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

I’d show him. “Okay, since you think I’m babbling, I won’t tell you what else I know.”

  “Dammit, Sam, this isn’t a game of Twenty Questions. Someone died here.”

  “I know. And my name is Sam, not ‘Dammit, Sam.’”

  He wasn’t amused. “Tell me what else you think is important.”

  I decided to cooperate, even though he wasn’t good at this question thing. “When I walked into his office for my interview last week, I heard him talking on the phone.”

  “And…”

  “And he said something like, ‘I’ll have something for you next week.’ And then ‘Leave me alone.’ I didn’t think much about it at the time.”

  “Do you know who he was talking to?”

  “Nope.”

  “How did he sound? Was he calm? Did he look nervous?”

  I looked at Butthead a moment before I answered. “I don’t really remember. What he said stuck with me because I thought it was a little unusual, but I don’t think he seemed upset or anything like that.”

  “Okay, you can get back to work. I’ll let you know when I want to talk to you. Thanks for your help in the investigation.”

  I wanted to wipe that stupid condescending grin off of his face. If it weren’t for me, there would still be a bunch of people in the room, gawking and carrying on. Why was he treating me like excess baggage? I would not be dismissed this easily.

  Not bothering to return his smile, I started to leave the room, but then had an idea.

  “Hey, George, why don’t you interview people in the kitchen? It’s a comfortable room. When Dr. Burns gave me a tour I noticed it’s isolated from the rooms where the patients will be.”

  “Thanks. Maybe I will.”

  Now it was my turn to grin. My brand new office conveniently adjoined the kitchen. I wasn’t being nosy; I just wanted to help.

  Okay, I was being nosy. But I still wanted to help. Maybe the cops didn’t want my opinion and expertise, but damn it, I had a lot of experience with people. Plus I had my “vibes.”

  My brother, Rob, knew about my “vibes,” but I don’t think Butthead suspected. Over the years I’d begun tuning in to the strange bodily sensations I experienced sometimes. I’d get headaches or dizziness or neck spasms when I encountered something evil or maybe just weird. My body was kicking into overdrive and I knew Burns’ death was not an accident or suicide. I decided to use these vibes to help me solve the murder. I figured it would be the way to keep my job. If I solved the mystery, the new boss of the psychiatric clinic would certainly reward me with job security.

  In the meantime, a little eavesdropping couldn’t hurt. I’d listen a while, do some investigating on my own and then pass the information on to my brother. I was just trying to be a good citizen and to keep my job…‌and just possibly make Rob look smarter than Butthead.

  TWO

  Before Butthead began interviewing staff, I decided to get settled into my office. Being next to the kitchen was a real bonus for me and my appetite. The office was full of furniture, but lacked a personal touch. I’d remedy that at the earliest opportunity. And it was small compared to Dr. Burns’ mega-office, but it was cozy and it was mine.

  I sat in my wonderfully overstuffed desk chair, propped up my feet on the oak desk, and looked around, giving myself a metaphorical pat on the back. Moving from government to the private sector was a bright idea.

  Muffled voices from the hallway tempted me to open my door and look. Two bored-looking men wheeled Dr. Burns toward the front door. At least, I hoped it was Dr. Burns under the navy wool blanket. One death was plenty, I didn’t think I could personally cope with two. I moved to my front window to continue watching as the men loaded the body into the back of the generic funeral home station wagon.

  I stood there a few moments after the car left, thinking about the man who’d hired me and how quickly his life was snuffed out.

  My mind wandered to my pleasant surroundings. I was happy to note there were no drapes on my windows. Long, narrow, and curved at the top, the windows were discreetly clad in cloth-covered shades that matched the appealing wallpaper.

  A loveseat and matching chair, empty bookshelves, and an end table rounded out the furniture. Behind my desk was a tiny marble fireplace. Next to it sat an oak filing cabinet that I hoped to fill with case notes on exciting and curable patients.

  I could live in this room. All the place needed was my stuff. I’d take care of that tomorrow. Assuming I’d still have a job tomorrow. Burns just died, but I imagined the clinic would go on functioning. At least that was my fondest hope.

