Who Killed My Boss? (Sam Darling Mystery #1) Read online

  Praise for Jerilyn Dufresne and the Sam Darling Mysteries

  Dufresne has created a charming, nosy, and slightly irreverent character in Samantha Darling, the heroine in Who Killed My Boss?, a fast-paced cozy that takes place in the small town of Quincy, Illinois.

  Beth Amos, author of the Mattie Winston Mystery series (as Annelise Ryan)

  The plot kept me guessing until nearly the end and I am looking forward to reading further adventures! Fun and entertaining read…highly recommended…well done!

  Anne Kelleher, author of A Once and Future Love and Wickham’s Folly

  Dufresne shows her gift of storytelling as she moves the plot forward, introducing believable characters and a complicated plot. Recommended to everyone who enjoys a well-written, fun, cozy mystery!

  Kimberly Shursen, author of Itsy Bitsy Spider and Hush

  And from Amazon reviewers:

  …It’s like reading the old Nancy Drew books with others. Loved it very very much!

  …This book was very well written and I loved all the humor sprinkled throughout the story. Characters were loveable, not to mention the dog. Great ending.

  …Sam Darling is the kind of gal you wish you could know in real life. Funny, quirky, entertaining. And her “partner,” Clancy the dog, helped make this book just plain fun to read. When’s the next one?!

  …Very exciting plot and hard to put down. Waiting for the next book to come out. I have told all my friends about how good the book was.

  …I am one who figures out the guilty party before the author does. This time I was WRONG! Very enjoyable book, fast paced…Looking forward to the next one.

  Sam Darling mysteries by Jerilyn Dufresne

  Who Killed My Boss?

  Any Meat in that Soup?

  Can You Picture This? (2014)

  About

  WHO KILLED MY BOSS?

  A few minutes after he hires Samantha Darling as a therapist, Dr. Burns is murdered. Stunned by his sudden death and desperate to keep the job she just got, Sam vows to find the killer.

  She has two things going for her. The first is that her brother Rob is a cop, and she figures the crime-solving thing has to be genetic. The second is that Sam is a little bit psychic—a trait she’s come to accept, though it can be inconvenient at times.

  With the help of her landlord and her dog, Sam sets out to solve the murder. Along the way, she spends time with the hot new guy in town and tries not to spend time with her old beau.

  Using her “vibes,” her wit, and her charm, Sam bumbles along and finally solves the mystery, but not before going in the wrong direction more than once.

  WHO KILLED MY BOSS?

  a Sam Darling mystery

  Jerilyn Dufresne

  To the eight other J’s, the brothers and sisters who inspired the five Darling siblings, although the Darlings aren’t nearly as sarcastic and fun as you are.

  ONE

  I beamed as Leonard Schnitzer plucked an enameled pen from the ceramic elephant on his desk, gave it a flourish, and began to sign the personnel authorization form. I would soon be an official employee.

  A scream brought us both to our feet. Schnitzer jumped up ready to investigate. I wasn’t as excited as he was. Hell, this was a psychiatric clinic. People yell in psychiatric clinics.

  Before he could escape, I acted on a hunch and hollered, “Sign this first. Sign the paper.” I grabbed the contract and held it under his nose, fearing that if he didn’t sign it before he left the room, he never would. “Sign it,” I commanded. I wanted that job. “Sign it now.”

  Shocked, he signed.

  I held on to the paper for dear life and followed his skinny behind right out of the room.

  We joined a stampede that led to the office of my brand new boss, Dr. Burns. A woman stood near the doorway with her back to me, papers spilled at her feet. My gaze followed hers through a maze of curious onlookers. She stared at Dr. Burns. He stared back serenely, but he wasn’t seeing anything. The scene looked almost peaceful except for the blood that defaced his beautiful Persian rug.

  Using offensive skills that the St. Louis Rams would envy, I pushed the group forward so I could be closer to the action. As I entered the room I clutched two strangers on either side of me when a dizzy spell unexpectedly hit. I shook it off and took a few more steps into Burns’ office.

