Death By Didgeridoo (Jamie Quinn Cozy Mysteries Book 1)

Book summary

When attorney Jamie Quinn's cousin is accused of murdering a former rock star, she’s pulled from her grief-stricken hiatus to uncover the truth. With few clues and many suspects, Jamie must solve the case in time to clear her cousin's name in the charming small-town mystery, Death By Didgeridoo.

Excerpt from Death By Didgeridoo

Chapter 1

I don't know why I feel guilty, it's not like I killed the guy. I didn't even know him, but I heard he was a real bastard. Let me put it this way, when word got out that Spike was dead, that he'd been murdered with one of his own musical instruments, celebrations broke out all over town. Some people toasted his demise with expensive champagne, while others clinked bottles of cold beer; it just depended on the neighborhood. And while many stories were told that night--none of them complimentary, I assure you--there was a common theme: Spike was a liar and a cheat, a poor excuse for a man who'd steal from his own mother, if he knew where she was, or sleep with a friend's wife, if he had a friend--which he did not. Spike's only companion was his dog, Beast, a German shepherd that went everywhere he did, and wasn't very friendly either.

You're probably wondering how Spike had such a successful music store when he was such a major jerk. The answer is simple--he was a rock star. Literally. His drum solos were legendary. After The Screaming Zombies' first album, Deathlock, went platinum in 1999 and Spike won drummer of the year, there seemed to be no stopping this garage band of high school dropouts. But Spike found a way. With his huge ego and flair for paranoia, he managed to piss off everyone in no time, including the band's manager, agent, publicist, producer, all the way up to the head of the record label. The roadies especially despised him. They would set his drums up the wrong way or turn his speakers off whenever they could get away with it. And let's not forget the rest of The Screaming Zombies, Snake, Slasher and Slime, a/k/a Daryl, Marcus and Ricardo; they had a million reasons to hate Spike--most of them crisp and green, with pictures of dead presidents on them. They blamed him for the band's implosion and spectacular crash to the bottom that left them as broke as when they started. People say it takes only ten minutes to get used to a luxury, but a lifetime to get over losing it. Lucky for the Zombies they were always stoned, so their memories of the good life were too hazy to be painful.

Fast-forward three weeks to the present where Spike, still dead of course, has somehow taken over my life, causing me to put my house on the line, my reputation at risk and my sanity over the edge. Well, let's face it, I wasn't all that stable to begin with, but still…

It's hard to know where to start, but here goes. My name is Jamie Quinn. Jamie isn't short for anything; my mom just thought it was a good name, one that offered more opportunities than say Courtney or Brittany. She didn't want to burden me with society's stereotypes by choosing a name that was too girly, or sounded like a playboy bunny. She was always thinking ahead like that, which also made her a great nurse. Because she could connect the dots faster than anyone, she always knew when a patient was about to take a turn for the worse. Her co-workers at Hollywood Memorial Hospital (one of the top hospitals in Florida) were so impressed that they started calling her "Psychic Sue." Although she brushed it off whenever they did that, I think she was proud of her nickname. It was her super power, she would say. Superman may have had x-ray vision, but he could never match her diagnostic skills.

Unfortunately, like any super power, my mom's could be used for good or evil. And there were secrets behind those green eyes. When her cancer came back, she was the first to know, but she kept it to herself until it was too late for treatment. I'm sure she had her reasons, but I can't think of a single one that makes any sense. As usual, she had planned ahead. Her life insurance paid off the small house I grew up in on Polk Street and left me with enough cash to take some time off and gather my thoughts. The thought-gathering was her idea. Now, six months later, I am still trying to gather them, but it's no use. They are shadow puppets, gray wisps flitting through my brain, and they refuse to be caught. Somehow my mother knew that after she was gone I, too, would take a turn for the worse. Psychic Sue strikes again.

There is another thing you need to know about me--I'm a terrible sleeper. Let me put it this way, if I were taking a class in sleeping, I would get an 'F' (with an 'A' for effort, which doesn't count). But don’t think I'm throwing a pity party for myself--I'm not. This is all relevant to the story. Because I don't sleep much, I wander the house at night like the ghost of Hamlet's father (also named Hamlet, of course), but I am much quieter about it. I rattle no chains and make no demands of anyone. I do, however, need to sleep later in the day than most people, just to catch up, which I am able to do now that I'm not working. I'm only telling you this so you'll understand how I slept through my Aunt Peg's call and her hysterical message on my answering machine.

