Peril In The Park (Jamie Quinn Cozy Mysteries Book 3)

Book summary

"Peril In The Park" thrusts Jamie Quinn into a maelstrom of mystery when her boyfriend, Kip Simons, the newly appointed director of Broward County parks, becomes embroiled in controversy. As tensions rise with a resentful supervisor and a fired employee, a shocking discovery of a body in the park deepens the intrigue. Kip's sudden disappearance intensifies the urgency, prompting Jamie to join forces with P.I. Duke Broussard. Together, they navigate a labyrinth of suspects and motives, racing against time to unearth the truth and rescue Kip before it's too late.

Excerpt from Peril In The Park (Jamie Quinn Cozy Mysteries Book 3)

"You know how Floridians always say, 'We don't care how you did it in New York?'" Kip asked me, exasperated.

"Nobody actually says that," I joked, dropping bread in the toaster with one hand and scrambling eggs with the other. "They just write it on bumper stickers."

"My point is--they don't care how I did it in California either." Kip rested his forehead on the edge of my kitchen table and stared dejectedly at the floor, deep in thought, or deep in denial, maybe both.

Only six months ago, Kip (who wasn't my boyfriend yet, well, actually he was still my ex-boyfriend--it's a little complicated) had moved here from California to take over as Director of Broward County Parks, and he was having a rough time of it. When he first started, it was all about org charts and flow charts, flora and fauna mapping (both indigenous and invasive), and employee morale boosters. Honestly, nobody could've been more gung-ho than Kip, but all that went out the window when he realized that he had bigger problems--like the Machiavellian politics of upper management. Instead of doing their jobs, park supervisors spent all their time sabotaging each other, while lower level employees spent their time complaining about supervisors. The only thing everyone agreed on was how much they hated the new director. So, in a way, Kip had brought them all together. Minus the morale boosting, of course.

Then the vandalism started,jumping from park to park with no obvious pattern.It seemed to be the handiwork of one person--a person who liked to leave snarky messages at the scene. The latest incident had occurred just two days earlier at Markham Park, in the southwest part of the county. Boy Scout troop number 256 had awokenfrom an overnight camping tripto find what looked like crop circles in a nearby field. Hoping to see aliens, theystampeded across the campground to check it out. When the first scouts arrivedat the scene, theygave a whoop of excitement and soonlaughter was rippling through the crowd of adolescent boys like thewave at a football game. Even the scoutmasters snickeredat the message mowed into the field in twenty foot letters, as if written by a cranky giant. Someone had gone to a lot of trouble to express himself and there was no mistaking the sentiment. As clear as the morning dew, the words, "Bite Me!" were etched in the grassfor all to see.

"Jamie, do you know how long it will take for the grass to grow back?" Kip complained, after he'd told me about it. "I can't leave it like that."

"Hmmm, why don't you add some letters to change the message? Like, I don't know, how about, Bite…um, Bite...Mel…Gibson!That works. And who knows? Maybe it'll teach Mel Gibson to play nice." I snorted with laughter. I crack myself up sometimes.

Kip was only slightly amused. "Just what I need," he said, "a lawsuit from Mel Gibson. And my defense will be what--my lawyer girlfriend told me to do it? Who would believe that?"

"Anyone who knows me," I said, as I plunked our breakfast down on the table. I took a seat next to my hunky boyfriend(I know--I can't believe it either) and proceeded to drown my eggs in Tabasco. It's the one sure way to wake myself up because, let's face it, I'm not a morning person.

"How's your breakfast?" I asked, waiting for accolades.

"Great, but it's missing something," Kip gave me a half-smile as he buttered his toast.

"Not that again!" I groaned. "Don't say it, Kip."

"Where's the bacon?"

"Now, you've done it! You've hurt Mr. Paws' feelings," I chided.

Kip looked at me like I was crazy. "Why would your cat care about my missing bacon?"

I rolled my eyes. "You know he's best friends with Miss Saigon."

"Huh? Is that another one of your Broadway references?"

"No. Miss Saigon is the Vietnamese pot-bellied pig that lives next door. The cat adores her."

Kip laughed. "You can't make me feel guilty about eating bacon, Jamie. And you'll never convince me to become a vegetarian, either."

I jumped into his lap and started nuzzling his neck. "I can be very convincing, you know."

He pulled me close. "Really? And what are you trying to convince me to do right now?"

"Go in late to work…"

"I don't know," he murmured. "What would the boss say?"

I nibbled his ear. "You are the boss."

"Oh, that's right, I am," he said, and kissed me. "You smell delicious."

"I do, don't I?"

Kip scooped me up and started carrying me out of the kitchen. "Yes, you do. Almost as good as bacon."

Chapter 2

Allow me to introduce myself: my name is Jamie Quinn and I'm a family law attorney. I've lived in Hollywood, Florida my whole life (so far, anyway) and I share a house with a cantankerous cat that I inherited (along with the house) when my mom died of cancer a few years back. I used to have an ordinary life where nothing much ever happened; I went to work every day, hung out with friends, and watched way too much TV. After my mom died, I was in a fog for a long time, but then my autistic cousin Adam was accused of murdering his music teacher with a wind instrument called a didgeridoo and everything changed. Now my life is anything but boring, and I wouldn't have it any other way.

