Sea-Devil: A Delilah Duffy Mystery

by Jessica Sherry

  “Excellent,” Teague said.

  “And Teague, I know you have enough built-up leave to take a sabbatical,” Lewis began with annoyance, “but you really need to come back to work.” Teague chuckled.

  “I’ll think about it,” he replied grinning. He clicked the phone shut. Teague wrapped his hands around my waist and swung me around, gently. “That’s good news, right?”

  “Yes,” I said, smiling. “Very good.”

  He eyed me cautiously. “You’re not sure?”

  My shoulders slumped. “It’s nothing. I’m sure it’s nothing.”

  “What?”

  “Just one little tiny thing,” I said. I bit my lower lip. “Why would Ronnie think I couldn’t swim? Lewis said that Ronnie took the boat out far enough for someone who couldn’t swim. Why would he think that?”

  Teague shrugged. “You’ve told people about your fear of the water.”

  “Not him.”

  “I don’t know.” Teague’s eyebrows pushed together thoughtfully. “He could have guessed.”

  “Wouldn’t your first impression of an islander be the opposite?” I asked. “Most people know how to swim. Probably just some dumb thing that I’ll never know the answer to,” I said, with a wave of my hand. Teague flipped his phone back open and redialed Lewis.

  “What is it? I do have some work to do here,” Lewis huffed.

  “Did Ronnie say how he knew that Delilah couldn’t swim?” Teague asked.

  “Didn’t ask,” Lewis returned. “Is it important?”

  “Could be.”

  “Okay, I’ll find out,” Lewis said. I could picture him jotting down a note with his pencil. “Anything else?”

  “Just one more thing. Is Ronnie right or left handed?” Teague asked.

  “Holy Toledo,” Lewis remarked. “Do you want his shoe size and measurements, too? I think he’s left handed. Pretty sure.”

  “Delilah’s assailant was left handed,” Teague reminded Lewis. “You have to be very sure.”

  “I am. He’s left handed. He’s the guy. Now leave me alone.”

  Chapter Seventy-One

  Near-Life

  “Feeling any better?” Teague asked. He was driving my Jeep, and I was soaking in the warm breezes. After dinner and all the commotion over the good news, my head had started throbbing again. Since walks on the beach are off the itinerary for multiple reasons, Teague suggested a drive. I answered his question with a so-so gesture, and rubbed my temples.

  It was three days after I’d spent the night in the sea. Overall, I’d done well. My muscles had gone from gelatin, to aching, to sore and weak. Headaches were the biggest irritation.

  “Is this helping?” he asked. He drove my Jeep like he owned it, shifting gears without the first hesitation or grind. Figures, I thought to myself. When I first learned to drive the Jeep (self-taught, by the way) I thought I was going to rip the gearshift out of the console.

  I nodded. “Know someplace quiet and shaded?”

  Teague drove into Tipee Island State Park. The path winded through an open area for picnicking, bike trails and footpaths, a playground and duck pond, until Teague pulled off on a side road to the right, in the opposite direction of the sign that read “BEACH”. The one lane road became bumpier, one of Frost’s less travelled, for sure, and it was almost overgrown with unruly shrubs and trees. Soon, the path opened to a small clearing, where Teague parked. There seemed to be only a thick forest.

  Sam took my hand and said, “You’ll love this.” He led me down barely a trail into the shady trees, and a few steps later, the forest opened into a miniature estuary. From somewhere beyond, the ocean waters had spilled into this small deposit which was shaded almost all the way across over the top by extended trees – live oaks, red cedars, and wax myrtles surrounded by loblolly pines – interweaving and joining branches with each other, creating a brilliant ceiling fifty feet across the pool. Further, the sunlight broke through the canopy, if only to warm the waters of the peaceful lagoon, where lily pads rested, cattails wavered, and marsh grasses swayed. Egrets and herons fluttered in their mega-birdbath. A fish jumped, sending ripples out like a sound wave. Sam led me to a cedar bench.

  “It’s beautiful,” I said. He held my hand as the birds played. I rested my head on his shoulder. “You’re going back to work tomorrow?”

  “Only if you’re ready,” he replied.

