Luna-Sea Read online

  Copyright © 2015 Jessica Sherry

  The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without by monetary gain, is investigated by the Federal Bureau of Investigation and is punishable by up to 5 (five) years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000.

  Names, characters and incidents depicted in this book are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of the author.

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the author.

  All rights reserved. Published/Printed in the United States.

  ISBN: 978-0-9962941-1-9 Mystery

  To Ethan and Abby. I love you so much, it makes me crazy!

  Table of Contents

  Acknowledgements

  Chapter One: Atlas

  Chapter Two: Turning Turtle

  Chapter Three: The Peacock

  Chapter Four: Moon Effects

  Chapter Five: Moonfish

  Chapter Six: Sea Smoke

  Chapter Seven: Moon Snail

  Chapter Eight: Four

  Chapter Nine: Decorator Crab

  Chapter Ten: Undercurrents

  Chapter Eleven: Area 51

  Chapter Twelve: Forts

  Chapter Thirteen: Curiosity

  Chapter Fourteen: Hatchetfish

  Chapter Fifteen: The Lighthouse

  Chapter Sixteen: Paper Nautilus

  Chapter Seventeen: Mooning

  Chapter Eighteen: Portuguese Man-of-War

  Chapter Nineteen: Gargoyles

  Chapter Twenty: Why not… Tequila?

  Chapter Twenty-One: Imitation

  Chapter Twenty-Two: Rabbit Holes

  Chapter Twenty-Three: Mole Crabs

  Chapter Twenty-Four: Finders, Keepers

  Chapter Twenty-Five: Losers, Weepers

  Chapter Twenty-Six: Triggerfish

  Chapter Twenty-Seven: Things Fall Apart

  Chapter Twenty-Eight: Sandbars

  Chapter Twenty-Nine: Mercy

  Chapter Thirty: Mary Shelley

  Chapter Thirty-One: Aftermath

  Chapter Thirty-Two: Boundless

  Chapter Thirty-Three: The Art of Distraction

  Chapter Thirty-Four: Wait

  Chapter Thirty-Five: Yellow

  Chapter Thirty-Six: Southern Hospitality

  Chapter Thirty-Seven: Slender Snipe Eel

  Chapter Thirty-Eight: Flatfish

  Chapter Thirty-Nine: Hide-n-Seek

  Chapter Forty: Seek and Find

  Chapter Forty-One: Colossal Squid

  Chapter Forty-Two: Bites

  Chapter Forty-Three: Angelfish

  Chapter Forty-Four: Upwelling

  Chapter Forty-Five: Upwelling, Part Two

  Chapter Forty-Six: Oysters

  Chapter Forty-Seven: Ghosts

  Chapter Forty-Eight: Cachalot

  Chapter Forty-Nine: Pearls

  Chapter Fifty: Ophelia

  Chapter Fifty-One: Moon Jellies

  Chapter Fifty-Two: Tides

  Chapter Fifty-Three: The Moon

  Chapter Fifty-Four: Moon Seas

  Epilogue: A Million Whispers

  About the Author

  Acknowledgements

  The second Delilah Duffy book was quick to write and slow to publish. Thanks to all of you who stuck around to read more!

  Thanks to Joe, as always, for being my partner.

  Chapter One

  Atlas

  My feet teetered on the wooden planks of the boardwalk overlooking the beach and the great Atlantic, dipping into the sand like toes into cold water. Unsure, my heart pumped wildly. Stomach churned like the waves. My golden retriever, Willie, sat beside me, waiting. Daylight hung on stubbornly. The sun spewed its last hues across the mighty ocean, warming my skin and giving me and everything else an orange glow, a blanket of comfort. Still, I couldn’t move off the wood planks to the sand. Willie whined.

  My name is Delilah Duffy, and I am an expert mistake-maker, working myself into something like recovery. I moved to Tipee Island at the end of June, leaving behind a plethora of professional and personal mistakes, only to topple headfirst into a web of new ones. I became embattled in a fight to save my business – my late-great-aunt’s bookstore – solve a murder, and keep myself alive, while vainly attempting to keep the past where it belonged, behind me. Meanwhile, a mob of nosey-nelly “concerned” citizens and store owners came after me with torches and pitchforks convinced the earth had opened up, and hell had coughed me out to ruin their perfect little town. Well, I’m kidding about the pitchforks, but the we-don’t-want-you-here climate felt just as tangible. I muddled through, but only by God’s good graces and the love of a man I thought I’d lost forever.

