An American Cozy Mystery Book Series

Jamie Quinn Cozy Mysteries by Barbara Venkataraman

Series Excerpt

Exactly one week later, I was having dinner with Grace at my favorite birthday restaurant, Le Bonne Crepe, in Fort Lauderdale. Except that it wasn't my birthday. We'd picked it because it's next-door to Grace's office on upscale Las Olas Boulevard. (I mentioned that she works for a big securities firm, right?) Also, I knew she had bad news for me and I felt that I deserved a treat, like a prisoner's last meal.

"How about Crêpe Suzette?" Grace said. "When they light it on fire, it's like dinner and a show. Not to mention it's scrumptious." Grace always got excited about dessert.

"Are you kidding?" I said. "That's the reason I come here. I love Grand Marnier. Crêpe Suzette is an after-dinner drink disguised as dessert."

"Vanilla ice cream on the side?"

"Do you really have to ask?"

She laughed. "Just testing you. So, should we get to work now?"

"You're ruining my dessert buzz, Gracie!" I said, throwing up my hands.

"Okay, okay, sorry James, it can wait…"

After we had eaten every bite, licked our fingers and the forks, we sat back in our upholstered chairs and sipped our coffee, soaking up the cozy ambience of the French Bistro.

"I would've licked the plate if you weren't here…" Grace said, wistfully.

"You know I don't judge."

"See? That's why I like you," she said with a laugh.

***

Grace and I had been friends since our second year at Nova Law School when we discovered we were in all the same classes. It turns out when you run into a person four times a day, every day, eventually you'll strike up a conversation. Grace was motivated, one of those people who actually wanted to be a lawyer, serious about school, but with a crazy sense of humor. I was an English Lit major who had drifted into law school for lack of a better plan. Being friends with Grace made law school so much better.

One night, we were at Grace's apartment studying for a Torts exam. Around three in the morning, we started getting punchy. We'd just finished reading about the "eggshell plaintiff" (someone more susceptible to injury than the average person) when Grace darted off to the kitchen. She came back a few minutes later holding a plate and giggling her head off. On the plate was a little person she'd made out of eggshells with the words "Help me Jamie!" in ketchup next to it. I almost fell out of my chair laughing.

"Grace, you 'crack' me up!" I said, feeling quite witty. Of course, at three a.m., my standards tend to drop considerably.

The next day, during the exam, all I could think about was Grace's poor little eggshell person and I had to stifle my giggles. Everyone in the room must've thought I was nuts.

***

"Jamie, it's that time, I'm afraid…" Grace looked serious.

"I guess I'm ready." I said, leaning forward. I pulled a pad of paper and pen from my purse and laid them on the table.

"Do you want the bad news, or the really bad news?"

"Is 'neither' an acceptable answer?" I sighed. "Whatever you think, Grace."

She signaled the waiter for the check, which he promptly deposited in the center of the table.

"Okay, I reviewed the police report and the forensics report from the crime scene. You already know about the incriminating statements Adam made, but there's more. The victim's blood was found on Adam's shoes, but only on the soles, which could have happened when he walked over to the body." She paused to look at her notes. "Moving on to cause of death, the victim, Spike, who doesn't seem to have a last name, was killed by a blow to the head. The murder weapon was a didgeridoo, which was found at the scene."

"What the hell is a did-ger-i-doo?"

"I had to look it up. According to Wikipedia, it's an Australian Aboriginal wind instrument. Basically, it's a long wooden tube around four feet long that can weigh up to ten pounds. This one weighed six. According to the report, there were several sets of fingerprints on it, including the victim's." Grace looked at me sympathetically. "And Adam's…"

I groaned. "Just because he touched the didgeri-whatever doesn't mean he murdered his music teacher! He plays lots of musical instruments, that's his thing. And Adam would never hurt anyone, even if they were pounding him senseless. Remember when he was in middle school and those kids beat him up and broke his arm? He couldn't even defend himself! He had no reason to hurt his teacher."

Grace nodded, her long dark hair falling into her face. "I know, Jamie."

"Well, what news could be worse than that?"

"The State Attorney plans to press charges against Adam next week."

"Damn it!" I slammed my pad of paper on the table. "Have they even looked for the real murderer? Someone with a reason to kill this guy?"

"It doesn't seem like. Their golden boy, Nick Dimitropoulos, is handling the case. He's a hotshot right out of school who wants to make a name for himself. I hear he's planning to go into politics, like his father…"

"Oh my God! Don't tell me he's Theo Dimitropoulos' son! That's just great--the son of a state senator is gunning for my disabled cousin…" I felt like crying, or screaming, or both simultaneously. "What am I going to do, Grace? I can't represent him, and my aunt doesn't have the money to hire a lawyer. She's an elementary school teacher."

Grace looked thoughtful. "What about Adam's father?

"Dave?" I shook my head. "No way, he's broke. He isn't even part of Adam's life anymore. He got remarried and moved out of state. I think he has three more kids."

"Well, here's my advice: let the public defender represent him. This is a high-profile case, so they'll put their best person on it, and that's Susan Doyle. She's very good and she's been at this a lot longer than 'Slick Nick'. We used to work together at the PD's office and she won't mind if I help her strategize. You know I'll do whatever I can for you…"

I felt a glimmer of hope. "What if I mortgaged my house? It's free and clear. Then I could hire a great defense attorney--nothing against Susan, of course."

Grace shook her head. "That won't work," she said gently. "You can't qualify for a mortgage because you're not employed. And you may need to use your house as collateral."

"Collateral? For what?" I asked.

"To post bail, Jamie," she said.