"Sure," I said. "The simplest solution is usually correct." I took a deep breath. "So, you think Clarence died of natural causes and Eli accidentally poisoned himself?"
She nodded.
"Okay, then who took the berries?"
She frowned again. "Someone who didn't know they were poisonous? Someone who wanted them for decoration?"
"Maybe…" I wasn't convinced, but still willing to consider her theory.
"I tell you what," she said, standing up. "Let's go inside and see if we can find out who took the berries. If we have to search every apartment, we can have the staff do it. Is that a good plan?"
"It's a start," I said.
We made our way out of the garden, wending around the stone path before exiting through the gate. We passed the volleyball area, the tennis court and the shuffleboard court and were walking towards the pool when we heard a piercing scream coming from that direction. We broke into a sprint and arrived just as a crowd began to gather at the deep end. Jodi pushed her way through and stopped at the edge, shock registering on her face. There was a body in the pool, a tall black man with salt and pepper hair. I recognized him right away--Stanley from the Card Sharks.
"Call 911!" I yelled at the closest blue-haired senior citizen. "We need to get him out of the pool!"
Somebody had already alerted the staff and two burly male aides were charging through the glass doors. Without hesitation they jumped into the pool fully clothed and turned Stanley over so his face was out of the water. Then they pushed and pulled him over to the stairs at the shallow end and propped his head and shoulders on the top step to begin CPR. I was impressed with the staff's lightning-fast reaction in an emergency. No wonder this was a five-star facility.
I was so distraught my hands were shaking. Jodi was a wreck too.
"This is awful! Did Stanley usually swim at lunchtime?" I asked. "He's wearing his bathing suit, so it's not like he fell in."
Jodi nodded. "Yes, he did like to swim--especially in the summer."
We watched the ongoing rescue attempt. From the looks of it, there wasn't much hope. Jodi's face was ashy and I thought she was going to be ill.
"I know everyone here is old," I said in a quiet voice, "but Stanley is the second person from the poker club to die in the past two weeks. I don't think it's a coincidence."
Jodi couldn't handle it a second more and ran to the bushes where she threw up. When she returned a few minutes later, she looked fragile, as if she would break in two.
"I don't believe it," she said in a whisper.
"Believe what?" I asked.
"That someone is murdering the residents. I've been here for five years and I've seen this pattern before--several deaths in a short period of time. It's not that unusual. Many of our residents have beaten the actuarial odds, you know? They outlive their peers, their spouses, they win the longevity game, but eventually their time comes too. That's life, Jamie, it's precious and unpredictable."
I started sniffling, overcome with emotion. I couldn't work at a place where I made friends with the residents only to watch them drop dead one by one. It was too much for me. "I have to go, I'm sorry."
Jodi gave me a hug, which I sorely needed, and I left. I took the long way to the parking lot, walking around the perimeter of the building so I wouldn't have to see anyone. I reached my car and was about to make my escape when someone came up behind me and tapped me on the shoulder.
"So close," I said under my breath.
"We have to stop meeting like this," he said with a laugh.
Turning around, I tried to manage a smile. "Yeah, why are you always lurking in the parking lot, Bob?"
"I could ask you the same thing," he replied. "Hey, are you okay? You look like you lost your best friend."
I shook my head. "Just got some bad news, but I'll be okay, thanks. You, on the other hand, look like you just found your best friend. Together, we could pose for the Greek comedy and tragedy masks. How did it go with Herb?"
Bob did a little jig. "It couldn't have gone better! Thanks so much for making that happen."
I leaned against my car. "When does the life-saving begin? Aren't lives at stake as we speak?"
"Kind of," he hedged. "I'll start out as a consultant and if that works out Herb will make the position permanent."
"Doesn't he have to recall the defective devices?" I was worrying about strangers now, in case I didn't have enough on my plate.
"Jamie, I suspect you're not a techie. What the device needs is a software patch that can be downloaded from the website. It actually works fine, but it can be hacked into remotely. That's why it's so dangerous."