  A month has passed since the grand re-opening of Beach Read Books, Gifts, and More, and I’m still fighting to save my business and battling the demons that were stirred to life in all the chaos.

  Every sunset is a fingerprint. My eyes danced across the seascape and I breathed in the salty air. I came here for this – beauty, everywhere you look, and now, I can’t even move closer to enjoy it.

  On the pier just above and to the left, the usual fishermen had taken up their posts. On the boardwalk, Valerie Kent, our resident triathlete, blew by on her ten-speed. Ahead, on the beach, Nathan Hainey and his club circled the beach like vultures, holding out their metal detectors. Near Jubilee Park, I spied Ira Keane, easel up and paint brush in hand.

  Normal islanders doing normal island things, and me trying to decide if I’ll ever be a normal islander.

  Mixed in, like the peas in a giant bowl of soup, were the tourists. The unknowns were splattered across the canvas, soaking in the last bits of daylight.

  I wanted to soak it up, too.

  The Atlantic Ocean is the world’s second largest, stretching over 41,000,000 square miles. It is named for Atlas, the Titan from Greek mythology. The name Atlas means to endure. Most people believe that Atlas, after going against the Olympians in their epic battle and losing, was forced to hold up the earth for eternity. Actually, his punishment was to hold up the heavens. Judging from the view before me, Atlas was getting tired. The heavens were spilling out all around.

  Willie pulled on the leash, beckoning me to come out and play. He moved into the sand, and jumped around. I smiled. I lifted a foot, and placed it on the white sand. My palms were sweating though my skin erupted with sharp chills. My heart thudded. Was that a palpitation? I’m too young for those, right? The water, though alight with soft orange strands, suddenly seemed dark. The ocean wind kicked up, and blustered through my long, brown hair.

  The last time I’d touched the beach was when my almost-lifeless body washed up on its shore. Plato once said, “We can easily forgive a child who is afraid of the dark; the real tragedy of life is when men are afraid of the light.” The weight of that tragedy bore down on my shoulders. I can imagine how Atlas must have felt.

  I pulled my foot back. I gave Willie’s leash a gentle tug.

  A few weeks ago, I survived a night in the ocean. My mistake was not going further out to sea, you bitch! Mavis Chambers’ wicked voice echoed in my ears. Believing falsely that I couldn’t swim, Mavis tried to do me in by dumping me, bound and enclosed in a large duffle bag, into the black ocean. She almost succeeded in killing me.

  Water almost got me once before. When I was six, I fell into a friend’s tarped swimming pool. The blue tarp suctioned to my body like I’d been swallowe
d by a snake. My friend’s father pulled me out and brought me back to life. My first experience saved me from the second. My fear of water was born, as was my father’s insistence that I learn to swim.

  Here, standing on the edge of the beach, my memories waved over my reality. My eyes burned. My throat tightened. My breaths became shallow. I wasn’t murdered, but somehow the panic continues, like I’m still at sea and all this is a dream.

  “That’s enough for today,” I huffed. Willie whimpered.

  Physically, I’d done well over the last month. The only remnants of my concussion were occasional headaches. My broken elbow had limited range of motion, some pain when I bent it certain ways, but I no longer wore the sling. My body had bounced back, but my head hadn’t. Course, everyone thinks I’m fairly touched anyway.

  We crossed Atlantic Avenue and headed up Starfish Drive. Middle August meant that the tourist trade – the bread and butter of the island community – was drying up. Empty parking spaces, a speckled beach, a lightly occupied Tipee Island Fishing Pier – these were all testament to the near end of a difficult summer. Still, while most businesses were lavishing in long sales receipts and checking their large balances at the bank, I had nothing to show for the summer. Nothing at all.

  Beach Read Books, Gifts, and More was a dismal failure.

