Love?: Samantha Barclay Mystery, #6

By Suzanne M. Hurley

Stuffed in a barrel, buried under cement, a dead body is found in the basement of Psychologist/FBI Samantha Barclay's cabin. Her beloved step-mother, retired Sheriff Irena Edwards, is arrested for murder. On the trail to uncover the real killer, Samantha discovers the length people will go – all in the name of love.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Wings ePress, Inc.
• Release date: Feb 1, 2023
• ISBN: 9781613092538

Book preview

One

Yes, cried Mariah, as she stood back to get a good look, clapping her hands in delight. That’s the perfect wedding dress for you.

I smiled at her excitement, wishing I’d shared it. Just wasn’t too sure.

Moving closer to the full length mirror in Voluptuous Veils, Paxton, West Virginia’s one and only bridal shop, I stared at my reflection. It stared right back. Long, curly red hair greeted me, green eyes, multiple freckles, pale face devoid of any color whatsoever, no smile, no twinkle in my eye, no glow and oh yes, I was swathed in a white satin gown.

Was that really my reflection? That washed out, ghostly apparition? Weren’t brides-to-be supposed to be radiant? Ecstatic?

What was even stranger was that I was usually a ‘smiling-kind of’ person, but for some reason, just couldn’t seem to summon one up today. Not even a teeny tiny one.

I squinted, still trying to size up how I looked. Jeans and tees were more my style. Dresses were a rarity and fashion completely foreign to me. Just not important in the least.

Sigh.

I still couldn’t believe that I, Samantha Barclay—high school psychologist/FBI special agent— was getting ready to marry my fiancé, Al Michaels, and was even at the stage of buying a wedding dress.

But shouldn’t I look happier about it? Rosy-faced? Shiny-like?

Weren’t weddings touted as the best day of our lives? And saying ‘yes’ to the dress, one step closer to the coveted pinnacle—the wedding day?

And then... contented married life.

A shot of fear sliced through me. A tear formed, and began sliding down my cheek. Quickly brushing it away, I glanced behind me. Had anyone noticed? Nope. Whew!

My stepmother, Irena Edwards, was staring intently at her iPhone, thumbs flying over the keyboard, while Mariah Blue, my half-sister, was checking out the buttons on the back of the gown. Thank goodness. I certainly didn’t want them made privy to my thoughts. Wouldn’t be able to stand all the questions they’d surely ask.

Looking back at the mirror, once again I was alarmed by how sad I looked. Or maybe frightened was more accurate. I mean, really, this was supposed to be a happy time, right? A time of exciting plans and making dreams come true, right? So why did I look like I was in mourning? Like I was prepping to attend a funeral?

Okay, I never really did have great fantasies about my wedding day to begin with, but figured buying the dress was supposed to be somewhat exciting. So, why wasn’t it? Why was I dreading committing to this gown, or any of them? And... was it the actual day or the ‘forever’ kind of marriage that was freaking me out?

I was a psychologist and a trained FBI agent – why couldn’t I figure this out?

It was a problem that needed a resolution, and I was usually pretty good at sorting through stuff like this. Or at least when it came to my work. For some reason, my personal life left me stunned, confused, unable to make sense of any of it.

Sorry, said Irena, flipping her phone back in her purse. Had to answer a text from your dad. But I agree with Mariah. That dress is a beauty. Absolutely stunning.

Do you think so? I managed to plant a fake smile on my face. Really?

Really, said Irena. I don’t think you could find a more perfect gown.

Yeah? I knew I sounded like a little kid, but just couldn’t help it.

Yeah. Now, would we lie? barked out an impatient Mariah. Here, put this veil on. Let’s get the full effect.

Picking up the long, frothy swirl of white tulle draped over a chair, she attached it to my head via a silver tiara. I stared. Yep, it lived up to the store’s name. Definitely voluptuous.

Sam, it’s you, added Mariah, fussing over it, draping it just so. The dress is not too prissy or lacy, but elegant and fits you like a glove. The veil sets the whole thing off. The tiara is perfect—not too ornate or anything. You’re a vision.

Probably believing she’d got it just right, Mariah, looking exhausted, grimaced as she tried to squeeze herself into a chair. Being eight and half months pregnant made it quite a feat and all that huffing and puffing made me nervous, so I was glad when she finally managed it and looked up at me. Waiting for an answer, I supposed.

Yeah? But a vision of what? I asked.

Of perfection. You’ll even rival Pippa Middleton with your toned backside, said Mariah, with a grin.

At least that got me laughing. Was that why she was checking out the back of the gown?