  Coffee, that’s what I need to complete this cozy picture. Coffee. Taking one last survey of the room, I headed for the door next to the fireplace that led to the kitchen.

  I found a clean mug, filled it, and returned to my office. I decided to re-arrange my furniture a bit, thinking that the desk and chair would look perfect closer to the kitchen door. My chair fit snugly in a little alcove, about three or four feet from the servants’ door which led to the most important room in the house.

  I settled in, deciding I needed a little quiet time, time to meditate. I wondered what Clancy would say when I told her about today’s happenings.

  Clancy was my best friend. And my dog. She was a cross between a yellow lab and a chow. At first glance she appeared a regular mutt, but there was much more to her than the mane-like ruff and gorgeous dark eyes. She had excellent nonverbal communication skills and our connection bordered on the psychic. I told her everything. She responded in kind.

  Soon I heard voices coming from the kitchen and had no choice but to listen.

  B.H.’s voice rang crystal clear as he began asking questions. I couldn’t call B.H. by his given name of George, because I was still pissed off at him. But at least I decided to be mature and call him B.H. instead of Butthead.

  My chair moved closer to the door, almost of its own volition. I smiled, thinking I had the best seat in the house.

  B.H. began in his best cop manner, “Tell me what happened this morning in your own words.”

  An unidentified female voice answered. “I knocked on Dr. Burns’ door because he told me he wanted to sign the case notes I’d been typing. When there was no answer, I decided to put the notes on his desk where he could find them later.” I moved a bit closer at this point because she—I guessed it was Doris—started sniffling a little and it was hard to understand her. “Then I walked in and saw him on the floor bleeding. I screamed and I guess I dropped everything I was holding. That’s all that happened until everyone else came in and then that new lady, I think her name is Pam or Sam or something, started bossing us all around and made us leave.”

  It’s really amazing to me how some people can misinterpret someone else’s decisive actions as bossiness. Well, obviously, Miss Doris had some unresolved authority issues that she needed to deal with. But unless I wanted to be accused of bossiness again, I probably wouldn’t tell her about it.

  B.H. continued, “Did you hear anything this morning that sounded suspicious or unusual?”

  “Uh-uh.” Which I presumed meant “no.”

  “Has there been anything else going on that was unusual?”

  “No, not really (sniff, sniff). But that new guy in town that started the private investigating agency—what’s his name…‌Mick or Mike or something?”

  “Michael O’Dear?”

  “Yeah, I guess that’s his name. Anyway, he was here this morning and saw Dr. Burns, but I don’t know why.”

  It’s unfortunate that vibes don’t travel through walls and doors. I couldn’t get a feel on whether she knew anything else or not. And who was this O’Dear guy? A private detective in Quincy? I wondered why he visited Burns this morning. Was it detective work or a psychiatric visit?

  B.H. continued with the questions, “How long have you worked here? Did you get along with Dr. Burns? What time did you arrive this morning? Describe what you did from the moment you arrived until you found Dr. Burns. Did
Dr. Burns have any enemies that you know of?”

  What I got from the answers was that Dr. Burns wasn’t in the running for Nice Guy of the Year Award. I overheard “crabby,” “aloof,” “overbearing,” and “distracted.” I was almost glad I hadn’t gotten to know him.

  Too bad B.H. didn’t need my help in the room. Maybe he wouldn’t notice if I went in and made a fresh pot of coffee.

  He did notice. With the same stupid grin on his face, he stopped the conversation until I made the coffee, waited for it to finish brewing, poured myself a cup, and walked out of the kitchen. A full ten minutes. He was good.

  B.H. repeated the same conversation with other staff members, but elicited no new information. Several of them remarked on my ability to take charge of a situation. Perhaps they phrased it a bit differently. I recall hearing the word “bossy” a few times, but resolved that I wouldn’t be bothered by the remark. People just needed to get to know me a bit. They’d come around. Listening to them was getting to be boring; the same information was repeated time and again. I was patient however, and soon my persistence paid off. Miss Gwen Schneider arrived for her interview.