  I was pretty sure Dr. Burns was dead, but then I’m a social worker and not a medical expert. Someone with a white coat and stethoscope around his neck checked Burns’ pulse and stopped another man from beginning CPR, as he slowly shook his head from side to side and quietly pronounced Burns dead. White Coat must have been a doctor. But the blood on the floor told the tale, even to an amateur like me. This guy had lost a lot of the red stuff. I’d never seen this much blood in one place except at a Red Cross blood drive. He was a goner.

  Shit, there goes my job.

  I knew it wasn’t very charitable to be concerned about my job with Dr. Burns dead on the floor, but self-preservation is a powerful motivator. Hell, I’d started my job less than fifteen minutes ago, after spending months searching for, and finally landing, a position in the private sector. Suddenly I recalled the significant piece of paper glued to my sweaty hand. A smile twitched and it was difficult to suppress it, but hot damn—I had the contract, signed by both Burns and Schnitzer, the personnel officer. My job was secure. At least for now.

  A sudden chill reminded me how serious the situation was. My shaking body convinced me I really did feel the intensity of the situation. Everyone else was shaking too—making me think we were a company full of empathy. Then I noticed that an office window was open and a freezing wind blew into Burns’ death chamber. So much for empathy. No one moved to close the window.

  Now that I didn’t have to worry about receiving a paycheck, my concern about my erstwhile boss’s death surfaced. I wondered how he died. Was it a horrible accident? Did a patient kill him? Or did he kill himself?

  I surprised myself by my lack of fear, but wrote it off to being in shock. I’d probably pay for it later.

  After a few moments, reason overcame my curiosity and I said, “Don’t touch anything.” I looked around and zeroed in on someone who didn’t look panic-stricken. “Will you call the police?”

  She looked down from her better-than-six-foot height, with her eyebrows raised nearly to the ceiling. “And just who might you be?”

  I bit back the retort I’d been ready to shoot at her. After all she towered over me by at least a foot. “Sorry. I’m Samantha Darling and I work here. I’m a new therapist. Someone’s got to call 911. Will you please call the police?” I spoke in my nicest social worker voice. Seemingly satisfied, she turned to leave.

  Every person in the room seemed to flash a cell phone at me sarcastically as the guy in the white coat said, “We already called 911. Didn’t you hear the yelling?”

  I hadn’t heard anything. But that didn’t surprise me. I often tuned in to my inner voice and tuned out reality.

  I turned to the rest of the curious bystanders. “Okay. Now that we know the cops and paramedics are on their way, will the rest of you please leave? We don’t want to mess up the crime scene. I’ll stay here and wait for the police to arrive.”

  My personnel office escort puffed up his chest and in a squeaky little voice tried to sound commanding as he pointed to the group with a large gesture, “Why you? Why should the rest of us leave?”

  His voice barely carried over the din of the other voices, but I had no such problem. “Because my brother is a cop and I know what I’m doing. Honest, Mr. Schnitzer, I have experience with this. I’ll explain it all later.”


  Surprisingly enough, my bullshit worked. Shock does strange things to people’s behavior and they obeyed me. Mom always said that confidence is a great leadership tool.

  Actually I sounded more confident than I felt. As the oldest of six kids, being bossy had become my survival skill. However, I was still nervous around a dead body. And I didn’t want to tell anyone that even though I really was a cop’s sister, my knowledge of crime scenes came primarily from reading psychological thrillers.

  After everyone left, some of them a bit ungraciously, a mewling noise caught my attention. Lying on the floor near the door was the woman who had greeted me that morning at the reception desk. She was crumpled into almost a fetal position, crying softly, and looked nothing like the receptionist who had met me earlier. Then, her nametag had blazed proudly on her chest and the glare careening off her overly coifed helmet-head had almost matched the blinding light from her teeth. A 180-degree turnaround in less than an hour.