  I picked up my pace. I slipped passed Top To Bottom: A Hat and Shoe Boutique, my aunts’ store next door, and jumped at the sight of Great Uncle Joe standing in Beach Read’s doorway. His black Hummer loomed crookedly in the parking spot at the front door, and Great Uncle Joe’s expression was just as dark and overwhelming as his vehicle.

  Great Uncle Joe owns Beach Read, along with many businesses up and down the East Coast. Several months ago, when I was having trouble at my last job, he offered me the chance to reopen the store. See if you can do somethin’ with it, he’d told me, as if the store was a child he’d gotten frustrated with and ignored. Truth is, he hadn’t touched the place in over ten years. Beach Read had been Great Aunt Laura’s dream and it closed because she got sick. Beach Read and Laura Duffy died together, and my resurrection of the business has been zombie-like. It’s just not the same as it was.

  Great Uncle Joe dished out a good deal of money for the store’s revival, and he was still waiting to see a return on his investment. It’s easy to console myself with the fact that he has a lot of money to dish out, here, there, and anywhere he pleases, but still I felt guilty that it’s been nothing but a money pit for nearly three months with no signs of recovery.

  “Let’s talk,” he said, opening up the passenger door of the Hummer. He nodded toward the window of Top to Bottom, where Aunts Clara and Charlotte were eyeballing us. Little else would interest Clara Duffy-Saintly more than a conversation between Uncle Joe and me. She would probably give up her own children to get her hands on the property. I huffed. Willie jumped into the truck, giving Uncle Joe a belly laugh.

  As I waited for Uncle Joe to drive off, I noticed that Atlas had resumed his duties. The heavens were properly contained, leaving only a black sky, dotted intermittently with stars and a nearly full moon.

  “What’s this all about?” I questioned, nervous stomach acids popping as the engine roared.

  “Time to talk ‘bout turnin’ turtle.”

  Chapter Two

  Turning Turtle

  When the people of Tipee speak, I often find myself saying, “Huh?” Most, like my Duffy family, have a buttery, slow Southern accent, sometimes put on thick when they’re frazzled or excited. Others, the native islanders who can trace their family lines back to the first settlers, speak something I like to call Backwoods British, a dialect that would make Eliza Doolittle – pre-Professor Higgins – sound like the Queen of England.

  I don’t have an accent. Between my father’s Southern twang and my mother’s curt and crisp Maryland pronunciation, I inherited what I call Normal American English. Mamma Rose used to predict that I’d be a news reporter on television for that reason (Aunt Clara always brushed off this idea saying I was too “pale and freckly for TV”).

  Along with their dialects come a slew of colorful cliches` and idioms; these I’m learning, but have far yet to go.

  Still, when Great Uncle Joe said “turn turtle,” his tone was enough to give the meaning away. “Turn turtle” is a nautical term meaning to capsize; when a turtle turns over, it is left helpless. Great Uncle Joe was telling me to give up.

  He cruised down Starfish and met up with Atlantic Avenue, stopping for pedestrians out for evening strolls or on their way to dinner.

  “You promised I’d have through October,” I eked out.

  Great Uncle Joe adjusted his bucket hat back, so the rim wouldn’t darken his eyes. “I keep my promises, Bean.”

  “Then why-”

  “Delilah, listen here, and listen good. It ain’t just about keepin’ a job or makin’ a profit. It ain’t about keepin’ Laura’s memory alive either. She’ll be in our hearts no matter what. It ain’t even about puttin’ it to Clara. You gotta look at the numbers and realize what’s as plain as the nose on your face. You can’t make a real life outta this. You can’t, honey. You’d never make enough, even if all was right in the world and everythin’ was goin’ your way. And is it worth it to even try?”

  Tears jumped into my eyes and spilled out, running tracks through my sweat. A flush of embarrassment rushed over me – crying in Great Uncle Joe’s Hummer like a baby homesick for mommy. I kept my eyes out the passenger side window.

  He cruised down Coral Avenue, circling the block like a stalker. “I know all about your late car payment, and your apartment with no TV, how you’ve been givin’ every extra dollar you’ve got to your buddy, Henry and tuckin’ hospital bills into a shoe box don’t make ‘em vanish, Bean.”