Speaking of big changes, six months ago, I ran into my high school boyfriend, Kip Simons, at T.Y. Park where we both used to work. Kip had attended college out of state, returning to Florida a mere fifteen years later. Lucky for me, his first career in corporate America bombed, forcing him back to school where he pursued his true calling, forestry and park management. I like to think that he applied for his current job as Broward County Parks Director because he was secretly pining away for me.

Then there's my father, Guillermo Franco. He was a mystery I thought I'd never solve--especially since my mother never talked about him and I had no idea who he was. After my mom died, I decided to look for him with nothing to go on but a name, which, as it turned out, wasn't even his real name. After a few false starts and a lot of help from my friends Duke and Grace, I had the happiest surprise of my life: I spoke with my dad for the first time. He was pretty surprised, considering he didn't even know he had a daughter, but he took the news very well. In fact, he was thrilled, as was his wife, Ana Maria, who lives in Miami and is working tirelessly to bring him here. My dad and I still haven't met in person because he's stuck in Nicaragua (after being exiled from Cuba), but we talk and Skype as often as we can, and try to catch up on a lifetime's worth of stories. He has more stories than I do, naturally, but his are dark and surreal, like the plot of a Russian novel (if it were set in Cuba). He says he likes my stories because I make him laugh, and because I remind him of my mother.

My parents met at a political rally when they were only twenty and soon afterthey joined the Cuban Dissident movement together.They thought they could change the world,but their dream of a free Cuba would simply remain a dream. In the end, their fight against injustice would accomplish nothing except for my dad being deported back to Cuba, my mom losing the love of her life, and me growing up without a father. They tried to make a difference and I admire them for that, even if it turned out pretty lousy all around. My dad had it the worst, of course, spending so many years in jails and detention centers. When I asked him about it, he said something surprising. He said he'd rather bein jail than in limbo,not knowing if he would ever be free again. For that reason, he didn't mind his current situation--waiting in Nicaragua for a visa that might never materialize--because at least he had hope, he had a job, and he had the two of us, and that's saying a lot.

After we'd caught each other up on our lives, my dad and I started looking for a common interest to keep the conversation going. We found one that's practically universal, what with the internet, streaming videos and that gold standard of mediums, books. I'm talking about science fiction, the never-ending source of entertainment for people who like to spend time in alternate universes or exploring the galaxy without changing out of their pajamas. Our most recent conversation went like this:

"Hola Papi, did you ever finish watching 'The Matrix'? Wasn't it mind-blowing?"

"It was fascinating, but also disturbing.I liked it. I've often felt like my life was a bad dream and I might wake up somewhere else. Tell me, hija, which pill would you take, the red one or the blue one?"

"Hmmm, take the blue pill and the story ends. You wake up in your bed and believe whatever you want. That sounds more like me. What about you?"

"The red one, I'm afraid," he said. "I need to know how deep the rabbit hole goes. Age doesn't always bring wisdom, Jamie."

"So, if we were living in the Matrix right now, you would want to know?

He laughed. "Oh, yes!Maybe I'd learn I'm not really in this tiny apartamento in Managua, I'm sitting on the Broadwalk with you, eating ice cream and watching the people go by."

"I’d love that. Is mine a waffle cone with mint chip ice cream and chocolate sprinkles?"

"It is."

"Then count me in," I said.

My dad sighed."I'm looking forward to the day when we can really do that."

"Me too. And when that day comes, the ice cream's on me."

Chapter 3

You'd think that after more than a decade of practicing law, I could get the timing down. I'm not talking about all the deadlines for discovery, mediation and trial prep--I have that under control, but I seem to have lost the knack for getting to court on time. It was Tuesday morning, I had a calendar call at 9:15, and what should have been a breezy morning was turning into anything but. Between ignoring my alarm clock and spending way too much time on my messy, impossible hair, I was so far behind schedule that I was stressing over which traffic lights were the longest and how I could avoid them. It wouldn't have been a problem had I been going to the Hollywood courthouse, but my hearing was at the main courthouse and downtown Fort Lauderdale was ten miles away.

It was already 9:06 by the time I parked my mini-cooper, so I started jogging the long block to the courthouse. I felt strangely off-balance, as if the sidewalk were uneven, and then I realized why--I was wearing two different shoes! Both were black, but one had a low heel and one was a flat. That's what happens when you’re running late, you can't even dress yourself.The line of people entering the courthouse was snaking out to the sidewalk. Damn it, I was going to be late! I knew there was another entrance to the courthouse on the third floor of the parking garage, so I clomped my way over there. After waiting for an elevator that never arrived, I hit the stairs, first removing my mismatched shoes (I had another pair just like them at home),then running up two flights in my stocking feet. There was no one in line (thankfully), so I threw my file into the x-ray machine and walked briskly through the metal detector. For no reason at all, the machine beepedand I had to wait for the guard to wave her wand over me in a virtual frisk. Sweat was starting to seep into my newly dry-cleaned suit and I still had to get to the eighth floor. Why did I keep doing this to myself?