So Dead, My Love Page 3

  The week had progressed slowly for Samantha. She had hardly done any work on the Bank’s painting, only the white wash on the canvas and some light outlines sketched in. She could feel the melancholia begin to creep back into her soul. Fighting this had been a struggle for most of her teen and adult life. She was at least thankful that the dream hadn’t come back to haunt her.

  Samantha was actually thankful to see Friday roll around, and she looked forward to the bookstore outing with Carmen. Usually, when she started a painting, she was able to devote her full attention to it and nothing else, but somehow, this one was becoming side tracked.

  Barnum Books had phoned and were anxious for her to start on three new covers coming up for release. The synopsis’ for each book were on the way to her. She groaned, not anticipating the drudgery of the limited creativity romance book covers demanded.

  It was a beautiful, clear crisp evening. In late November, the bitter Maine winter had not yet taken its stronghold, and if you listened with a peaceful ear, you could hear the Atlantic waves caress the Bayton shore.

  The air was dry and salty. The sun was just setting and the magic of the evening had not been lost on Carmen and Samantha. They opted to take a couple of Carmen’s bikes out to Marlin Avenue instead of going in Samantha’s Bug.

  Approaching Marlin’s Books, there was a shortcut most savvy bikers on the Isle took advantage of. If you cut across the Island Grocer’s parking lot, you could pedal right in behind the bookstore and reach the bike rack before everyone else did.

  Carmen was riding beside Samantha and they both slowed down to avoid several women loaded down with overstuffed paper bags in their arms. Carmen joked about the benefits of living on an island where plastic bags hadn’t made their evil debut and then sped on ahead of Samantha.

  Samantha didn’t see the woman who suddenly appeared in front of her. She slammed hard into the grocery basket the woman was pushing. Samantha steered the bike to a halt and looked back. The basket had tipped over, groceries littering the asphalt. She got off the bike and walked to the woman, who seemed to be just standing still. Carmen was biking back toward the commotion.

  The woman appeared old and frail, her gray hair tied behind her. But as Samantha began to pick up the scattered groceries, she noticed that she had been wrong. The small woman with the oversized jeans and flannel shirt was actually much younger.

  “I’m really sorry. I must not have been looking.” Samantha apologized as she finally put everything back into the one bag. It was a heavy bag. Lots of canned goods, she noticed.

  The woman said nothing but eyed her intently. And in those icy blue eyes, Samantha thought she saw something sinister, a flicker of shadows. She had dark circles under her eyes and Samantha couldn’t help but notice how dreadfully thin her hands were. The veins were dark, blue and bulging.

  Carmen had by now reached Samantha’s side. She said something, but Samantha didn’t hear her. Her mind and her eyes were following the haunting figure of the woman who was now moving ever so slowly away from them and into the parking lot with her basket. A bitter cold ran through her. She shivered and then jumped as Carmen put her hand on her shoulder from behind.

  “Sam, you okay?”

  She looked at Carmen. “Yeah, I’m all right,” she said, somewhat shaken, and smiled weakly. She looked back for the woman, but she was gone. Samantha thought she caught her in a large, late model Buick that was pulling out of the parking lot.

  “Then let’s get going kiddo.” Carmen said, already on her bike and on her way. Samantha followed her, but as they wound their way to the bookstore, she couldn’t shake her encounter with the odd woman.

  Edmund Furrows had drawn a small but relatively lively crowd. He was, after all, a well known and liked figure on Bayton Isle.

  “It’s hopping tonight,” Carmen said as they entered Marlin’s Books. “I bet Gillian’s tickled pink about that.” Carmen left Samantha behind, working her way into the maze of tall bookshelves. Marlin’s Books always made Samantha feel warm and welcome. From the paneled wooden walls to the small comfy chairs placed about the store, everything felt right. She immediately began to relax after the accident back at the parking lot.

  She heard low voices and a burst of light laughter at the back of the bookstore and found that a small table had been set up and a handful of people were standing in line. Just outside the small circle that was gathered around an older, gray-haired man signing books, Samantha spotted Carmen talking to Gillian Haskell. As she started to walk towards them, a pang of guilt hit her. The painting. She should be painting.