Yeah, like that’s my goal in life. Hey, are you okay? I was thrilled she came on this shopping excursion, but she suddenly looked white. Whiter than me, even.

Yeah, yeah, I’m fine, she muttered, moving around, as if still trying to get comfortable. Dying for a smoke, though. She glanced down at her belly. C’mon out already, little babe. I don’t mind if you’re early.

Watching her face dissolve into grumpiness and seeing her clench her fingers as if holding onto a pretend cigarette, got me smiling. But I was empathetic. It was tough letting go of an addiction and I could sure relate. Mine was sugar and my huge so-called sweet tooth, and I hadn’t even begun to deal with that issue.

Mariah had married one of my heroes – my principal, Casey Locke. They were madly in love, that was plenty obvious, and it had been a blast watching them come together, compromise and forge out a happy existence. It had afforded me lots of laughs though, since both were older when they met, set in their ways and very strong people with high-powered careers—Casey, being a high school principal and Mariah, a well-respected, renowned newspaper reporter for the New York Times.

I knew Casey would kill her if she so much as even touched a cigarette during this pregnancy. Well, not really kill, but he’d be over-the-top angry. She had high blood pressure; he was worried about her health, and had been bugging her for ages to stop smoking. Of course, he was so excited about the baby, he wanted everything to be perfect. Mariah did too, but was finding it hard.

Thought you’d given them up, barked Irena, who I knew totally disapproved of smoking. My stepmother and Dad were completely clean-living, which may be the reason she was healthy as anything in her early seventies. Like seventies were the new fifties. She looked that good. Slim, fit and bursting with vitality.

Mostly. Mariah sighed, popping in some gum. Especially during this pregnancy. Still miss them, though. Miss chain-smoking waiting for news stories to unfold, not to mention all those long hours in my car, spying on people. Sure beat stuffing myself with donuts, but it’s a horrible vice and a hard habit to break. Gum just doesn’t cut it. But enough about me. I’ve got to get smoking out of my mind before I go crazy. She shook her head as if airing it out, blew a huge bubble, popped it, exclaiming again, Sam, you look gorgeous.

By her tight, pursed lips, I could tell Irena was fighting back a lecture about the ills of smoking. I’d heard it all before and it sure wasn’t pretty, for she went into all sorts of sordid details and examples. Guess she’d figured it would be pointless because instead, she turned all her attention back to me, saying, Yes, it shows off your lovely figure, dear. It’s good to see you out of those baggy clothes you usually wear. I don’t think I even realized before that you have such a tiny waist.

Lovely figure? Yeah right.

Years ago, I was sixty-five pounds overweight, until my doctor suggested I take up jogging to relieve the stress I was experiencing during my studies at college. I had really bad acid reflux and kept breaking out in itchy red hives that he linked to my frequent all-nighters before exams and the intensity with which I approached everything. The exercise slimmed me down, eased my heartburn and cured my rash, but still, in my mind’s eye, I was always heavy. Just couldn’t shake that feeling of a being a ‘big’ girl. Of course, lots of people were fine with being heavy but I wasn’t. It made me feel uncomfortable, especially all the panting I did while climbing stairs, but it still didn’t help that I was a bonafide junk-food-aholic of the worst kind. I’d pick chocolate over veggies anytime, but these days I just ran more after I’d indulged. Sure didn’t know where they got the lovely figure thing. I frowned. I didn’t see that, but then again, I think everyone looks at themselves with super critical eyes, and besides, I had bigger things to worry about. I just wish I could shake off this impending feeling of doom.

Oh, no.

I was getting emotional again.

Well, guess I’ll take this one, I said quickly, not wanting to bawl in front of them.

What do you mean ‘guess’? You do like it though, don’t you? asked Mariah.

I stared again at my reflection.

Yeah, it’ll do.

Kinda, I thought. Maybe I’d get used to it.

Mariah raised her eyebrows at my answer but before she questioned me, I quickly said, I’ll go take it off and give it to the sales clerk.

Hurrying into the dressing room before either of them could interrogate me, I pulled off the tiara and veil, hung it on a hook and sank down on a chair. Hard to do in a figure-hugging dress, but I managed.

Tears flowed.

Damn. Oops, I meant darn. I’d been trying to break myself of my terrible habit of swearing. Didn’t mind so much in private but I’d almost blurted it out a few times in front of students. A huge no-no. So I’d substituted darn instead of damn. Didn’t have the satisfactory component that saying damn did, but it’d do. It seemed easier than going cold-turkey.

