Sea-Crossed: A Delilah Duffy Mystery, #3

By Jessica Sherry

Some secrets are kept to be kind.

 

A normal beach life managing Beach Read Books with Sam by her side—that's all infamous mystery-solver Delilah Duffy wants.

 

Torture, pain, and misery—that's all someone else wants for her. She's being watched.

 

She's also worried about Sam—he's gone and disturbingly silent. Sam wouldn't ghost her—she knows that—though that's what everyone thinks. But the longer his silence, the harder it is to make sense of it, especially now when she needs him most. Struggling with Sam's mystery, she becomes embattled in another.

 

When an elegant dinner party at Mike's restaurant takes a poisonous turn, the "book queen with a thing for crime scenes" must do all she can to save her friend from a murder charge. Desperate to break the case before her worst fears break her, Delilah must untangle the secrets holding her hostage while protecting one of her own, and she's never felt more alone or at risk.

 

With her future with Sam in danger, what lines will she cross to get to the truth?

 

⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐ "It's so good to be back in Delilah's world. I love how quirky she is… These books are addictive."

⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐ "…a real page-turner for me."

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jessica Sherry
• Release date: Jun 19, 2017
• ISBN: 9780996294157

Book preview

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Published by Jessica Sherry

Copyright © 2017 by Jessica Sherry

jessicasherry.com

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the author, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.

The story, all names, characters, and incidents portrayed in this production are fictitious. No identification with actual persons (living or deceased), places, buildings, and products is intended or should be inferred.

ISBN: 978-0-9962941-5-7

Book Cover Design by Elizabeth Mackey

Printed/Published in the United States of America

Contents

1.One

1. The Mid-Atlantic Ridge

2.Two

2. Bouillabaisse

3.Three

3. Motley Crew

4.Four

4. Ad Nauseum

5.Five

5. Out-of-Body Experience

6.Six

6. Flakes & Fears

7.Seven

7. Sea-Change

8.Eight

8. Immortal Jellyfish

9.Nine

9. Stings

10.Ten

10. Thin Air

11.Eleven

11. Pockets

12.Twelve

12. Pygmy Seahorses

13.Thirteen

13. Star-Crossed

14.Fourteen

14. Swords

15.Fifteen

15. Fathoms

16.Sixteen

16. Greatness & Crime

17.Seventeen

17. Missings

18.Eighteen

18. Breaks

19.Nineteen

19. Funeral Pod

20.Twenty

20. Smacks

21.Twenty-One

21. Sculpins

22.Twenty-Two

22. Baleen Whales

23.Twenty-Three

23. Picked

24.Twenty-Four

24. Pickles

25.Twenty-Five

25. Sea Art

26.Twenty-Six

26. Stones

27.Twenty-Seven

27. Sea Fears

28.Twenty-Eight

28. Killifish

29.Twenty-Nine

29. Poison

30.Thirty

30. Sea Butterflies

31.Thirty-One

31. Awash

32.Thirty-Two

32. Lionfish

33.Thirty-Three

33. Sea Urchins

34.Thirty-Four

34. Porcupinefish

35.Thirty-Five

35. Red Drum

36.Thirty-Six

36. Pressure Points

37.Thirty-Seven

37. Fish Tales

38.Thirty-Eight

38. Sails

39.Thirty-Nine

39. Mud Snails

40.Forty

40. Stargazers

41.Forty-One

41. Bull Shark

42.Forty-Two

42. Tiger Sharks

43.Forty-Three

43. Avocet

44.Forty-Four

44. Cabbagehead Jelly

45.Forty-Five

45. Slipper Limpets

46.Forty-Six

46. Epic Wars

47.Forty-Seven

47. Refraction

48.Forty-Eight

48. Water

Epilogue

Sea-Crossed

Links

Books by Jessica Sherry

One

The Mid-Atlantic Ridge

Snowflakes. I couldn’t believe it. The weatherman had warned about a cold snap and chances of accumulating snow here on Tipee Island, but I, like every other islander, had dismissed it.

Snow my foot! They’re just ropin’ people into watchin’ the news, Grandma Betty had decided. It’s how they get ratin’s.

Mamma Rose agreed. Every time they say it’s gonna happen, it doesn’t, and once in a blue moon, when they don’t say it’ll happen, it does.

And, ever the encourager, my mean-spirited Aunt Clara’d said, Snow’s ‘bout as likely as Delilah bein’ normal. It just ain’t gonna happen!

I breathed in deeply, letting the flakes drizzle onto my face. I smiled. Clearly, Aunt Clara didn’t know everything, however much she believed she did. There’s hope for me, yet.