  “I shouldn’t be here,” she muttered to herself, “I should be home working on that painting.” Why did she do this to herself? Why was she punishing herself for having a good time?

  The therapist had told her it wouldn’t be easy. It would be a long, tough road, filled with obstacles she herself placed there. Obstacles only she could remove. Most of the time she felt secure with her life, but then came unexpected moments like this, where she had to fight them off and wonder why. The meds and tranquilizers had helped at first, but Samantha didn’t like who she’d become on the drugs. She’d put off taking them.

  She tried to put the feelings aside as both Carmen and Gillian greeted her with big smiles.

  “It’s a nice crowd, Gillian.” Samantha smiled as she greeted her.

  Gillian Haskell smiled, her eyes lingering on Carmen before she looked at Samantha. “Oh, I’m not surprised. His book is doing real well all over Maine. I was lucky to get him here so soon after publication.” She glanced over at the table still drawing patrons. “He’s going off into the mainland and won’t be back for almost three weeks. Have you two seen the book yet?”

  “We were on our way to get a copy,” Carmen added.

  Samantha had already eyed the impressive stack of The Myths and Facts of Bayton Isle seductively placed on a second table next to Edmund Furrows with a tray of cookies.

  Not waiting for Carmen, she walked to the table, picked up a copy of the book and leafed through it. It was a thin coffee table book, filled with picturesque views of Bayton Isle at various times in history. The somber faces of long dead Bayton Isle inhabitants and dignitaries crowded the pages.

  Somehow, Samantha always found those ancient photos sad but fascinating. A camera had frozen the look in the eyes of some person ages ago, giving us permission to gaze upon their ghost.

  Without giving it a second thought, she tucked the book under her arm, took a paper plate and napkin and began to pile cookies on the plate. Looking for a quiet spot and a free chair, she found both just beyond the Metaphysical and Religion selections.

  Settling in, plate of cookies on her lap, she opened the book. Never one to tackle a new book page by page, she began to swiftly flip through it, stopping when an interesting photograph or chapter struck her fancy. Her true intent was on finding mention of her own house or at the very least, something about the area where it was built.

  Ever since her father had bought it as a very prudent investment back in the Fifties, she had been attached to it. Property in Bayton Isle was going for a pauper’s price back then.

  The family spent summer months there when she was little and when it landed in her lap as a surprise gift, she had wonderful, readymade memories to decorate it with. The high-priced therapists her parents insisted she see finally convinced her father that living in Bayton Isle would not damage Samantha’s mental health any further.

  Samantha kept turning the pages of the book absentmindedly, keeping a roving eye on Edmund Furrows and the crowd. He was engaged in conversation with Mrs. Peabody, the town gossip and all around most annoying person to encounter at any given time or place. Samantha was hoping she could avoid her notice. Mrs. Peabody was always trying to set her up with what she considered eligible young men. Samantha had never given her any indication of interest in any of them and actually found her quite insufferable. She certainly wasn’t about to tell her how much she preferred to ma
ke passionate love with a woman.

  Seeing that the well-wishers and autograph hounds for Edmund Furrows were winding down, and wanting desperately to avoid Mrs. Peabody, Samantha closed the book and made a dash to try and vanish in some other more obscure section of Marlin’s Books. She didn’t know where Carmen had gone off to and was feeling a bit exhausted and still guilty about leaving her painting. She really should get back to it. So instead of hiding, she decided to go ahead and buy the book, take it home and read it at her own pace and appropriate time.

  She started out to look for Carmen and found her at Edmund Furrows’s table. Fortunately, Mrs. Peabody was nowhere in sight. Maybe she’d tired him as well. She walked up to Carmen just as Carmen was shaking his hand.

  “Hey, Sam, I was just talking to Edmund about you. I told him about the painting they commissioned from you for the Bank. Edmund, this is Samantha Barnes.” Furrows was still standing as he offered his hand to her.