"Then I'm very glad I could help," I said, and I meant it.
"It was fate that you stole my briefcase." He laughed.
"That you stole mine is what you meant to say," I teased.
"Precisely!" Bob handed me his business card and gave me a peck on the cheek.
"Here's how to reach me," he said. "Call me if you need anything, I owe you big time." He gave a slight bow. "Here's lookin' at you, kid!"
As he walked away, I said, "You know, Turner Classic Movies isn't the only channel on TV. Pictures are in color now!"
He laughed and waved good-bye.
It was time for me to head home where I planned to eat Chinese take-out straight from the container and soak in the tub until my fingers pruned. I might even have a glass of wine or three while I was at it. Who says I don't know how to have a good time?
Chapter Forty-Six
The next morning, my cat alarm clock woke me up way too early. The emotional turmoil from the day before (along with a significant amount of wine) had lulled me into a good night's rest and I wanted to sleep in but someone didn't get the memo. Mr. Paws (who has a mean streak) decided to start his day by jumping on my pillow, sitting on my head and swishing his tail into my nose and mouth. If I didn't get up soon, I'd be coughing up a hair ball.
Grudgingly, I rolled out of bed. "You can be replaced by a dog. Just remember that." He flicked his tail at me and sniffed but I think he got the message.
For once, I didn't check my phone first--it was a bad habit anyway. Instead, I had a leisurely breakfast on my patio where I made the decision to work from home, maybe take my laptop to a coffee shop like all the hip millennials did. Thank-you, modern technology!
As fond as I was of the residents of La Vida Boca, I didn't know if I could keep working there. Although I'd seen my share of death over the past couple of years, those people hadn't been my friends, I didn't even know them. Working at La Vida Boca raised the stakes too much for me.
Ready to tackle some work, I threw on a pair of jeans and a t-shirt and went outside to grab the file I'd left in my trunk. It was a contentious case that required several motions plus a memorandum of law, enough to keep me typing all day. When I opened my trunk I encountered a large wrapped object I'd forgotten was there--the fake Chagall. Oops, I mean the forged Chagall. I carried the painting into the house and laid it on the sofa where I removed the paper and flipped it over. What was it Clarence Jr. had found so upsetting? I went into my bedroom and fetched a magnifying glass my mother had bought to read fine print. I examined every inch of the painting but found nothing. I had to stop because my eyes were starting to hurt, so I gave up and went to a coffee shop to work.
With an iced latte sweating in its frosty glass and a table all to myself, I was surprisingly productive, generating pleading after pleading in under two hours. I realized I wasn't as productive at home because I was easily distracted. I could've blamed Mr. Paws (I was still annoyed with him), but it may have had something to do with a fridge full of snacks and a TV stocked with recorded shows. The coffee shop had started to fill up and a young guy with dreadlocks and a political shirt parked himself at the table next to mine. He set up his laptop and then asked me if I would keep an eye on it while he ordered coffee. Of course, I said. I literally kept an eye on his computer, but only because it was interesting. People used to de
corate their cars with bumper stickers and now they did the same with their computers. This one had a Jamaican flag, a Salt Life sticker, a peace sign, and a New Orleans Saints logo--clearly, he was a fan. Staring at that last sticker, it dawned on me what Clarence Jr. must have seen on the back of the painting. Suddenly, I couldn't wait to go home and confirm my theory but I had to wait for the guy to come back. He must have had the most complicated coffee order ever, but he finally returned and I took off.
Ten minutes later, I was home wielding the magnifying glass again. Now that I knew what I was looking for, it didn't take me long to find it. On the top left corner of the frame I could just make out a faint gold fleur-de-lis--just like the emblem for the New Orleans Saints--and the logo for Petersen's Antiques. Not only had Clarence Sr. convinced his friends to buy the phony painting, he had sold it to them himself! That would explain why he was so upset, why he thought he would be financially responsible, why he wanted a divorce. It also told me that Clarence Jr. was unaware of what his father had done or he would have recognized the painting before he saw the fleur-de-lis. Finally, it told me that the person Clarence had argued with was in on the forgery. Clarence had said I trusted you. Maybe the person responsible for an international forgery scam had been at La Vida Boca arguing with Clarence! This was serious, way above my pay grade and certainly above Duke's. I knew who to call although I hated to do it.