A strained hope, anyway.

My name is Delilah Duffy, and I’m an expert at making mistakes. Likely, I’m making one right now. It was my first time out of my apartment in over five days. I hadn’t been feeling well. Risking my weakened immune system, I had to come. The beach made me feel close to God, the sunset, to Sam.

Sam left six weeks ago. Five days had gone by without a word, though I’d left countless messages. Now, I was sick with worry. Letting him go was a huge mistake, maybe my biggest ever. All I wanted was a normal life. I couldn’t have that as long as my other half was missing.

The ocean churned. The huge brown pelicans huddled closely together on the railing of the barren pier. Willie whined at my side as if to say, come on, Delilah. It’s cold out here! But I couldn’t move.

The longest mountain range on earth isn’t the tallest. In fact, it hardly tickles the heavens at all. Most of it hides underneath the Atlantic Ocean. The Mid-Atlantic Ridge splits the great sea in half, stretching vertically some 10,000 miles. In places, the mountain range is 1,000 miles wide—and growing. Because of the volcanic activity below its ridges and valleys, the Mid-Atlantic Ridge is slowly widening, creating an even greater gap between continents.

Imagining this massive structure and how it divided the sea, I couldn’t help but think of Sam and me.

Mistake, mistake, mistake. I didn’t feel closer, but further away. I closed my teary eyes and rubbed my stomach with a gloved hand. Panic piddled on all my good intentions.

All the good things in my life felt nullified in Sam’s absence. He’d asked me to marry him and I’d said yes. But now I had no ring and no fiancé to show for it. So, I’d kept my joy secret. The amazing night we spent together before he left had been dreamlike in its beauty and perfection. But, fears played with my worries. Would it ever happen again?

For once, it wasn’t my crazy life keeping us apart, at least as far as I knew. When his old army buddy Mason Cook asked him to help with his business, Sam agreed. I didn’t know where he was or what he was doing. Private security? Soldier-for-hire? Crazy 007-type stuff? My busy brain worked overtime filling in the blanks Sam left by his non-communication.

Half my Duffy relatives thought I’d scared Sam away. The longer he was gone, the harder it was to argue. Besides, the drama of trying wasn’t worth the effort. And no matter what anyone said, I hated drama.

Still, Grandma Betty calls me a drama magnet. I argued at first, but she’s right. I attracted crazy, maybe because I’m crazy, too. Still, I didn’t ask for trouble. It found me. And it drove me into the ground like a jackhammer. I still suffered the effects—physical and psychological. My topsy-turvy life was in a constant state of recovery.

But, you ain’t recoverin’, my nineteen-year-old cousin Raina had pointed out on more than one occasion. Her words echoed in my head as the icy droplets danced onto my face. What did she know?

However much I loved my sweet cousin (and all my busybody relatives who routinely swore that they understood my life and my brain much better than me), I got it—they didn’t. It was mine to deal with, anyway. Just like I wouldn’t invite them all over for an ointment applying party if I suffered from leprosy, I hadn’t extended an invitation for them to shrink my brain until it worked right again (fat chance).

Having a panic disorder sucked, but there were worse things—like being murdered or drowned or overrun with relatives (all of which happened often in Tipee). Truth is, I’d always leaned toward the anxious and neurotic side (definitely my mother’s genes). A near-drowning when I was six led to my aquaphobia and night terrors while propelling my parents into a perpetual smother mentality. Add in a few more near-death experiences and psycho encounters, and you get a full-blown psychological condition. Wasn’t it funny how bad things didn’t just scream out once, but echoed indefinitely?

So, I was slightly bitter about it—not that there’s anyone really to blame. My panic thing really made it hard to get my normal-life-groove on. And maybe my bad attitude was part of the reason I hadn’t sought professional help yet.

What do you mean you haven’t called Dr. Dey yet? Sam asked two conversations ago. I had called, made an appointment, and canceled at the last minute—three times. Something always came up. The first time, I had a panic attack—yeah, I get the irony. The second—I don’t remember. The last time what came up was my breakfast. Surely, Dr. Dey didn’t want to meet me under those conditions.

Besides, as I gently explained to Sam, I’d been doing my homework. I’d read every self-help book Beach Read offered from Woe is Worry to Panic Problems Solved. I’d learned how to recognize triggers and talk myself out of them. Though none had taught me how to flip off the panic switch, rid myself of the nightmares, or just forget all the bad things that had happened to me, I’d been working on it. I would try a self-hypnosis book next.