Wiping away my tears, my thoughts filled with Mariah. I envied her. She had been so excited to marry Casey and even a year later they were like newlyweds, always hugging and kissing. At times it was nauseating and often I’d wanted to scream at them to ‘get a room.’ And now, here they were expecting their first child.

And then there was Irena. She had counted the days to marrying my dad. Both of them were widowed and had welcomed the chance to find love again. I even remembered that Irena had a calendar in her kitchen, where she had carefully marked off the days until her wedding with a large red marker. Her happiness was obvious to anyone who came into contact with her.

So what was wrong with me?

I loved Al and knew he loved me. What was the problem?

Why did I have this sick feeling inside, this aura of sadness/panic, whenever I thought of our wedding date?

And it was coming fast. October tenth—just seven months away.

Crap/cookie.

I’d also been trying to wean myself off of saying crap, too. Just couldn’t find a good substitute that began with a c—cookie was my word at the moment. It didn’t feel right, but would suffice until I found a better substitute.

So what to do?

My fiancé would be devastated if I backed out and became one of those runaway brides, especially since I had no idea what was making me feel this way. I mean, how could I find a more perfect guy than the one I had? He was understanding, kind, supportive and most of all – loved me—the good and the bad. We got along well, had lots in common and seemed perfect together.

Hmmmm... maybe too perfect. Maybe that was the problem. Maybe we’d drifted into a boring, taking each other for granted kind of relationship. But really, had we? I didn’t think I was that bored. Sigh. I wasn’t sure about anything anymore, except the fact that I seemed to be scrambling all the time, trying to appear happy and excited when my heart was drowning in sadness, with a huge dash of confusion, to thoroughly mess me up.

I’d thought of confiding in Mariah or Irena, but they loved my fiancé, probably more than me. They’d never understand—not in a million years.

Strains of John Legend’s song, All of Me rang out. My cellphone ringtone. A well-needed respite, I thought. Thank goodness.

Hello? Oh, hi, Pete.

Pause.

What? Why can’t you tell me over the phone?

Pause.

Okay, okay. I’ll be right there.

Hurriedly tugging off my dress, I threw it on a hanger, pulled on my jeans and T-shirt, grabbed my coat and raced out of the dressing room.

What’s wrong? asked Mariah. You look shocked.

Pete phoned. He said something happened, and I need to get home. Pronto. Apparently, it’s urgent.

I paused to catch my breath, then added in a terrified, fearful voice, His exact words were... It is life or death.

Two

What? Who’s Pete? asked Mariah.

The contractor who is overseeing my basement repairs.

I know Pete well, said Irena, sounding alarmed. What happened?

I knew she’d be especially concerned. After all, she had a vested interest in the cabin, since it was her husband who had built it. Well, not with his own hands, but he’d designed where all the rooms should be, how large and so on, and he’d overseen its construction.

Said he didn’t want to talk about it over the phone, that it was urgent, and to get home as fast I could.

Well, let’s get going, said Mariah, never one to waste words or time.

I was sure her nose was sniffing for a story. Any story would do.

Hearing her huffing and puffing, I rushed over to help her out of the chair.

Whew, groaned Mariah. Thanks for the use of your arm. Soon I’ll be needing a crane to get me up.

So, will you be taking this dress? asked Wanda the salesclerk, walking over, looking confused. Probably at how tightly I was holding it. Crushing it, actually. She’d been helping another customer and just arrived back, looking surprised at all our grim faces and the fact that we were gathering up our purses to leave. "Did you not like it?

Yes, said Mariah, taking charge. We loved it. Can you hold it for us? Gotta run. I’ll be back to pay for it.

No, I argued. You don’t have to do that. I’ll pay.

I know I don’t have to. I want to. She looked back at the salesclerk. Is that okay?

Sure. We don’t usually hold them, but anything for Ms. Barclay.

I smiled. Thanks, Wanda. I appreciate that.

Wanda was a former student of mine, so she knew where to find me if there was a problem. Guess she didn’t mind bending the rules, seeing as I had done that for her a million times. Not that there would be a problem with Mariah’s credit card and besides I was going to insist I pay for it anyway. I’d iron that all out later. Just couldn’t help a small grin that flitted across my face, remembering how I was always hauling Wanda into class from some obscure corner of the school parking lot, where she’d be snuggled up with Jim Frand, engaged in a make-out session.

Better I find you and not the principal. You’d be facing a detention, if that were the case.

I’d always say this and she’d always thank me with chocolates at Christmas. It became our tradition. Noticing her wedding ring, I wondered if she’d married him, like she claimed she would. Another discussion for another time.