  “Good to meet you, Samantha. I’m afraid I think of you as quite a brave soul. I don’t think I could ever find a way to work with bankers.” He had a wry smile on his lips and his eyes sparkled blue behind the wire frame glasses. Samantha put him at about sixty-five or so and very fit for his age.

  “Oh no, the pleasure is mine. Your book is very intriguing and I’m taking a copy home with me.” Samantha shook his outstretched hand.

  “Would you like me to sign it for you or would you prefer it unspoiled?” He was joking of course and Samantha was delighted to have him sign it for her.

  After biking back to Carmen’s store, Samantha discovered how drained the night had left her. The incident at the grocery store parking lot still kept nagging at her like a pesky gnat you couldn’t swat away.

  “I can’t believe you actually bought that book, Sam.” Carmen started to bring down some coffee mugs from her cabinet.

  Samantha realized what she was doing and shook her head, hand up in a stop signal.

  “Oh no, Carmen, I can’t stay. I’m dead beat.”

  “Thinking about that painting, huh?” Carmen was rubbing it in.

  Samantha didn’t mind the good-natured ribbing from her friend. “By the way, why can’t you believe I bought this book?”

  Carmen gave her one of her “oh come on, you know why” looks.

  “Sam, you were never interested in island lore or exploring the National Geographical points of Bayton Isle.”

  Samantha hugged the book protectively to her chest and walked toward the door. “Well, changing my mind is a woman’s prerogative, isn’t it?” She was smiling, ready to say goodbye.

  “Wait, Sam. I wanted to tell you earlier but forgot. I’m having one of my famous get-togethers next weekend. I want you there, so mark your calendar. I won’t take no for an answer and I don’t hand out rain checks.”

  Carmen’s parties were extremely popular and a personal invitation was highly coveted. Samantha always made it a point to be there for Carmen and even though she was feeling a bit disconnected at the moment, she agreed to come and left the store.

  ***

  At home, she had showered, taken a disinterested look at her work on the canvas and curled up in bed with The Myths and Facts of Bayton Isle. The house was particularly quiet and she was feeling its loneliness oppressive. She searched her inner self to find more positive thoughts.

  She had just spent a wonderful evening with her most cherished friend. They had enjoyed a casual, relaxed experience in a friendly environment. The shadows haunting her mind were merely ghosts of herself going through withdrawal symptoms. She missed having someone there in her life - Someone who waited for her and soothed her soul when the times were rough. She missed Carmen and wished it could be different between them. But these were all past regrets or ongoing ones.

  So Samantha cracked the book open and inhaled the crisp new book smell. She looked at the chapter titles and found one called “The Dark Side of Bayton Isle: Truth or Fantasy?” She flipped quickly to the page number, where she found a very fuzzy reproduction of an impressive-looking mansion captioned by “The Karnov Estate”. The house on the cliff! She admitted that she liked to look at the pictures first, so she turned to the next page and stopped.

  Taking up about a fourth of the page was a black and white reproduction of an old painting. It was a portrait of a striking woman with dark, piercing eyes, high cheekbones and a strangely alluring smile. She found herself mesmerized by the woman whose haunting image looked out at her so ignorant of time. She tore her eyes off the portrait just long enough to read the printing underneath. “The Countess Lara Karnov: Evil incarnate or innocent victim? Shot to death in a hunting accident. Much speculation was raised regarding the real truth. The Karnov family covered up all trails leading to her death.”

  Samantha knew there must be some mention of Lara Karnov within the text in the chapter itself, but her eyes were heavy and she found herself weak with sleep. She reached over and turned out the light, putting the book beside her. The bright, full moon was shining through her open second floor window and a slim shaft of moonlight caught the page where Samantha had left off.

  Lara Karnov’s eyes seemed to glow off the page, her smile illuminated in some shared ancient secret.

  Chapter 4

  It was 2AM and conditions at Bayton Isle Medical Center were about the same as they were yesterday at this time. Exciting, largescale emergencies just didn’t happen on Bayton Isle. Of course, there was the time that Ted Ridley, the Bayton Power and Gas Company man, had almost electrocuted himself on one rainy morning, but that was a once in a lifetime happening. Accidents weren’t common. The few motorists who did brave it on Bayton’s streets couldn’t drive fast enough to cause any major damage to a bicyclist. Heart attacks were the more common emergencies.

