Behind us, Williams rushed up the boardwalk planks. My shoulders dropped.
“Gotta go, Teague,” Williams announced, “Got another psycho tweaker.”
“Psycho tweaker?” I repeated curiously.
Sam chuckled. “Had a few extremely paranoid pot smokers lately. They think they’ve been poisoned. I’ll see you in the morning.”
Chapter Forty-Five
Upwelling, Part Two
With any upwelling comes a quick and voluminous response. When there is plenty, plenty will come for it. The growth of plant life brings small fish and these bring the medium fish and these bring the large fish and all of these call on the garbage disposals of the sea – the creatures that eat everything. And, with all these fish, fishermen come, too. And so, a feeding frenzy begins.
My upwelling – the news in the redhead and robbery cases, the TIBA meeting, the store’s growing success – all served to entice the predators.
My phone rang early the next morning, as Willie and I were walking to work. I’d had a decent sleep, only waking up twice from bad dreams, and with coffee in hand, I was ready to tackle the next Beach Read event. Sadie was talking before I even answered. “Something’s happened,” she told me hurriedly. “I’ve been up all night listenin’.”
“What?” I urged, though a large part of me didn’t want to know.
“Ricky Wakefield came home yesterday afternoon, and he was pissed,” she revealed. “I mean, like furious. For a while, all I heard was breakin’ glass and banging stuff like a tornado was goin’ through the wheelhouse.”
“Well, he was pulled in for questioning yesterday,” I reasoned. “He was probably mad about that.”
“Went on for hours,” Sadie explained, “and he was sayin’ stuff like how much he hated this town and everyone in it, how he couldn’t trust anyone, how his friends ain’t even his friends.”
“Sounds like he was throwing a royal fit,” I concluded.
“He said that if this town hadn’t been so interfering, his mom would still be alive,” Sadie went on.
“That’s a reach,” I told her. “His mom died of a drug overdose.”
“Yeah, he said, and I thought this was weird, he’d had two mammas stolen from him,” Sadie reported.
“Could mean mom and the grandmother.” Henry was already packing up his sleep gear when I entered the store. I tossed him a wave and a smile, set my coffee on the counter, and switched on the lights. I unleashed Willie, and he set off to sniff out the store, and inevitably plop down on the beanbags in the kids’ section or, if he was hot, behind the counter on the hardwood.
“You’re probably right. Forgot about that surly old woman who used to live there,” Sadie laughed. “She was as mean as Delores is crazy.”
“Well, Luanne was abusive, so it must run in the family,” I added. “What else happened?”
“Well, J.J. came home from his so-called appointments and tried to calm Ricky down,” Sadie continued, “but it didn’t do no good. Ricky told him that he was going to do something epic to this town, that they’d forever remember his name and how they’d robbed ‘em of his childhood. He talked ‘bout havin’… what was it?” Sadie shuffled papers around, and said, “I had to write some stuff down ‘cause he was talkin’ so much and I didn’t want to forget. Ah, here it is. Havin’ ‘nough drugs to turn the whole town into addicts-”
“How on earth would he have that kind of supply?”
“Said somethin’ ‘bout it bein’ a gift from heaven,” Sadie said, “whatever that means. He also said he was goin’ to do it at Octoberfest.”
“Octoberfest?” I repeated dumbly. “I don’t get it. What’s he going to do at Octoberfest? Sell drugs?”
Sadie sighed. “He never said specifically, and I listened to ‘em all night hopin’ he’d, you know, explain it for the rest of us. No such luck.” A rapping at the door made Willie bark. Chris Kayne stood on the other side of the glass door, holding a white bag of donuts and smiling. I rushed over and unlocked the door to let him inside. I waved him in, and told him I’d just be a minute.
“So, Ricky Wakefield claims to have an endless supply of drugs. He wants to turn the entire town into addicts, and he wants to do it during Octoberfest?”
“I know it don’t make a lot of sense,” Sadie replied, “but that’s why I wanted to tell you all ‘bout it. If anyone could figure out what the hell he’s talkin’ about, it’s you. Right? Oh, and there’s one more thing. Before he passed out from drinkin’, Ricky made a phone call. I couldn’t hear the other end, but I could hear Ricky. Ricky called ‘em Hyde-”
“Hyde?” I repeated.