  By this time, my ear was firmly implanted in the door.

  “Miss Schneider, can you tell me what happened this morning in your own words?”

  “Boo-hoo, sob, sob, slobber, snort.”

  The interpretation being, “I know plenty, Bub, but I’m too broken up right now to talk about it.”

  Through the wall I couldn’t get a feel for whether she was upset because she loved him or because she killed him. Or maybe something in between. And I didn’t know whether to feel compassion for her or antipathy. Or maybe something in between.

  Despite her slobbery sobs, I heard her say that when she walked into Burns’ office with the rest of us, she was overcome with grief. She said she fell to the floor and didn’t recall anything else until “that bossy lady told Marian to take me into the hallway.”

  Decisive. Decisive.

  It looked like it was time for another cup of coffee.

  Without glancing at B.H., I slowly ambled to the coffeepot. When Gwen continued crying, I put my mug on the counter, walked to her, and placed my hands on her shoulders. Looking in her eyes, I asked if I could help. She shook her head, but absolute misery just poured off of her. She was in so much pain. At that point it didn’t matter to me whether she’d killed him or not, she was really suffering. I let my hands slide around her and hugged her to me. She resisted for a brief second and then literally collapsed onto me. Her sobs shook her body for several minutes. I was very focused on her and didn’t notice until later that B.H. kept silent and didn’t interrupt.

  When she started to regain her composure, B.H. looked at me and mouthed “Take her out of here.” I was glad to oblige and it wasn’t entirely done out of the goodness of my heart. This seemed like a good opportunity to tune in to her, ask some questions, and see what was going on.

  We left the kitchen and went into my office. I guided Gwen to the loveseat and sat beside her. For a while she continued to sniff and cry into a tissue I’d given her, and then looked at me suspiciously.

  “What do you want?”

  “Nothing really. I saw that you were hurting and wanted to help.”

  She half-smiled. “I’m surprised.”

  “Well, I am a social worker. It’s kind of built in.”

  She started snorting and sniffling again. “I don’t deserve your sympathy. I don’t deserve anything but jail. I didn’t mean to, but…” the snorting sound effects continued.

  Aha, here was my chance. “You didn’t mean to what, Gwen?”

  Before she could regain her composure to answer me, I suddenly felt someone was in the room with us. I repeated my prompting, “You didn’t mean to what, Gwen?”

  Too late. She’d controlled her blubbering and wasn’t going to give me anything.

  The feeling that someone was with us remained.

  My footsteps were slow and quiet as I inched toward the kitchen door. I recognized the same heavy breathing on the other side that I remembered from the back seat of a ’65 Chevy during high school. With a jerk I pulled the door inward, and just like in a Charlie Chaplin movie, in fell B.H. himself. When I saw him lying there, it did wonders to temporarily appease the revenge mentality I felt. However, he didn’t even have the good sense to look embarrassed.

  “Miss Schneider, I’d like you to accompany me to the police station. We need to talk some more.” He stood as if nothing had happened.

  Guiltily and hastily, I blurted, “Gwen, I promise I didn’t know he was there. Besides, I know you didn’t kill Dr. Burns.”

  “But…”

  “It doesn’t matter how I know, I just know.” There’s no way in the world I could try to explain to this grieving woman and Detective Butthead that Gwen didn’t “feel” guilty. “Get yourself a good lawyer, and I’ll stay in touch.”

  “Now, Miss Schneider, there’s no need to get a lawyer. I just want to ask you a few more questions down at the station. You are not being accused of anything and you are not under arrest.” Butthead did the best he could to intimidate me. He glared.

  I glared back. He was a rank amateur. As the oldest of six kids I had the “sister look” down pat. I could silence a mortal at thirty paces. He pretended it didn’t bother him, but he didn’t fool me. I knew he was cowed.

  As they left, I resolved to find out everything I could about this case. Gwen obviously knew more about the murder and certainly felt guilty about something, but I knew she wasn’t the killer. So my quest was to find the one who did the deed.