  I sighed. “You need to go back. I can’t just monopolize you forever. Besides, Ronnie’s in jail.”

  “Feel safe again?” he asked.

  I shrugged. “As safe as I can be. Do you feel good about it?”

  He hesitated. “Well, statistically speaking, only about 10 or 12% of the world is left handed,” he explained, “so, I think it’s safe to assume that we’ve got the right guy.”

  “That’s a weird thing to know,” I noted.

  “Well, I’m left handed,” he told me.

  “Gosh, I didn’t realize,” I said. “There’s a lot I don’t know about you, I guess.” I hoped that he would seize the opportunity to elaborate on some of those things, but he shrugged.

  “I feel confident about Ronnie. Besides, you’re you.”

  “What’s that mean?” I asked sitting up and looking at him with a puzzled expression.

  “Delilah, I’m here because you want me to be and I’m thrilled, but you don’t need me,” he replied. He brushed his fingers on my cheek. “You’re the toughest person I’ve ever met.” I cut him my best you’ve-got-to-be-kidding look.

  “I mean it. You amaze me.” My face flushed, and then I smiled.

  “So, then you aren’t too mad about the whole stealing evidence from a crime scene thing that I did?” I played with his shirt collar, while scrunching up my face.

  “Don’t care.”

  “And the whole thing where I thought you were lying to me?”

  He shook his head. “You know the truth now.”

  “What about when you get a domestic disturbance call and realize I’m beating the crap out of Candy,” I suggested. “Will you be angry then?”

  He laughed. “I might be slow to stop that one, but, angry? No. Delilah, at this point, I don’t think you could make me mad, even if you set out to. Though there’s one thing you could do that would really disappoint me.”

  “What’s that?”

  A warm, but playful smile reached across his face. “Put a stop to this kiss.”

  “Wouldn’t dream of it,” I whispered.

  I grinned as he leaned in, and decided not to disappoint him. As I melted into him, I remembered that these were the lips I thought I’d never kiss again, and felt a surge of joy, like firecrackers of bliss exploding inside me. For the first time since my near-death, I felt near-life and I got lost in it.

  Chapter Seventy-Two

  Church, Part Two

  The church sanctuary smelled slightly of mildew, but the morning light beaming in through the panes of stained glass gave it a truly heavenly feel. With the addition of my parents, the Duffy pew was overflowing, so Mamma Rose, Sam, Aunt Beverly and I sat in the next row behind them. With the long black pants I borrowed from Candy’s closet (to cover my ankle rings) and bracelets that rivaled Wonder Woman covering up my wrists, I looked almost normal. I’d done some creative hair pinning that gave me a loose bun, and managed to hide my missing locks.

  Still, when people looked at me, all they saw was Uncle Clark’s snapshot gracing the front page of the paper (I should get a commission), and this garnered many stares and whispers. The good news, however, was that they’d stopped talking about my “bullshit” episode and had moved into something more like sympathy. I could live with that for now.

  Reverend Richards droned on about Bingo nights, food drives, Bible studies, and Vacation Bible School before getting into the meat of his sermon. I clasped my lips shut, just in case. From Psalm 139, he read, “Lord, you have searched me and known me. You know my sitting down and my rising up; You comprehend my path and my lying down, and
are acquainted with all my ways… If I take the wings of the morning, and dwell in the uttermost parts of the sea, even there your hand shall lead me, and your right hand shall hold me.”

  I have no idea what Reverend Richards said to bookend those verses. It didn’t matter. I was too busy fighting off a round of pesky tears that popped up, out of control. Out there in the middle of a black ocean, I hadn’t been alone. That hadn’t been bullshit after all.

  Sam went to his pocket to pull out a handkerchief, but I put my hand up to stop him. I’d almost forgotten. I reached in my purse and pulled out one of my own.

  Chapter Seventy-Three

  Gulf Stream

  Ponce de Leon described what was later named the Gulf Stream, as a “current more powerful than the wind.” Benjamin Franklin became curious about this current. Boats traveling northward sailed much faster than those going south. With help, Franklin eventually charted and named the Gulf Stream, a strong ocean current stretching like a conveyor belt from the tropics to the Arctic. The current is an enormous energy source, some sixty-two miles wide, thousands of feet deep, and moving at 5.6 miles per hour. It is a river in an ocean, spreading warmth across the Atlantic. A forward-moving power like this is kind of like a family.

