“Did he put you on the Prozac or the Xanex?” Grandma Betty asked, whispering the words as if they were naughty. “I learned all ‘bout it on Oprah. Life’s peachy keen when you don’t have to feel any of it.”
“No, I’m drug free,” I answered.
“All you need is a shot a whiskey,” Grandpa Charlie said, edging his tubby belly into the already-round discussion. “Once in the morning, once at night. That’ll set the world right.”
Beverly Teague and my mother raised crooked eyebrows at him, and almost simultaneously shook their heads.
Mamma Rose breathed out heavily. “The Helping Hands Circle will be pleased to know their prayers worked.”
“They better start prayin’ that Delilah don’t kick Delores Kenning outta first place in the crazy department,” Rachel added while she texted.
Raina moved into the circle, and said, “Ya’ll the babies are kickin’.” Attention was thankfully diverted as a dozen or so hands moved in on Raina’s growing bump. I sighed. At least it appeared the babies were on my side.
Chapter Forty-Two
Bites
Nibbling on a starfish isn’t pleasant. By way of a defense, the starfish has a crunchy protective layer and a body wall that contains toxins that give it a bad taste (some are poisonous). Still, predators eat them anyway. Manta rays, sharks, birds, sea otters, crabs and other starfish are just a few of the creatures who don’t mind these tough, spiny, bitter snacks. This goes to show that no matter how cool you are, no matter how tough or nonthreatening, something will come along and take bites out of you. The first round of Duffy bites wasn’t as bad as the second.
Shawsburg Hospital boasted an enormous lobby, complete with marble columns, a hundred-gallon fish tank, and an atrium. A plaque on the wall attributed the beautifully renovated entrance to Lucius Kayne, among other donors. It took us two elevators to meet in the lobby, where my dad offered to take everyone out to dinner before he and mom headed back to Wilmington. Clark, Beverly, Sam and I agreed while the rest made excuses to get back to the island. My ordeal had already turned into a circus, so I was glad that with most of them gone, dinner shouldn’t be a new act. Mom reviewed the menus at two restaurants before deciding to patronize a third, determined for me to have suitable healthy choices. And to let her feel like she’d accomplished something, I ordered a citrus salad even though I wanted the double bacon cheeseburger with fries (which was what Sam ordered).
“Beverly, I noticed that Lucius Kayne donated money to renovate the hospital,” I prodded, while sneaking a fry from Sam’s plate.
“Yes, after his wife died, he gave a substantial donation,” she said. “I always thought her name should be on the plaque, not his.”
“Plus, wouldn’t it have been more fitting to donate to the oncology ward since she struggled with cancer?” I added.
“I figured that he blamed the oncology ward for her death, indirectly,” Beverly suggested. “It was their combination of medications that caused her overdose.”
Clark leaned over and said, “I always suspected he murdered his wife.”
“What?” I replied, shoving three more fries in my mouth. “Why?”
“Well, Miranda Kayne died from a medication overdose,” Clark explained. “The same medicines she’d been taking for months, and one day, she just got it wrong-”
“Maybe it was suicide,” Sam suggested, while he cut his burger into quarters.
“Yes, I considered that, too,” Clark went on, “but her treatments were working and her prognosis was good. Hopeless people kill themselves. Not ones who are on the way to recovery.”
“Surely you must have had some other evidence than her medication routine to think that Lucius Kayne killed her,” I prodded.
“Of course, but I couldn’t prove anything,” Clark replied. “The medical examiner at the time was a guy named Casper Jennings. He ruled the death as accidental and didn’t perform an autopsy. A few months later, Casper Jennings quit the ME’s office and walked onto the hospital’s board of directors. Kayne’s incredible donation came with him.”
“So, you think Jennings covered up something so he could get that position?” I clarified.
Clark nodded. “And not only that, when this mess with Allison Love’s botched surgery came up, I think Jennings used his weight with Kayne again and got the hospital out of a jam.”
“That’s a pretty hefty accusation to make without evidence,” Sam said.