And why was I thinking of this anyway?

Let’s go, said Irena, hurrying to the door.

I shook my head, figuratively shaking out my thoughts. Definitely avoidance ones, for sure. Tragedies, including dead bodies and unusual circumstances, seemed to follow me around and I was terrified of what I’d find in my own home that might be classified life or death. Sure wished I could just block Pete’s phone call out of my mind. Forever.

We followed Irena, practically running, or at least I was. She was speed walking and Mariah was waddling. I held the door open to the backseat, so Mariah could crawl in, giving her more room to stretch out, and then jumped into the passenger seat.

So he wouldn’t say what was wrong? asked Irena, as she steered her minivan out of the parking lot. She quickly glanced over at me, eyebrows knitted together, looking concerned-an exact replica of how I was sure my own face appeared.

No. And his voice sounded odd. Like he was really upset or something.

No way, Irena screeched, as a car pulled out in front of her. It’s times like these, I wish I still drove a police car. A siren would sure come in handy right about now.

She pressed down hard on the horn, then hurtled around the car lickety-split, stepped on the gas and sped out of there so fast, I grabbed onto the car door handle before I was tossed into the glove compartment, setting off the airbags.

Stifling a nervous giggle, I couldn’t help another reluctant smile that tugged across my face.

I never knew Irena when she was a cop and always found it hard to believe this sweet, kind, gentle woman had been a sheriff back in her working days, until she retired. But my dad had shown me old newspaper accounts of her cases and sure enough, she’d looked the part in her uniform—serious and determined. Apparently, she was known as not one to mess with. No criminal was safe from her. She rooted them out and made them pay for their crimes. A far cry from the motherly woman who ran Connan’s Restaurant in town where her Irena’s Irresistible Goodies housed baked goods to die for. As a matter of fact, I could kill for one of her butter tarts right about now. The desire to stress eat was strong. Anything to get me through the horror I was sure was waiting for me back home.

Hope for your sake that another pipe didn’t break, said Mariah, practically lying down on the back seat, groaning as she twisted and turned, probably desperately still trying to get comfortable. Looked like an impossible feat, these days.

Hope not, too. I agreed.

That was all I needed.

A few days ago, I was about to jump into the shower when I’d noticed a pile of disgusting guck in my tub. Some kind of wet, gooey, greeny-black sludge. Grossed out, I’d called Al, knowing he had a friend who was a specialist in septic tank systems, which most of us country folk have. He had given me the number of a Pete Hamilton, who had worked on Al’s cabin and was apparently efficient and good at his job. Fortunately, Pete had come right over.

Wrinkling my nose, I rolled my eyes remembering the gross smells that had oozed out when he had opened up my septic tank and run a pumping ‘snake’ through the pipe. After determining an obstruction was cleared and everything seemed okay, I had thought all was back to normal, until the basement leaked the next day. Pete then figured it was more than a blockage but an actual break somewhere in the pipes.

So... next came the drilling through concrete, making big holes in the basement floor, until they were able to install new piping. Figuring I was selling the house anyway, for I was moving into Al’s cabin after the wedding, I wanted them to install a new washroom and make the basement into a family room. The real estate agent said that would up the ante, in terms of pricing.

As far as I knew, they were just digging up more concrete today, setting the scene for new pipes and flooring. Pete said it was a simple job—messy but an easy one.

What could possibly have gone wrong? And why did he sound so upset, almost terrified? A chill raced up my spine. Something was deadly wrong. I could feel it.

Life or death?

What did that mean? Had someone or something died in my basement? An animal? Concrete fell on them or something? A human? No way. Couldn’t be that!

Irena turned down my laneway and as we neared the cabin, I gasped.

Oh no.

A large white van was parked in front. The words ‘Paxton Crime Unit’ stood out in big black letters. Next to it was the sheriff’s car.

This looks ghastly, said Mariah, uttering exactly what all of us were thinking. Did Pete mention anything about calling a Crime Unit? And the sheriff?

Nope. Not at all.

What could possibly be the connection between tearing up cement, a Crime Unit and life and death? My heart raced so fast, I wished I’d owned a defibrillator. I just might need one.

Horrid thoughts marched across my mind again. Had someone been murdered? Broken into the cabin and died somehow?

And if the Crime Unit was here, that meant Detective Bob White was around. Groan. He was definitely on my ‘people to avoid’ list. Years ago, when I’d first arrived and I’d been involved in a murder situation, Bob blamed me, feeling I was instigating the whole thing. Of course, totally false, by the way.