“Yep, weird. Don’t know anyone in Tipee with that name,” Sadie said, “and whoever it was, well, he calmed Ricky down. Ricky said somethin’ ‘bout bein’ tired of bein’ an errand boy, talked ‘bout makin’ his mark on Octoberfest, how this town has underestimated him, blah, blah, blah, by the end of the conversation, Ricky was normal again. No more ragin’.”
“So, maybe this friend talked him out of his plans?” I hoped. Chris took his donuts to the counter, grabbed himself a barstool and set out some napkins. He offered Henry some breakfast, which was gratefully accepted.
“Not sure,” Sadie replied, “for the time bein’ anyway.”
“Wonder what he meant when he said he was tired of being an errand boy,” I prompted her.
“I thought that was weird, too. Only people I ever see ‘em with is Wake and J.J. and Ricky ain’t an errand boy for neither of them. Hard for me to picture him takin’ orders from anyone.”
“Me, too.”
“I’ll keep my ears on and let you know if he talks about it again,” Sadie suggested, though I doubted she needed any encouragement from me to keep listening to her neighbors. We said our quick good-byes and I joined Henry and Chris for donuts – a delicacy for me since Mrs. Britt routinely denied me service in her bakery.
“Everything okay?” Chris asked. “You seem a bit preoccupied.”
I shrugged. “I’m always preoccupied, Chris, but I’m fine.” We went on to talk about plans for the next Beach Read party, and were interrupted by another rapping at the glass door. The predators were swirling. Aunt Clara.
“You could ignore her,” Chris suggested slyly. “The door’s locked. She can’t come in.”
I smirked. “I know, but she’s family. I keep hoping that one day, she’ll give up on her dastardly plans to ruin me and just be my aunt again.”
“Wishful thinking,” Chris decided.
I turned the deadbolt on the door, and pulled it open. “Good-morning, Clara.” Clara edged her way inside, maneuvering her head so that the large peacock feather in her hat wouldn’t get hung up in the entrance. She turned her attention to Henry and Chris, and smiled coyly.
“Well, hello Mr. Kayne and, um… you there. Seems inappropriate to be behind locked doors with so many men, but with a name like Delilah, I s’pose it’s expected.” she taunted.
I rolled my eyes. “Oh, please. You’re just jealous that I’ve made so many friends.”
Her penciled eyebrow jutted up to the few wrinkles on her forehead, and she said, “Hardly. I honestly don’t know how you keep them all straight. You’ve got Officer Teague, Chef Mike down the street, this young’un, and a’course, the old geezer there, all pinin’ after you. How do you do it?”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” I urged her. “You were right, Chris. Wishful thinking.”
“And of course, I heard tell of yet another suitor,” she added with her teasing pink smile. “I can’t wait to tell your mamma all ‘bout the man you met in the hotel room at the Peacock. She’d love to hear ‘bout that.”
How Clara found out about Jonathan Dekker was beyond me, but wasn’t surprising. The island’s secrets floated on the breezes, one person to the next like a virus. Curious about Jonathan’s prompt departure, I’d called his cell phone since he left, only to get his voicemail. I didn’t want to talk to him, but the fact that he’d left so qui
ckly didn’t make sense. He wouldn’t take my calls, but I know he made it home safely. He’d posted a comment on his public Facebook page about being ready to get back to school.
I laughed at Clara’s coolly delivered contempt. “You’re just angry because I bested you,” I told her, “and I don’t care about your gossip. The people who’d buy your slander, I don’t care what they think and the ones I do care about, they know better. So, if that’s all you’ve got for me today, then you might as well leave.”
Her calculating smile faltered for a microsecond. Then, she said, “Actually, I didn’t come over here to talk about your overactive love life.” I rolled my eyes at how untrue her description was, but didn’t bother arguing. “The board has decided to add some safety inspections to your fix-up list. The buildin’s old and we’re concerned that Beach Read might have problems beyond the cosmetic, kinda like you.”