“Too many coincidences,” Clark decided. “And the only reason for a medical examiner to have blackmail material is if Miranda Kayne was murdered.”
“What about a motive?” Sam asked. He slyly handed me a section of his burger, which I quickly stuffed in my mouth when my mother wasn’t looking. “Why would Kayne kill his wife?”
“Money?” I tried, mouth bloated by burger.
“No, Miranda owned the Peacock,” Clark replied, “but Kayne was rich on his own. I couldn’t find a motive. According to everyone I talked to, they had a great marriage, no affairs, nothing to indicate problems. They’d actually been looking into adoption right before she died, certainly not indicative of a couple in marital trouble. Without a clear motive, it was a dead end.”
“Delilah, is there any avocado in that salad?” my mother asked, leaning across the table to eyeball it. “You need to start eating foods that are better for your body: avocados, grapefruits, whole grains, pomegranates-”
“I hate pomegranates,” I mumbled, trying to hide the fries in my mouth.
“Have you tried a pomegranate martini?” Clark smiled. “Those are good.”
“And enough of this murder talk,” my mom went on, ignoring me and over Clark. “This is exactly the type of thing Delilah needs to stay away from, and none of you should be encouraging. This isn’t an episode of Law and Order or Murder, She Wrote, where everything’s tied up nicely into a neat little bun at the end of the show and everyone walks away with the killer going off in handcuffs saying, ah shucks they got me! This is real life, and Delilah, you’ve pushed your luck with these people already and almost ended up in the grave because of it!”
“Honey, that’s all in the past,” my dad piped up. “She’s not in any danger-”
“Don’t give me that,” mom protested. “I’m not an idiot. She wasn’t trudging through a crawlspace to find an earring. Delilah’s lucky if her ponytail isn’t lopsided. She doesn’t care about earrings, and I highly doubt you’d be willing to go to so much trouble to hunt one down. Right?”
“I-”
“And before you answer, just remember. We get the paper, too.”
My shoulders dropped. “No, I wasn’t looking for an earring. You’re right. I-I thought I could prove that the redheaded-”
My mother shook her head, and pointed her steak knife at me. “You know, Delilah, you had a good thing going in Durham and you ruined it by poking your nose around where you shouldn’t have. You lost everything. And here you are, doing the same thing again, except this time, you’re going to lose more than just a job. You’re going to lose yourself. This attack you experienced today was your body revolting against your head. You’re learning the hard way to leave things well enough alone.”
“Gee, I wonder where you get your anxiety issues from?” Clark mumbled softly.
“Delilah’s no longer in Durham because she didn’t belong in Durham,” Sam corrected sternly, “and Delilah’s instincts are usually right. You should be proud of her for being the type of person willing to crawl into a dingy, dirty crawlspace for the sake of a stranger instead of being an uptight, judgmental coward who’d sooner crawl under a rock than take such a risk.”
“We are very proud-” my father started to say.
“You’d have her put herself in danger?” my mother countered. “Again?”
“No. She’s my life. I want to keep her safe,” Sam said. “But, she’s a starfish. She’s going to keep reaching out, even if it means she might lose something by doing it, and I wouldn’t want her
to be any other way.”
My mouth dropped open and I wanted to smother him with kisses right there at the table, but I held back, smiling instead, and whispering a quick, “Thank you, Sam.”
My mother made valid points, and went on to elaborate on them at length, but I didn’t care. I was tired and still hungry and still stinging for the shame that went along with having a mental disorder (and everyone knowing about it). But, like the moon at night, Sam turned my attention and gave me light in a very dark place.
Chapter Forty-Three
Angelfish
Angelfish are lovely. With their streamer-like fins and long spines, they look like regular fish in fancy dresses. Their flowing locks give them a truly heavenly look, earning them the ethereal name. Their good looks have also earned them top spots in many aquariums and a movie role. That fish named Wanda was an angelfish.