He was not pleasant. In the least.

And the sheriff was here, too.

This wasn’t looking good.

Irena skidded to a stop and I jumped out, raced around the van and straight into the arms of Sheriff Al Michaels... my fiancé.

He had a serious expression on his face and held on tightly as if trying to prepare me for something, so I knew whatever was happening here was not going to be pleasant. Taking a deep breath, I pulled back. What, Al? What is it?

Pete found a blue plastic rain barrel stashed under the concrete in the basement.

So?

It contained a plastic garbage bag.

Oh no.

What was in it? I said slowly, immediately knowing I wouldn’t like what I was going to hear.

A dead body.

Three

What?

Please tell me it’s a dead animal, right?

Sorry, Sam. It’s badly decomposed and the bones are human.

Bones?

There were the bones of a dead person in my basement.

Hearing heavy footsteps, I pulled away from Al and turned to look at Pete, who was walking up to join us. I blinked. His face was a frozen mask of fear. Like he was in a trance. Like he’d been traumatized.

You’re kidding, right? I said gently, still confused. Walking towards him, I watched his face for signs of humor. Surely this was some kind of joke. Or a misunderstanding. A prank.

Shaking his head, he said softly, Wish I were, Miss.

So it’s a real body? That belonged to a real live person? Not just a pretend one? A Halloween decoration? Made out of fake bones, wire and plastic or something? I knew I sounded silly, as if someone couldn’t tell if it was fake or not, but I was grasping at straws. Trying to compute it into my brain storage vault. Have it make some sense somehow.

As far as I can tell it’s real, Miss. Sorry if I overstepped my position by calling the sheriff, but figured he needed to know.

No problem. You did the right thing. I hoped that comforted him, at least a bit. He was a sweet guy and seemed really concerned that he’d gone over my head.

But a dead body? In my basement?

Come on. That was ridiculous.

My brain scrambled to absorb this, when suddenly a red blur raced out of the back yard, ran right to me, twirled around exactly three times, then enveloped me in a huge doggy hug.

Maxine, my beautiful, auburn Irish setter. My BFFF—best fur friend forever. I hunkered down to greet her.

Trailing behind her was Fred, Al’s dog, who was Maxine’s father, clutching a leash in his mouth and at the end of it was good old Scruff the cat, a mangy, rough-looking feline, whom Fred had found in the woods, brought home and adopted. Taking care of that cat was serious business, as far as Fred was concerned, for he also insisted that the cat be tethered, so he could lead him around to protect him. Guess he figured the poor animal was devastated after spending much time lost and having to make do with whatever food he could scrounge up. And surprisingly, they were devoted to each other, slept together, ate together, and hung out together. I often wondered if Scruff ever missed his freedom, but so far, he seemed to relish the attention.

Maxine licked my face, trying to get my attention.

Good girlie, I whispered. Glad to see you.

Then of course, Fred and Scruff got in on the scene, demanding their share of attention, well, not Scruff so much—he remained pretty aloof, his usual demeanor. Finally Maxine had enough and ran off to play, Fred and Scruff following.

Having addressed all the pets, glad to have that bit of diversion to collect my wild thoughts, I looked at Al.

I have to see this barrel for myself.

Okay. But remember it’s an official crime scene, he warned. Don’t disturb anything.

Excuse me? I said, instantly indignant and insulted.

Clearly seeing the annoyance on my face, after all, I was a trained FBI agent, he interjected, Oh, sorry, Freud. Of course you know to be careful. Just forgot for a minute and I’ve gotten into a habit of warning people not to touch anything. So many people forget and corrupt the crime scene.

That’s not something to forget, cut in Irena, admonishing him. Sam can take care of herself.

After all, I certainly knew all about crime scenes. I’d been around two or three or twenty of them in the past couple of years.

The stricken look on Al’s face had me fast relenting. Oh, don’t worry. I’ll be careful.

But I couldn’t help notice that my sister was stifling a grin and I knew why.

Mariah knew me well and would totally understand why Al warned me. To be completely honest, I couldn’t really blame him for being concerned. I was a klutz at the best of times, always tripping, falling, stepping on things. For instance, if I were walking across a parking lot that had one rock on it, somehow I’d find it and trip over it. That was probably why he was worried I might disturb something. I did, too. I was concerned about the same thing all the time and sure wouldn’t want my lack of co-ordination and just plain clumsiness, to ruin a scene and have a criminal get off free. That would be one of my worst case scenarios, for sure.

Mariah was full-out laughing.