I winced at the remark and wanted to rip her peacock feather off her hat and shove it down her throat. Instead, I took a quiet breath. “I’m sure that any TIBA decisions concerning Beach Read can be written in a letter, signed, and mailed to me. I have no need for these neighborly visits, and would rather like it if you’d just stay out of my business and stay out of my store.” In spite of her protests, I gave her a gentle shove back out the door, and closed it quickly. I rested my back on the glass, and tried to ignore her fuming.
“Ah, Delilah,” Chris said, chuckling and pointing behind me, “your door has a nibble.”
I turned around. The peacock feather protruded from the doorway, fluttering wildly on my side, while Clara shuffled to pull her head away from the door on the other. I had her caught by the hat.
“For goodness sake’s, Delilah!” she called with irritation, having to bend over slightly so as not to rip the hat off her head or the feather off the brim. “Let me go!”
My hands went to my hips and I laughed. “I don’t know, boys. Should I keep her?”
“You might wish to have her stuffed,” Henry advised, “and mounted atop your Jeep, a mobile tribute to your victory.”
The three of us laughed while Clara grew red with frustration. “Let me out!” she ordered again. “If you ruin this hat, I’ll make you pay for it!”
“I’ll buy you the hat,” Chris offered, stepping closer to eye the spectacle. “It’s worth it.”
I shook my head, and sighed. “All good things must come to an end.” I unlocked the door, and Clara spilled out to the sidewalk, so angry at having looked foolish that I was certain steam would shoot out of her ears. She clicked off in her matching peacock colored heels, and Henry, Chris and I enjoyed a long laugh.
Later, when I considered both Ricky Wakefield and Clara’s anger, the amusement of it disappeared. The sharks had been taunted. Would they strike? If there was a way to do Beach Read in, Clara would find it. All I had on my side was a window of time.
Ricky Wakefield bothered me, too. When I shared the conversation about Ricky’s threats against the town with Sam, he decided, “A low level idiot like Ricky Wakefield wouldn’t have that kind of volume unless it fell into his lap somehow.” Still, I wondered what if it had?
Chapter Forty-Six
Oysters
Jonathan Swift once said, “He was a bold man who first ate an oyster.” I have to agree. Oyster shells aren’t pretty. Actually, they look like they could have once been pretty shells, but were mangled, digested and spat out by snaggle-toothed sharks. Just the sound of someone eating one grosses me out. So, I prefer to leave my oysters to their ecosystems, and they prefer it, too. Once oysters reach adulthood, they stop being free swimmers and find a place to live. They cozy up among the other oysters, create cement, and glue themselves down. They can’t do their important work – being built-in filtration systems – without first settling into their permanent homes.
Over the next few weeks, I was an oyster. Desperate to affix myself to Tipee and make it my permanent home, I focused on work. And because of my panic issues, I clung to my comforts: the store, the apartment, Henry, Willie and Sam. I barely left the building, except to walk Willie or see Sam at sunset. And why should I? I had everything I needed right there, and with so much work to do, I barely noticed that I was cloistering myself.
We followed up the Agatha Christie party with a slew of others, at least one per week. Stephen King. Edgar Allan Poe. Anne Rice. And we were planning to cap off our Fright Nights on October 30th with a celebration of ghost stories, The Haunted Bookstore.
For the children, we hosted a Princesses and Pirates party, a Curious George celebration, and an art party for Eric Carle (a lot more clean up with this one, but worth it).
The novelty of my book parties didn’t wear off, as I suspected. Instead, the more parties I had, the more excited people became. In spite of Clara’s efforts, the stigma she’d attached to attending my parties (that no one should step foot in Beach Read if they want to keep to her good side) fizzled into nothing. Attendees didn’t care. Her own sister didn’t care. Aunt Charlotte attended every grown-up party, dressed to the hilt, happy for the opportunity to strut her designer wares (and perhaps get out from under the wing of her sister for a while).
And since I no longer had to dish out thousands of dollars on repairs (at least not yet), we were making money! Sales were so good that I no longer had to worry about whether or not I’d make the deadline. All I had to do was keep up the momentum. Had I not been granted the extension, the repairs would have eaten up all my profits and Beach Read would have been beach history.