But, angelfish are no angels. They are like the popular girls in high school – beautiful and mean. Angelfish form cliques, and anyone who isn’t a part of their group, suffers their bullying. They’ve even been known to commit hate crimes, killing those who are outside their circle. These pretty little creatures have no qualms about taking each other down.
Over the next few days, I put on a pretty face. I was upbeat, cheerful, and happy. I pulled off two huge parties on Saturday – the Back-to-School Bash and the Agatha Christie Fright Night. Both drew impressive crowds and sales. Families poured in for the Back-to-School-Bash. While kids filled up the two craft tables I’d set up, parents browsed and bought.
But, I was most proud of the Agatha Christie party. Henry put on a great performance as Hercule Poirot, his readings delivered in a Belgian accent. Then, groups teamed up to unravel clues hidden in books throughout the store (graciously devised with the help of Chris Kayne), which led them to the rooftop for a quaint, British-style tea.
But, behind Beach Read’s success, I was faltering. From morning through the night, I felt as though I’d been drinking gallons of coffee on top of espresso beans on top of energy drinks. My hands shook. I couldn’t calm down. Nervousness and anxiety ran somersaults in my head. Not only was I constantly staving off panic, but trying to hide the fact that I was battling it, especially now that everyone knew my business and kept their gossip-hungry eyes on me. Of course, that could be my panic disorder talking. I wasn’t sure of anything anymore.
The TIBA meeting couldn’t have come at a worse time. Images of battling angelfish came to mind as I watched my aunts. They stood together in the front of the fellowship hall at Seaside Baptist. Two long tables had been set up for the TIBA elite, and twenty rows of metal folding chairs separated us (I like to sit in the back). They each looked lovely in their Charlotte-designed heels and hats, like they were attending a royal wedding.
To say I had butterflies in my stomach wasn’t enough, unless those butterflies were dragon-sized with wings laced with razors. I hadn’t felt this much event-related stress since I had to face-off with the school board and try to prove my cheating case against a handful of my senior students. That ended miserably, and here I was again, trying to fight for fairness in a room full of people with an opposing view of what that is.
The room quickly filled up with noise and people, all taking seats far away from me – the outsider angelfish. I kept my head down, and reviewed the notes I’d made. I wished Sam could be here, but he had to work. He was the best antidote to my condition and had been at my side every second he could spare. My trauma drama had brought us closer, reinforcing what I already knew: I could count on him and he wasn’t going anywhere. But, I felt horrible. I’d given him baggage and burdens to carry that didn’t belong to him.
“Your best strategy is not to get emotional.” I glanced up, and Mike Ancellotti took the seat beside me. I sighed with relief. “Just approach everything they say with logic and reason.”
I scoffed. “Reason with the unreasonable?”
“Precisely.” He grinned. He put his arm around my shoulders and gave me an encouraging squeeze. “It’ll be fine. Tipee banned witch trials and executions a few years ago.”
I chuckled. “They might bring them back just for me.” My new phone chimed, and I yanked it out of my pocket. You’ll be fine. Don’t worry. Just picture them all in their underwear. Since giving me the phone, Sam had made texting a habit. I had made reading them a habit (they just pop up on the screen without my efforts), but that’s as far as my technologically-deficient brain had taken me.
“You-hoo!” Clara called out, “It’s time to get started, ya’ll.”
The board members took their places at the main table, and business matters ensued, not that I could pay attention. I was bopping my leg at a million miles per hour. My palms and pits were sweating like my chair was in the middle of a tropical rainforest. I’d be lucky if I get out of this without having a panic attack.
Mike’s hand went to my left knee, stopping it’s action with soft pressure. “Relax,” he whispered. “They can’t hurt you any more than they have already, and after all your successful parties, they have to take you seriously.” I gave Mike a weak smile.