I picked up my cell and found his number in my contacts.
He didn't say hello because he had to be a smartass. "Quinn! Are you calling to say good-bye?"
"Why would I do that, Nick? I haven't said hello yet."
"Aren't you off to film your new show, Jamie Quinn, FBI Secret Weapon?"
"It's in the works," I said. "Don't worry, I'm still casting you as the villain."
"I wasn't worried," he chuckled. "What can I do for you?"
"Well…I'm not sure where to start. There are four words I really hate to say and I'm having trouble getting them out."
"Let me guess," he said. "You were right, Nick. Or is it I was wrong, Nick."
"Neither. It's I need your advice."
"That's not as much fun. Okay, see you here in fifteen," he said and hung up.
Good-bye to you, too, Nick.
Chapter Forty-Seven
One of Nick Dimitropoulos's many annoying qualities was his penchant for punctuality. Normally, I'd have no problem getting to his office in fifteen minutes no matter where I happened to be in Hollywood, but I took the time to change into a more professional outfit. Also, how did he know I was even in Hollywood when I called? I knew I'd be late and that I'd catch hell for it.
Like all the State Attorney's offices in Broward County, Nick's office was inside the courthouse. Although everyone entering the building had to pass through a metal detector and have their bags searched, the State Attorney's office had an extra layer of security. You couldn't go in unless they buzzed you in. Considering they put people in jail for a living, it was understandable.
Thirty minutes after our phone call, I was in Nick's waiting room with its sterile décor and boring reading material. Current issues of the Florida Bar and American Bar Association magazines, as well as a brochure titled Information for Victims and Witnesses of Crime, were there to provide hours of rollicking entertainment. When the door to the inner sanctum swung open five minutes after I arrived, I expected an assistant but it was Nick himself and he was giving me the stink eye.
"I did call to say I'd be late," I preempted him. "You shouldn't make such horrible expressions, Nick, your face might freeze like that. Didn't your mother warn you?"
He didn't say a word, just walked back to his office. I could follow him or not, he didn't seem to care. Once he sat down at his desk, I sat in a chair facing him. He pretended to be busy signing documents and wouldn't look at me, so I waited. After a few minutes of giving me the silent treatment, he gave up.
"Quinn, I'm a busy man and I was nice enough to carve out some time for you because you're Grace's friend--"
"--Oh, don't you pull the Grace card on me, Dimitropoulos! You wouldn't even know Grace if I hadn't introduced you. Besides, you owe me so many favors I've lost count. So I'm fifteen minutes late, why are you freaking out?"
He smiled almost imperceptibly. "I am not freaking out. I just have a lot going on and then there's the campaign…" he trailed off.
"There it is," I said. "Who told you to run for office, Mr. State Attorney?"
He laughed. "My mother! Right after she told me not to make faces."
"It all makes sense now," I said. "I'm sorry to take your time, but I do need your advice. Or something."
"Give me a hint, Quinn, work with me a little," Nick said, giving me his full attention.
"Okay, a crime was committed forty years ago and it's just come to light."
Nick's eyebrows were high on his forehead. "Forty? As in Four-O? Have you heard about the statute of limitations? The only crime I could prosecute after four decades is murder." He paused. "Are we talking about a murder?"
I shook my head. "Forgery, well, fraud really."
Nick looked thoughtful, his square jaw turned to the side. "When was this fraud discovered?"
"Maybe last February?" I guessed, knowing that Earl had died in January.
"You might have a case," Nick said. "Fraud can be prosecuted within one year of when it was discovered. Of course, you'd have to find the perpetrator and that's a cold trail to follow."
I nodded, but didn't say anything because I was thinking.