  I shook my head. Great Uncle Joe had asked Grandma Betty to take care of my books. I should have known that included sizing up my whole life. I could picture her rummaging through the office, around the counter, finding my overdue bills and notices. Anger mixed with my embarrassment.

  “Numbers don’t lie, Bean. We may not like what they say, but they don’t lie.” Uncle Joe breathed out heavily. “Don’t sink any more of your money into this. There’s a time to press on and there’s a time to turn turtle. Your turn is way overdue.”

  I sucked in my tears and shook my head. “I have until the end of October.”

  “Yep,” he agreed. “But, there’s somethin’ else.”

  “What?”

  “Ya see, my old friend Baylor came over with a bottle of Wild Turkey yammering about this great new organization here in Tipee. I got lawyers on speed dial, but since it was Baylor, well, I just signed up for it.”

  “For what?”

  “TIBA,” he shot back. “The Tipee Island Business Association. You know how ritzy communities got them homeowners associations?”

  I nodded, though I’d never been a part of one.

  “Well, this is kinda like that ‘cept for businesses,” he continued. “Makes me think of a private school, where everyone’s forced to wear the same uniform. It’s all about makin’ sure the businesses meet standards.”

  “I don’t understand,” I eked out. “What’s this got to do with me?”

  “Well, Beach Read now falls under the leadership of TIBA,” he said plainly, “and the leadership of TIBA is-”

  “Clara,” I finished in a sigh.

  “Clara.”

  My temples throbbed. I put the window down, letting the warm breezes hit my face. The panic I felt earlier near the water was starting to rise back up again.

  Joe cleared his throat. “Not sure what it’ll mean for you yet, but she’s up to somethin’ considerin’ she used my good friend Baylor and the devil’s nectar to pry that signature outta me.”

  He parked in front of Beach Read, crooked again, and waited for Willie and me to get out. I couldn’t move right away. Perhaps I was waiting for him to give me some kind of encouragement, just as Great Aunt Laura wo
uld’ve done.

  Instead, he scratched his head. “I hear you’re goin’ to that party at the Peacock tomorrow night,” he smiled.

  I’d forgotten all about the party I’d been suckered into. “Right. I’m Rachel’s wingman.”

  Great Uncle Joe laughed. “It’ll be good for ya to get out, have some fun. But, I’ll tell you this, the same thing I tell anyone ‘bout to jump in and go divin’. Watch out for sharks.” He chuckled heartily, and I watched him drive away. Clara waved from her store window and I rolled my eyes before heading inside.

  Chapter Three

  The Peacock

  Peacocks are known for their lavish displays, their prissy plumages, for being beautiful and showy, like supermodels in alluring dresses. Funny thing is, peacocks are all males. The females are called peahens. Grouped together they are peafowl. Peacocks use those brightly colored and arrayed feathers to impress, and the larger and flashier, the better.

  The Peacock Inn was aptly named, not just for the plumage. With the lights on in most of its many rooms, I was reminded of eyes. The Greek goddess Hera is said to have taken the one hundred eyes of her servant, Argus, and transferred them to the peacock, explaining the origin of its brilliant decorations. Tonight, the Peacock looked like it had a hundred eyes, bearing down on the whole island of Tipee.

  The driveway was lined with white dogwoods and lantern posts. Several hundred yards in, the lane gave way to a circle drive surrounding a mermaid fountain that stretched at least a dozen feet into the dark night. The Peacock was a gorgeous, Southern-style plantation house, five stories high, adorned with white columns, climbing ivy, balconies on every floor, and black shudders framing each window.

  “Holy Moses,” I uttered, turning the Jeep toward the right around the circle, as the cars ahead of me had done.

  “Told ya it was fancy,” Rachel returned, adjusting her four-inch heels. The slinky black dress and heels she’d insisted I wear suddenly didn’t feel as out-of-place as I’d predicted for a Tipee Island party. Images of beer and burgers flew out the window. As we neared the uniformed valets at the front entrance, I wished I’d worn my mother’s pearls.