After a lot of boring banter about lamppost flag designs and which bands would play at Octoberfest, David Via was called. He walked up to the left corner, facing the crowd and the elite, and stated his case. He wore a gray suit, and looked nice, if not a little greasy with his slicked-back hair. He made the rather weak argument that his painted ladies – the hot pink female silhouettes decorating his black building – were not explicit. He compared them, rightly, to what anyone could see on truckers’ mud flaps. He tried to convince the board that the pink ladies are both invitations and warnings to ensure that he receives the appropriate customers. He asked TIBA to revoke their request for him to paint his building and remove the shadowed ladies – what had become his logo for the business. He also argued that he misunderstood the goals of TIBA, and had he known that the association would be so interested in “busting his balls” instead of bringing in tourists, he would have told them all to “fuck off.”
Via’s appeal was unanimously denied.
The verdict pissed him off, and he made that very clear by the long string of curses he flung at the uppity board members. His cool and professional manner gone, he exited the room, but not before giving them all a stern middle finger.
I admired his courage.
“Delilah Duffy,” Charlotte called, as if she’d never said the name before. Mike gave me a gentle push, and I approached cautiously. I’d worn one of my old teacher dresses, which made me look like a Kennedy. My hair was up, and I was wearing a sensible pair of flats. Aside from the sweat spots forming in all the usual places, I looked very dignified (at least for me). Just picture them all in their underwear. I smiled.
I stated my case in much the same way Via had except that my argument was stronger. “What’s the point of $15,000 worth of repairs when I’m going to be shut down in a few weeks?”
“Are you sayin’ that you’re conceding?” Aunt Clara was quick to ask.
“I’m saying that TIBA believes that I won’t make the October 31st profit deadline,” I argued, “so, why force me to make repairs? It’s a waste of money and resources that I don’t have.”
“So, you want us to let you off the hook from the list because you’re goin’ to fail?” Clara tried to clarify. “Honey, we knew that when we made the list.” Chuckles rang out across the room, and I smiled.
“The average time for a new business to see a profit, if they ever see one at all, is three to five years,” I belted out. “It’s a fact. I looked it up. You’re asking me to bet my money – a lot of money – on the slim chance that Beach Read manages to become a profitable business in a few weeks – something you all know firsthand is nearly impossible to do. So, would you be willing to do the same thing?”
“I’m not sure I understand your question,” Lionel Waters spoke up.
“Grant me an extension on the repairs,” I said, “and for your generosity, I will do
nate $5,000 to TIBA on October 31st if I close. I’d rather dish out $5,000 to a worthy civic organization than sink $15,000 in a building that will likely be torn down by Christmas. Bet against me for the benefit of TIBA.”
The crowd and board erupted in conversation. Ridiculous! She’s crazy! Course she’s crazy. Did you hear about her schizophrenic spell down at the Peacock? That money’d go a long way toward advertisin’ and hostin’ festivals. It’s a trick! She’s just gettin’ us to toss out the rules… Seems pretty straightforward to me. Either we take the $5,000 or we don’t. We’d be crazy not to take the money. She’s crazy to offer it. There ain’t no way in hell she’ll turn a profit by Halloween! Those parties gotta be bringin’ in a pretty penny. With $5,000, we could afford to bring in more fireworks and music acts…Oh, we could build that gazebo we was hopin’ for.
And so the noise continued.
Clara was first to stop the hubbub. “Rules are rules,” she cooed. “The point of the deadline was to have everything in town looking fabulous for Octoberfest.”
“Yes, but if her business is struggling as much as you say,” Jeff Travers argued, “then she wouldn’t be able or willing to make the repairs anyway. We can threaten her with fines and whatnot, but what difference does it make if she’s closing?”
“What if she doesn’t close?” Marla Britt batted back. “What if she pulls it off?”
“She won’t!” Clara bit. “There’s no way in heaven, hell, or outer space she’s going to keep Beach Read open!”
“Then, take the bet,” I urged, grinning.
“Are you sure she’s as bad off as everyone says?” Lionel Waters questioned softly.
Clara shifted in her seat, her smile struggling to stay in place. “I have it on good authority.” Grandma Betty was her source, but I knew that she hadn’t updated the books since before the party last week. According to Betty, my money was in the crapper, and until she got her hands on my deposit slips, that’s all she knew.
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