  She was pretty in a brassy sort of way, even in her current disarray; her red-lacquered nails matched the crimson I remembered seeing on her large expressive mouth. Maybe she was younger than I was, but not by much. She looked like a person from the wrong side of town who worked hard to become someone who was no longer a social outcast.

  My take was she’d never make it into the big time in Quincy, but she wouldn’t get the cold shoulder in nice restaurants either.

  Her voice had a slight drawl to it. The uninitiated might think she was from the south, but my bet was that she was a River Rat who crawled up to dry land. In our town in West Central Illinois, the wrong side of the tracks meant you had one foot in the Mississippi River and the other foot in mud.

  Anyway, this poor wretch on the floor bore little resemblance to that perky confident employee from a scant hour ago.

  The woman I’d asked to call the police returned and together we knelt to check the person on the floor. In the midst of this, we introduced ourselves, and I apologized for asking her to make a call to those already on their way. My helper was Marian Dougherty, another therapist, and a tall one at that. The woman acting as a doorstop was Gwen Schneider. We gently raised Gwen to her feet and walked her to a chair in the hallway. I asked Marian to stay with her while I checked on the crime scene.

  Marian started to talk, “Why do you need to check…‌okay, never mind. It’s because your brother’s a cop and you have experience in these kind of things.”

  I grinned and nodded.

  Her eyebrows rose again, but this time she almost smiled as I walked back into the other room.

  The office was eerily silent, although the echo of Gwen’s crying seemed to remain. Carefully, I closed the door behind me. I wanted quiet but didn’t want to obscure any fingerprints.

  Before I did anything else, I needed to stop my heart from galloping out of my chest. I closed my eyes and took a few deep breaths, practicing an abbreviated relaxation response. I pictured myself with Brad Pitt on an otherwise deserted beach. When that failed to calm me, I pictured myself alone in the same place. As my breathing slowed, so did my pulse.

  Calm and thinking clearly now, I decided to look around while I was waiting for the police to arrive. Burns was lying on his back in front of his desk with his face turned toward the door. His arms were extended about shoulder level and he looked like his swan dive was aborted into a back flop. I couldn’t see what caused the bleeding. It looked like it came from his neck or his head. The blood was starting to congeal in the large pool under his head, and I noticed a weird irregular blood spatter around the room. The pattern looked like a drunken circle, haphazardly touching desk, walls, carpet, and chairs. Did I only imagine the metallic smell? Suppressing the urge to touch him, I backed away. The Good Samaritan who’d checked Burns’ pulse and pronounced him dead had already moved him a bit and I didn’t want to add to the evidence disarray.

  I observed what I could. If I were lucky, the police would ask me for information and I’d be able to supply it. My brothers were always saying I acted like I wanted to be a cop. I’d prove to them I knew how to maintain the integrity of a crime scene.

  Only yesterday I had finished reading Bipolar Passion. The hero had managed to shoo everyone out of the murder room and kept the clues intact. The police heralded him for his astute work and he then proceeded to solve the crime. I was certain I could do the same.

  I walked over to the open window, which overlooked the back yard. Wondering why it was open in January, I peered outside. There didn’t appear to be anything else out of the ordinary. Except for footprints leading away from the building. In the snow, those footprints glistened. From where I was standing, they appeared to be average size. Heck, I really didn’t know what I was looking for, but I thought the cops would like that I noticed some stuff. At least I’d be able to tell my brothers of my astute observation skills.

  Finally, the police arrived, and when I saw the officer, I prepared for his inevitable snort.

  “What in the hell are you doing here?” he asked.

  “I work here; I just started this morning. Don’t you remember that I came here for an interview last week? I thought you were one of the smart ones in the family.”

  “Damn it, Sam, you know what I mean. What are you doing in this room?” As Rob spoke, he walked slowly toward the body. It’s funny how quickly a person—in this case, Dr. Burns—becomes “the body.”