  Concussions are a tricky business. Some people get knocked out, only to come to and rejoin whatever activity it was that knocked them out in the first place. My grade five concussion had left no permanent damage, but I had moments of uneasiness that reminded me how weak I truly was. Headaches, of course. Soreness around the sutures. But, moments of dizziness and confusion made me feel a little drunk. Screens were hard for my eyes, and although great meals were being prepared for me, I didn’t have much of an appetite. Consequently, I decided to make Wednesday Beach Read’s For Real Grand Opening, giving me another three days of rest. I even took out an advertisement in Clark’s paper to make it official.

  The great support that I had hoped for but missed at the beginning of this venture kicked in to a fantastic frenzy. My parents took charge of my apartment. Mom filled in the blanks by filling up her SUV at The Cotton Exchange. Bedside tables (now I had homes for my lamps), an area rug for warmth, a cushy white couch for lounging, curtains (“for decency, goodness gracious, Delilah!”), a few potted plants, and other decorative touches that would’ve taken me ages to do on my own. Dad handled the new stove and fridge by trekking to Shawsburg, interrogating the Lowe’s salesman, and then insisting that he install them himself. Yes, he had his toolbox in the car for “times just like these” he told me.

  Clark gifted me with five incredible beach pictures that he’d made and framed himself, and though my relationship with the sea was on shaky ground, the pictures generated more warmth than fear. In turn, I forgave him for the dreadful picture of me in my hospital bed that appeared in Saturday’s paper under the headline Delilah Duffy Defies Death at Sea; The Book Isn’t Closed on Beach Read.

  Grandma Betty helped me set up my Beach Read technology department, which was really just the computer, all-in-one printer, and software. She worked with me to start up all the business software, which included the tedious task of creating an inventory. Together, we learned how to operate Great Uncle Joe’s existing credit card machine, and played with the cash register, creating different sales scenarios for practice.

  Henry Bellows appeared back at the store on Monday. Once I had been snatched by a marauder, as he called Ronnie Chambers, Henry had taken it upon himself to comb the island in pursuit. Though he didn’t find me, he was pleased to report that he did find an umbrella and a new beach towel.

  With the hubbub over, Henry jumped into an experimental role at Beach Read. Damon brought Neisha and Nikita to the store for a private, pre-opening performance. With the girls and Willie cuddled on the beanbags and large, colorful pillows Mom scored at The Cotton Exchange, Henry settled onto the barstool by the window and read a pirate picture book, which he digressed from often, much to the girls’ infinite delight. I knew right away that I’d found my niche – a real storyteller.

  Mike Ancellotti visited the shop Monday, while Grandma Betty and I were busy with computer work. He’d left several messages on my cell phone, but I hadn’t returned his calls. We did the usual roundabout concerning my ordeal and he expressed his concern and relief at my safety.

  “I always knew those Chambers boys were bad news,” he told me. “I’m just so sorry that you had to be an innocent victim in all that.”

  I took a deep breath. “I don’t feel like a victim.” Of course, as I said those words, my head retaliated against me with sharp pains to my right temple. “I’m really doing much better.”

  “I’m sure your family’s been giving you an extra helping of TLC,” he noted, smiling at Grandma Betty.

  She humphed. “We aren’t the only ones,” she returned under her breath.

  Mike glanced back at me, confused.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “Let’s go out on the sidewalk and talk. I could use some air.” He held the door open for me as we went out, into the stifling July heat. I leaned against the brick wall of Beach Read. Suddenly feeling awkward, I muttered something like, “Um, I’d like to talk-”

  Mike grinned widely, showing off one of his best assets. He had a disarming, sexy smile that surely had spoiled him at the hands of women. “I know you’re seeing Teague,” he finished. “Far be it from me to get into a pissing match with Robocop.” I chuckled at the reference. “He’s like ex-green beret. He’d probably snipe me from a rooftop or something just to get me out of the picture.” He laughed.