"If that's it then, glad I could help. Next time, save us both some time and start with a Google search," he said, kidding/not kidding.
"What if I told you someone had purchased expensive art pieces, had forgeries made and then sold the forgeries? And what if I told you I knew the store where one of the forgeries was sold? What if I told you I believed the perpetrator was still alive and in South Florida?"
"I'd say, is this a plot for your new series? Seriously, do you have any proof of any of these claims?"
I thought about it. Did I? I had a certificate of authenticity. I had a frame with a fleur-de-lis on it and I had Clarence Jr. who knew the painting had come through his store when his dad ran it. I had a woman who could testify she heard an incriminating argument between Clarence and an unknown man; I had the partial name of the artist who forged the painting. I had a bill of sale from the Card Sharks to Earl under their defunct corporation and I had an insurance policy for a forged painting.
I shook my head. "Not really."
Nick sighed. "Quinn, what are we going to do about you? What advice did you want me to give you?"
"I'm not sure," I admitted. "It seemed to me like this was kind of a big deal, a string of art forgeries, lots of people being defrauded out of lots of money, the perpetrator still on the loose. I guess I'll tell my client he's out of luck."
"What client?" Nick asked.
"The client whose father was defrauded."
"What did he think he was buying?"
"An original Chagall."
Nick's pen slipped out of his hand onto the desk. "Where is this painting now?"
"In my car."
"In your car? Dammit, Quinn, how do you keep doing this?'"
"Doing what, Nick?"
"You don't even know, unreal! Could you go get the painting now?"
"Sure, Nick." I stood up and walked to the doorway. "I sense you're about to give me that advice I came for."
Chapter Forty-Eight
"I made a phone call while you were gone," Nick said.
"Glad to hear it," I said. "Anyone I know?"
When he didn't answer I let it slide and laid the painting on his desk. "Here you go, one forged painting, as advertised. Isn't she a beauty?"
In broad daylight, the colors were even more breathtaking and powerful. This piece constituted art, even if it was a copy. Andre, whoever he was, was a genius--as well as a master forger, of course.
"I'm starting to think you
really are the FBI's secret weapon," Nick commented as he examined the picture.
"Make fun all you want, but then I'll have to kill off your character in the first episode."
"I'm not joking," he said with a pointed look that took me aback.
Before I could respond, there was a knock on the door.
"Would you let her in, please?" Nick asked, as if I should know who she was.
I stood up. "Man, why are you being so weird? I mean, weirder than usual."
Opening the door, I squealed with delight at seeing my old friend.
"Jayashree Patel!"
"How are you, Jamie?" She gave me a hug. "I always feel the urge to call you Babe." She laughed. "I'll try to resist."
Jayashree looked like a Bollywood star with her flawless skin, delicate features, and long, silky black hair straight out of a shampoo commercial; it was hard to believe she was a top FBI agent. We'd met when she led a sting operation at Broward County Parks Department with Kip's help. He was happy to participate although it almost got him killed. We met again when I happened upon a money laundering operation involving a notorious Russian hacker. She thought my name was Babe because that's how Kip had me listed as a contact in his phone.
"I'm fine, thanks--unless you're about to tell me the Russian mob is after me." I pretended to bite my nails.
With a laugh, she said "Definitely not. Eugeny Belov isn't even in the country. We're close to apprehending him though."
"Whew! That's great news. Why are you here then? Unless you can't tell me because it's classified." I glared at Nick, who refused to tell me anything, classified or otherwise.
"I'm here to see you," she said, surprised I didn't know.
"You're in Hollywood just to see me?" It was my turn to look surprised.
Nick felt the need to jump in. "Quinn, it's always like Who's on First with you. Agent Patel is here right now--in this room--to see you. She's in Florida for a case."
Jayashree smiled. "I am here for a case and I'm hoping you can help."
"Hear that, Nick?" I smirked. "She needs my help."
Jeopardy in July: A Jamie Quinn Mystery (Jamie Quinn Cozy Mystery Book 5) Page 14
