He continued to examine the painting, but I wanted him to finish his thought.

  "What's a shame?" I asked.

  Clarence seemed not to have heard me as he continued scrutinizing the canvas.

  "Did I hear you correctly, that you have a certificate of authenticity for this piece?"

  Duke nodded. "Sure do." He pulled an envelope from his back pocket and handed it to Clarence.

  I gave Duke a look. "Don't tell me you were sitting on that certificate all the way here."

  "Hey," he said, with a lopsided grin, "At least I brought it."

  Clarence put his loupe back to his eye to read the certificate. When he was done, he returned the document to its envelope. "Just as I thought," he said. "I wanted to make sure I was right." He turned the painting around on the counter so that we could see it. "Do you see the swirling brushstroke in this corner?"

  Duke and I both nodded.

  "I have a better idea," Clarence said, "I'll show you what I mean."

  He walked into the back room and returned with a large book of the coffee-table variety. It took him a minute to find what he was looking for, but then he laid the open book on the counter next to the painting.

  "This is a picture of the real painting, La Nappe Mauve. Now, can you see the differences?"

  "The red is a shade off," I said, "and the horse is a little different."

  Clarence nodded approvingly.

  "I don't see it," Duke said, disappointed.

  "I recognized the style," Clarence said, "although it's been years since I've seen one of his pieces."

  We immediately reacted to the news.

  "You know about this artist?" I said.

  "Who painted it?" Duke asked.

  Clarence folded his hands on the counter, like a professor about to enlighten his students. "It was the certificate of authenticity that clinched it, although I knew who it had to be. Many years ago, these forgeries started popping up, mostly Chagall but also a few other artists and they all had a certificate of authenticity that was genuine. It turned out someone was buying original paintings, having a copy made and then selling the forged painting along with the certificate. Eventually, the buyer would sell the original painting without the certificate, which wasn't a problem for him since any expert could see it was the real thing. This was before the internet, so it was difficult to track the sale of art. Now, it would be impossible to get away with this scheme."

  I bit my lip impatiently. "Who sold the original?"

  Clarence shook his head. "They never caught the person."

  "What about the painter?" Duke asked.

  "Ah, he disappeared years ago, but we know his name. He was trained in Europe and called himself Andre."

  "That wasn't his real name?" I asked.

  "Probably not," Clarence replied. "It was such a shame."

  "What was?" Duke asked.

  "Andre was enormously talented. It was a loss for the art world that he didn't use his talent to produce original work. Who knows what he could have produced?"

  Clarence picked up the painting again and turned it over to look at the back. He picked up the loupe from the counter and examined the frame. Suddenly, a look of alarm crossed his face and he turned pale. At that moment a few customers walked in and Clarence hastily handed the painting to Duke.

  "Thanks for coming in, folks. I have some things I need to take care of now. Good luck." He started to walk away.

  "Wait," I said, "don't we owe you any money?"

  "Don't worry about it," He said before disappearing into the back room once more.

  "What the hell just happened?" Duke asked.

  "I have no idea," I said.

  Chapter Forty-One

  "Do you mind if I hang onto the painting for a few days?" I said.

  Duke and I were driving back from the antique store discussing what we'd learned which admittedly wasn't much.

  "Sure," Duke said. "I know you like it and Jeff can't stand having it around. It just reminds him of his lost inheritance."

  "Thanks."

  I did like the painting, but that wasn't why I'd asked for it. I wanted to study it, figure out why Clarence Jr. had been so unnerved. I do love a good puzzle.

  As I negotiated my way down U.S. 1 in heavy mid-day traffic, I found it hard to believe that it was still off-season. Once the tourists arrived in November, cars with license plates from all fifty states and every Canadian territory would take over the r
oad. Counting them was an irritating way to pass the time, but those of us with a touch of OCD couldn't help ourselves.

  "Well," Duke said, scratching his chin, "that was a fun outing but I can't say it got us anywhere. We know the forger's name--which may not be his real name---but we have no idea who pulled off the scam. Maybe Andre did that too, but so what?"

  "I think it was a good lead. There's some follow-up I can do--internet research, talk to a few art experts--"

  "Hey! Where are you going?' Duke interjected.

  "Isn't that your house? Would you rather be dropped off somewhere else?"

  "Aren't you gonna buy me a drink after all that hard work I did?"

  I laughed. "It's the middle of the day, buddy! Some of us have a job."

  "Fine. How about lunch--with a few drinks to wash it down?"

  I shook my head regretfully. "I'd love to, but I have another appointment. Rain check?"

  "I'll hold you to it." He grinned at me. "Don't make me wait too long, or you'll be buying me Dom Perignon."

  "You'll get a two-for-one happy hour, my friend. Just like always."

  "Deal," he said.

  I pulled into his driveway for the second time that day and he hopped out of the car. "Don't you go having fun without me, Ms. Esquire."

  "Pinky swear!" I said.

  I left Duke and headed to La Vida Boca, my new home away from home. It took me a solid forty-five minutes to get from Hollywood to Boca but I was still early for my appointment. After I parked, I sat in my air-conditioned car reading e-mail and catching up on the news. I had become a news junkie recently and needed a fix every few hours--as if the world wouldn't survive if I didn't keep up. I remembered my mom watching CNN constantly, but I was much worse. I was engrossed in a story about a window washer miraculously surviving a forty-five story fall when the phone in my hand rang and caught me by surprise. The number looked vaguely familiar.

  "Hello, this is Jamie Quinn."

  "Hi, this is Patty Ryan returning your call. I'm the office manager at Lewis & Lewis."

  "Oh, right!" I said, "That was fast. Thanks for returning my call. I have a crazy question for you. Your firm represented a company about forty years ago--"