  I felt up to it. The odds were that no one would fire me or lay me off until well after the funeral when the business affairs were settled. Until then, no one would realize that I didn’t have any work to do.

  Heck, half the office probably didn’t even know I was hired. Still, I’d heard that Dr. Burns liked to assign patients to new staff members himself, so I didn’t have to worry about being asked to do any actual work for at least a few days. I thought I could earn my salary by looking for who killed the boss. Maybe people would be so impressed that I could keep the job. Who knows? But as my son would say, “Yeah, and maybe pigs will fly out of my butt.”

  On that note, I set to work. At least I thought about setting to work. It was quitting time.

  My first day on the job was certainly eventful. My main concern now was to solve this case, prove to be indispensable and keep my job.

  THREE

  “No, no, Paolo. I can’t stay with you. I belong to the world.”

  “Cara mia, stay. I will treat you like the queen that you are. The world will survive without you, but I will not.” He began kissing my fingers and slowly and deliciously moved up my arm until he got tantalizingly close to my open lips.

  I was torn between pretending hesitancy and following my heart…‌and my body.

  Brrng, brrng.

  “Shit!” The phone jolted me awake, and I was not in a good mood. Giving up Paolo wasn’t fun; he was the best dream man in a long time. Before I picked up the phone I glanced at the sturdy athletic watch on my wrist. Six A.M.? What in the hell…?

  “Yeah.” It wasn’t my most clever opening line, but it would have to do.

  “Sam, this is Jenny. We got a problem in the ER and need a counselor. I see that you’re on call. Rise and shine.”

  “Is this your idea of a joke? I just got hired yesterday. Couldn’t be on call yet.”

  “Get in here, sis. We need you. You know I wouldn’t lie to you. The on-call sheet says you are the designated hitter, so come on.”

  “Yeah sure.” Clever retort. When it came to my younger sister, I was always quick with the witty dialogue. “Okay. What do you need?”

  Jen was actually Jennifer Darling Vu, Director of Emergency Services at Bay General, the local hospital, and married to Dr. Manh Vu, a pediatrician, originally from Vietnam. We were happy to have him in the family for a lot of reasons, not the leas
t of which was that he provided free pediatric care to the growing family.

  Being the oldest of six was both a gift and a curse. I loved the gang and their assorted spouses, significant others, and kids. I also resented the hell out of the fact that I’d had to get a divorce in order to have a bedroom to myself.

  Jen interrupted my ruminations. “We have an ER full of drunks and I think we need a crisis intervention specialist, rather than calling the police. Can you come in and help?”

  “Sure, be there in a few minutes.” As I hung up, I actually felt pretty good. Jen asked me for help very infrequently and I was glad to oblige. Before I had applied at the clinic, Jen told me that Doctor Burns negotiated a nice little contractual relationship with the hospital, so that the psychiatric division of the clinic provided emergency crisis intervention and therapeutic intervention on an as-needed basis. The on-call therapist did the initial assessment and determined if the psychiatrist needed to be called. Illinois was one of the states where licensed clinical social workers were allowed to practice independently and even receive insurance payments.

  I dressed in jeans, T-shirt and wool sweater. Quincy was cold in January, especially this damn early. I put on boots and a parka, grabbed my phone and keys and started to leave. It felt odd that there was no one to tell that I was going out. My divorce was a thing of the distant past, but I was used to having my children around. Their departure was too recent for my solitude to be very comfortable. Adam was a junior at the University of Illinois, and Sarah was in her first year at the same school. After the holidays, they had both gone back to school early because of their commitments, and, I suspected, because of their respective love interests.

  As I left, I made sure the answering machine was plugged in. Then I realized I did have someone to notify. Clancy had been following me around ever since the phone rang. She had been sleeping on my bed, and when the phone rang she raised her regal head and gave me her “get off your butt” look.

  I crouched down to her level. “I need to go to the ER. I promise I’ll be back in time for your morning run. And remind me to tell you about my dream. It was a corker.”