It was Monday, July 1st, the day that Spike (newly dead) took over my life. I had staggered out of bed around eleven (a.m.) after a particularly rough night (although it's getting harder to rank them at this point), so it wasn't until my second cup of coffee that I noticed the blinking light on the phone. Hardly anyone calls me on my landline anymore, so I figured it was just a telemarketer or someone conducting a survey. When I finally gave in and pushed the button, the ragged sound of my Aunt Peg crying made me spill my coffee all over my lap. What she said sent my adrenaline level spiking to new levels.

"Oh my God, Jamie, where are you? I can't find your cell number…I don't know what to do. I need your help…Adam's in trouble (she's sobbing at this point and I can't understand what she's saying) he's….he's… been arrested! I'm so scared. Please call me the minute you hear this…"

Now I was officially freaked out. First, because my aunt sounds so much like my mother on the phone. Second, because my cousin Adam is not someone who should be in jail, ever. And third, because how could anyone expect me to help with a crisis of this magnitude? I could barely take care of myself!

There's one more thing I should tell you about myself, but I don't like to bring it up. Since I have no choice, I'll just throw it out there and hope you don't think less of me, or make assumptions about my honesty or integrity. The truth is…I'm a lawyer. There, I said it. I hope that hasn't changed your opinion of me. I practice family law exclusively, which means that my limited area of expertise includes divorce, adoption, paternity, custody and child support. I use the word 'limited' because it's the only area I know, and it's hard enough to keep up with that. The problem is that friends, family, acquaintances, and even strangers tend to ask my advice in areas that I know nothing about. I'm truly sorry, but I can't help you with a real estate closing, or tell you what your back injury is worth; I can't help you file your Social Security claim, or advise you whether to file for bankruptcy. And I sure as hell can't represent you in a criminal case.

For Adam's sake, I hoped that wasn't what my aunt had in mind.

By the time I called her back, Aunt Peg had gone from hysterical to eerily calm and I don't know which one worried me more. She said that they were at the Hollywood police station where Adam was being held. She needed to stay with him, so she couldn't talk, but she'd fill me in when I came down.

"I'll get down there as soon as I can," I said. "You guys hang in there, okay?" I wanted to sound reassuring, but I'm not exactly the cavalry.

"I'll try, Jamie," she said, her voice cracking. "But there's something else I need you to do…"

"Of course, Aunt Peg, what is it?"

"Can you please come dressed like a lawyer?"

****

What scared me the most, starting out as a new lawyer, was that I couldn't begin to fathom the depths of my ignorance. The more I learned, the more I realized how much I didn't know. I've heard law schools actually teach students how to practice law these days, and not just about research and writing. Well, it's about damn time, I say. Now that I've been practicing law for ten years, I know what to do and where to stand, how to dress and how to negotiate and, if I'm not sure about something, I can usually bluff my way through. I've also learned how to size up my opponents: the nervous ones with shaky hands, the blustery ones with something to prove, and the cool, confident ones I longed to emulate. But, as my first boss used to say, half the battle is just showing up. The other half is preparing the best you can with the information you have.

In this instance, I had no information to go on except what I already knew about Adam's situation. I sat down at my computer to find the statute I needed and quickly printed a copy of it, along with the amendments. Then, looking in the mirror, I adjusted the lapel of my navy blue "power suit." After putting on my mother's elegant gold necklace, I touched up my hair and make-up and finished by dusting off my briefcase. My ensemble was complete. If I weren't already a lawyer, I could have easily played one on TV.

I couldn't remember the last time I'd left the house, but it had to be at least a week. The days all blurred together. It turns out that when you aren't working, it doesn't really matter what day it is. After grabbing my umbrella from its perch by the front door, I slid behind the wheel of my Mini Cooper. There was no need to check the weather, summer days are always the same here--hot and muggy in the morning, thunderstorms in the afternoon.

When you think about south Florida (and how can you avoid it when we're always in the news?) you probably think of trendy South Beach or swanky Palm Beach, where Donald Trump has a mansion; you may even think of Fort Lauderdale, where Spring Breakers used to swarm the beaches in drunken hordes until they were chased away, but you probably never think of Hollywood, the quiet town that lies between Miami and Fort Lauderdale. With an area of only thirty square miles, Hollywood is unpretentious, affordable and quaint. The streets are named for presidents, admirals and generals, which can turn a trip to the grocery store into an American history lesson. I suppose GPS has taken all the fun out of that. It's strange how technology enhances life and diminishes it at the same time.

I find living in Hollywood comforting, not only because I grew up here, but also because it doesn't change much. I can relive my favorite memories as I drive past my favorite landmarks--the Wings 'N' Curls restaurant where we used to meet after high school football games; and Stratford's Bar, where we went for billiards and cheap beer in college.