  “I’d really like us to be friends, and I think we could be good ones, if there are no misunderstandings.”

  “Works for me. I figure, if we can join forces, maybe we can put the squeeze on your aunts and then we can be the business powerhouses of the block.”

  I laughed. “A lofty, but good idea.”

  Mike promised to cater the grand opening with some light refreshments, which was completely his idea, and I was happy to accept. When I returned inside, without Mike, Grandma Betty gave me the stink eye.

  “I hope you’re not doing anything that might upset Officer Teague,” she said. I eased myself into one of the beanbags, rubbing my head.

  “I think Sam would be proud of me,” I told her. “No worries.” And Sam was proud of me. He told me so, often.

  I’d mounted mistakes, as usual, but with my voyage at sea came a rebirth, of sorts. I’d done some good, too, I thought, and maybe the mistakes, however monumental, were just a part of getting to God’s good stuff. I rethought the lines from Jeremiah: “’For I know the plans I have for you,’ declares the Lord, ‘plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future’.” I believed that God did want all that for me. We’re the ones who serve up the bullshit that gets in the way. I’d be sure to grab up my pieces of heaven as much and as often as I could.

  I had yet to come to peace with water. I’m not sure that I ever would, but my mistake-making I could live with. Until I realized I’d made a deadly one.

  Chapter Seventy-Four

  Shoals

  Off the coast of North Carolina, the Gulf Stream is the strongest. Here, the Gulf Stream collides with the Labrador Current from the North, creating the Diamond Shoals, shallow sandbars surrounded by rough waters. The Gulf Stream spills into the open ocean and feeds into separate currents, but not before making the coast of North Carolina a deadly rest stop. Sailors happily moving along on the stream’s fast waters forget about the dangers at the Shoals (or are unaware) and are caught in its traps.

  The Gulf Stream has been both a blessing and a curse to sailors, contributing its own lot, hundreds of vessels, to the Graveyard of the Atlantic. The bottom of the North Carolina coast is littered with their bodies, their ships, their treasures, and even their porcelain dolls. One can never think she is safe.

  Tuesday afternoon, Willie and I ventured out for the first time alone. With the store opening tomorrow, I needed to know that I c
ould do things independently (having gone for so many days without). Still, Sam practically interrogated me about my plans before he headed for work, and for once, I wasn’t stubborn about telling him.

  Top to Bottom: A Hat and Shoe Boutique is a rose crammed in between two thorns, based on appearances. To its left sits Mystic Delights, what my dad would call a ‘hippie store’ and whose windows don hookas and tie-dye t-shirts. To the right, of course is Beach Read, and though Beach Read is wonderful, it is rough and battered.

  Top to Bottom’s store front, twice the size of mine, has professionally styled windows with mannequins and fabric backdrops (mostly in pink), and even the windows themselves are adorned with long flower boxes spilling over with pink, purple, and white daisies, tulips, and carnations.

  As soon as you enter, a light perfume fills your senses. Pink is the primary color, from the carpet to the walls. And though I’ve never been a pink-fan myself (Victoria’s Secret excluded), the color choices actually work, and create a soft, warm atmosphere that says, “Come in. Relax. Stay awhile. We’re all friends here.”

  Hat trees create an odd forest on the left side of the room. On the right, the shoe department, which is littered with cushy pink chairs, side tables, and even a coffee and water bar. The long glass counter and display case lay ahead of me. Clara stood there, reading glasses perched on her nose, and face buried in paperwork. I stepped toward her.

  “As I live and breathe,” she cooed, barely looking up from her work, “Delilah Duffy! I bet you need a hat for that unsightly new haircut-”

  “I’m not here for a hat.”

  “Came to gloat then?” she went on, turning back to her work. Truthfully, gloating would have felt nice. Once Great Uncle Joe learned about what had been happening, he went ballistic. He extended my profit deadline, tore up the aunts’ offer, and promised them that if they tried anything else and I failed to make it work, he’d sell to Via and let Beach Read become an extension of the strip club. I had a feeling Aunt Clara would behave from now on.