  John Chappel had just finished his third cup of coffee since eleven. He was cleaning the light tan ring of java that the bottom of his mug had made on the emergency room report when the head nurse walked in through the double doors.

  Carol Mercer was about sixty years old, looked every bit of it and acted like half her age. She pursed her lips, flung down the patient chart in her hand and pointed with her eyes to John’s coffee mug.

  “If you keep staining those reports, I’m going to have to transfer you to laundry duty.” Her eyes were smiling. John leaned closer to her.

  “Same old same old in there?” His head nodded to the Emergency Room.

  “Nothing new. Tommy boy brought her in again. He’s out there in the waiting room pacing like a lost puppy.” She picked up the chart she had flung down earlier and lifted the top cover.

  “You know, she gives me the creeps. I just don’t understand what goes on out there. She’s wheeled in here on a regular basis, given blood transfusions for loss of blood due to an anemic condition she claims was diagnosed since childhood and then gets packed up and leaves.” Nurse Mercer shook her purple, permed hair. “I just don’t get it. Why do they let people like her get off without paying a penny for chronic health care?”

  Carol Mercer was wound up tonight. Tamara Weissman had been brought in often enough to where Nurse Mercer didn’t even bother doing the mandatory procedures for new patients into emergency care. She knew the routine and the problem. It was always severe loss of blood and body fatigue.

  And she wasn’t the only nurse who had noticed the scar tissues all over her body. Tamara Weissman had repeatedly refused treatment for them. She never spoke much and when probed regarding where she might have gotten her wounds, became restless and silent, like a caged animal wanting escape. The hospital considered refusing treatment until they could investigate the circumstances for her condition.

  Nurse Mercer finally closed the patient report and handed it to John. “She’ll need another pint in about an hour. I’ll go and tell Tommy he might as well go home. She’ll have to stay longer.”

  Just as she brushed past John, the Emergency Room receiver erupted into life. They both listened as Ambulance No.2 relayed a report
. They had a patient that had taken a fall down her stairs in the middle of the night. She had visible bruises on her arms and legs and a blow to the head. There was light bleeding from the head wound. Patient was semi-conscience. No way to tell if there might be internal injuries.

  “Get off your butt, stat, Chappel, they’re right at our back door!” Nurse Mercer was up and moving quicker than anyone would imagine a woman her age could.

  Barely had she and Chappel left their station toward the Emergency Entrance when the doors burst open with an abrupt bang. Two paramedics, a man and a woman, came in wheeling a small, darkhaired woman whose bandaged head was smeared with a tiny mushrooming blood stain. The paramedic holding the IV looked at Nurse Mercer.

  “She apparently took a bad fall down the stairs. The initial call came in from a friend who says she found her at the foot of the stairs, unconscious. We’ve got the bleeding pretty much under control. Don’t know how much trauma she received to the head.”

  “Doctor Kendall, code blue Emergency Room.” Nurse Mercer’s voice rang through the intercom. “Doctor Kendall, code blue Emergency Room.”

  Chappel was busy taking information from the paramedics as they wheeled the woman into the Emergency Room.

  “Name?”

  “Samantha Barnes.”

  ***

  Samantha opened her eyes and awoke to a nightmare world drenched in red. Blood red. The room was a swimming haze of crimson. The curtains surrounding her were red. Her hands, her gown, the world was red. Was she dead and entombed in her hellish afterlife? In controlled panic, she realized her heart wasn’t beating. She was awake, aware and able to see, yet her heart was still. And her surroundings were just as quiet. No sound, just the suffocating color of red.

  Then she heard it-A distinctive voice calling her name ever so softly. She was sure it was the same voice she had heard in her house. The voice that startled her from her sleep. The voice that sent her down the stairs. It was a woman. She was calling her by name. Somehow, she knew the voice had no owner, substance. Yet inexplicably she felt there was nothing to fear.