  “I came in with a group of people after we heard a lady scream. You should be thanking me. I got everyone out and preserved the evidence.”

  “Are you sure you didn’t touch anything?”

  Typical little brother, second-guessing me. “Of course I didn’t touch anything. Well, except the door, but I was careful. See, Rob, I’m looking you straight in the face. You know I can’t lie when I do that.”

  Rob grinned and tried desperately to hide it. He was such a little cutie, almost like a kid playing cops and robbers. His dark brown hair had just a hint of red in it and it complemented the ruddiness in his cheeks.

  “That won’t stand up in court.”

  “Yeah, but it’s true anyway.”

  A detective walked in at that moment and I knew Rob would have to turn over the investigation to him. Rob’s time in the sun was over. The new arrival wore a stereotypical rumpled suit, Quincy’s own Columbo. He was medium height and his salt and pepper hair barely covered his balding head. Smugly I noticed a bit of a strain where buttons joined the edges of the jacket, but had to admit he looked in pretty good shape for his age.

  I knew his age—40-something, same as mine.

  “Hey, Sam, long time no see. I heard you moved back to town. How are ya?”

  “Fine, George. Did you notice there’s a dead body in the room?” It was all right for my brother and me to be irreverent, but I wouldn’t tolerate it from Butthead George Lansing, the meanest kid ever to grace the detention room of St. Francis High School. I guess I should call him “Detective Butthead.” Luckily I believed in miracles, because that’s the only explanation for George’s success on the police force. Although he was a rotten kid, I heard he was a decent cop. He’d have to prove that before I’d believe it.

  For now, I’d be cordial, but that was it.

  Butthead got right down to business. “Rob, will you inform the other staff members that I want to speak to them individually, and tell them not to talk to each other about what went on.”

  “Sure thing.”

  “And send the coroner to me as soon as he arrives.”

  Rob nodded as he exited. I don’t think George noticed Rob’s quick wink to his big sister.

  “So, Sam, what are you doing here? And don’t say you work here, I mean what are you doing in this room?” He paused. “And why are you grinning?”

  “I just noticed you called Rob by his first name. Guess you don’t want to call him ‘Officer Darling’ in public.”

  “Yeah, right. So what are you doing in this room? Nosing around?” As he questioned me, he herded me into the cor
ridor. I didn’t protest. Being in the presence of a dead body was starting to get on my nerves, and I didn’t want Butthead to notice.

  From his questions, it looked like Butthead knew me pretty well. That was one more reason I didn’t like him.

  “Well, Butthea…‌I mean, George, I came in here with a lot of other staff when we heard a scream. One of the typists, I heard someone call her Doris, was standing in the doorway. Those files were scattered around her on the floor. As we crowded into the room we may have stepped on them. When I got inside the office I saw Burns just like you see him. Someone checked his pulse—it was a male in a white coat—and decided not to do CPR. He must be a doctor because he pronounced Burns dead. But he was the only person to touch the deceased. Gwen Schneider, the receptionist, is the woman sitting on the chair in the hall. She was crumpled on the floor in here crying. I don’t think she was there when we came in, though. I kinda pushed the group forward into the room and she probably fell then. I told everyone to get lost and I maintained the integrity of the scene until Rob, I mean Officer Darling, arrived.” The least I could do was treat my brother respectfully in front of Butthead.

  More than twenty-five years after graduating from high school and my animosity toward him had not diminished. No reason to be nice to him. The jerk stood me up on prom night.

  What an asshole. He didn’t deserve my forgiveness. Maybe someday I’d be magnanimous, but the time wasn’t right for forgiveness yet. The time was right for moral superiority and looking down on him as the low-life slug that he was.

  I couldn’t help myself. “I know more.” I kept my voice low so Gwen and Marian didn’t hear.

  George raised one eyebrow. “What do you mean you know more?”

  “I know more but you didn’t ask me the right question.”

  “Dammit, Sam, I didn’t get a chance to ask you many questions. I asked you one and you started babbling.”