If I was the oyster, Sam was the glue. We clicked into a peaceful and perfect place. Trips to Fayetteville stopped. Meetings at the shore at sunset continued (unless he was on a call or I was in the middle of a party – and in this case, we met on the roof). Every spare minute we had (and some we didn’t), we spent together. Though I wouldn’t admit it to him, I liked our arrangement. With him fully aware of my deficiencies (and not trying to fix everything) and with sex on hold (though I was just as willing as I was before), the pressure was off. I could just be with him, and being with him was as close to heaven as I could get.
The muggings stopped. The red hair Sam found didn’t earn much information (the sample was too small for DNA and without the telling root), except that its previous owner was a frequent drug user and not a real redhead. One unidentifiable hair didn’t prove anything. And as Sam predicted, Ricky Wakefield started behaving himself. Efforts to catch him in a drug deal failed. So, both cases floated, dead in the water.
I filled the pages of Sam’s beautiful journal anyway, but it wasn’t entirely easy. The first few pages were all about the Peacock party and I littered all the white space. I sketched out the vandalism on the mermaid, drew the layout of the first floor, and even mapped out where people were when the redhead went missing. The party, Ricky Wakefield, David Love, Lucius Kayne, Molly Tubbs, everything I knew (or thought I knew) splattered the papers, and getting it all out was cathartic.
But, then I came to my attack and robbery – the only thing left to journal – and I froze.
Instead of purging my own terrors, I found myself writing and rewriting Raina’s Rolodex verse. For God has not given us a spirit of fear, but of power and of love and of a sound mind. My spirit of fear still battled the other three, and this one issue (at least) was at a stalemate.
Sam often asked to read the journal, but I didn’t let him. In it, I’d also purged what I knew about him: the remarks the women made in the bathroom the night of the party, his comment to Aunt Beverly about being unable to move forward, his trips, and Mason Cook. If the journal was meant to be a place where I could share all my thoughts, it had to include anything or anyone I had questions about, and Sam met that criteria. I knew him, but in some ways, didn’t know him at all.
Besides, I’d taken one page to practice writing my potential married name, Delilah Duffy-Teague, Delilah Teague, Mrs. Delilah Teague, like I was a lovesick middle-schooler. And though Sam had taken all my deficiencies in stride, I wor
ried he’d view this as freakily obsessive.
We had come to the final week of October. For all her issues, Clara had a winning idea. Octoberfest was going to be big. Early in the week, vendors started rolling in and claiming their spots along the boardwalk. Mobile food trucks arrived to set up posts. Stores and restaurants received larger than normal shipments. Hotels were booked. The weather was supposed to be a perfect seventy degrees and sunny all weekend. Clara had organized everything (except the weather, I think) from the fall decorated city lampposts to the central location for costumed children to receive candy and carve pumpkins (fishing pier). Octoberfest would be a feather in Clara’s wide-brimmed hat, and that would have to suffice because she wouldn’t earn another for Beach Read.
Beach Read wasn’t closing! Things weren’t only looking up, but they were soaring, Superman-style into the heavens. But, it’s just when things are going well when someone comes along, rakes you up, and swallows you whole.
Chapter Forty-Seven
Ghosts
With the Graveyard of the Atlantic lining the coast of North Carolina, it should be no surprise that there are just as many ghost stories as there are sunken ships. From the rage of terrible storms wiping out entire crews to abandoned boats showing up without a soul aboard, these stories are rooted in truth and brimming with dark mystery. And almost as if people are looking for them, these stories are easy to come about. Since I’d been in Tipee, I’d inadvertently inspired two myself. Thanks to Darryl Chambers’ murder, Beach Read was haunted (or could be) and, of course, there was a lot of speculation about the redheaded woman I saw. With the full moon that night and the sea smoke slipping onto the island, it was easy for locals (the few who didn’t jump to the conclusion that I was crazy) to grab onto a supernatural explanation. And though I don’t believe in them, even I’ve been forced to wonder, on occasion, what might be living amongst us, unseen.
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