I wouldn’t tell Sam this, but nothing had been easy. I was liquid. Poured out all over. So, the panic came—over anything, over nothing—and I tried damming myself up.

The beach helped. Sometimes.

Having your own personal psycho killer on the loose didn’t.

You won’t believe what I heard about Chris Kayne, Uncle Clark reported last week, as he did pretty much every time I saw him. Chris Kayne was the rich, genius psychopath that I went up against a few months ago when I uncovered a drug operation in Tipee. Though I figured out his plans and bested him, slightly, at the lighthouse, Chris Kayne caused the deaths of several people—a few by manipulating me. To add strange on top of crazy, he became my friend. I couldn’t explain how I could like him, but I couldn’t deny it either. I also couldn’t deny that he scared the hell out of me. He escaped but promised we’d meet again. He’d left me in ruins, waiting for him to decide when he’ll come calling.

Let me guess, I’d said, he’s remodeling a villa in the south of France where he’s dating a supermodel and building a spaceship for the Russians.

Better. He’s double-crossed a couple of Mexican cartels, produced rival drug cocktails for them, both, by the way, less potent than promised. He’s as good as dead.

The hopeful gleam in Clark’s eye made me feel bad, even though the enormous living-in-fear part of me wanted the same thing.

Clark cocked his head. You might be safe.

For Clark’s sake, I shrugged and rolled my eyes, pretending indifference. Rumors about Chris Kayne were as common as post-storm puddles. A few steps in any direction and you’d plop in someone’s theory or sighting or accomplice or trail. None verifiable.

But still. Any could be true. My fears forced me to pay attention and let all those stories fester in my head because they had one thing in common. Me. Everyone believed he’d come back for a Duffy vs. Kayne round two.

So did I.

Chris Kayne’s your supervillain soul mate, Clark’d explained once. You have to admit you have a weird connection.

What could be normal when a psycho wanted you dead?

The crashing waves, whipping winds, and worried thoughts spurred up my disorder. My heartbeat kicked into overdrive. My entire body flushed with sweat. My hands shook. I took a deep breath, refocused on the lovely, delicate flakes drifting down from heaven, and forced myself calm. They were coming down heavier now. A dusting was fast becoming a blanket.

That I could be on the beach at all was a miracle. I smiled. Even with all this panic and fear and missing Sam, there were amazingly awesome things, too.

I’d lovingly, but gruelingly dug up Beach Read—my late, Great-Aunt Laura’s bookstore—from the grave and given it a heartbeat again. My underdog bookstore had thrived since hosting storytimes and eclectic book parties. I still had a long way to go before I’d fill in the deep hole in my profit pocket—left in most part to the Tipee Island Business Association’s long list of repairs they’d forced me to complete. Still, we were making it, much to the frustration of my aunts Candy and Clara. They’ve been out to steal my business from the beginning, but their devilish efforts have only succeeded at making me a better businesswoman. Beach Read had evolved from a money-drainer to a moneymaker, thanks to my ideas and my partner Henry’s dramatic talents.

Though surely Clara and Candy were counting on me having a mental breakdown so they could get their grubby hands on Beach Read, I tried to keep perspective.

Business ownership, nasty relatives, life in general… Every day was a glorious struggle to hunt down a normal life, but I was a fighter. I had to believe I’d get there, eventually.

I just needed Sam.

Are you sure you’re okay with this? he’d whispered in my ear the morning he left. Say the word, and I won’t go. Before anything else, there’s you and me.

You and me. Those words meant more then, even more now. Through murder and mayhem and annoying relatives, we’d busted through and topped it all off with an amazing night together. My heart was full. Full and content and so ridiculously happy that I could no longer imagine a world without Sam and me loving each other.

Stupidly confident, I’d waved my hand in the air and dared fate with What could possibly come between us now? I’d forced a smile and assured him. Everything will be fine. Just promise me you’ll be safe and you won’t leave me here alone for too long. Might go crazier.

He’d smiled. I won’t be gone one minute more than I have to be, for the sake of both of our sanities. I could’ve held him there forever, and wanted to, especially when he kissed me and said, I love you like crazy.

Crazy was letting him go.

Since Sam and I had a beach at sunset tradition (his idea to help fix me), I imagined him somewhere ogling his sunset and thinking of me—that being here, I’d feel him somehow. And maybe his Spidey-senses would tingle, alerting him I had something to tell him, something incredible. I was no longer the only one he needed to come home to.

Everything I’d ever wanted was about to happen… I had a banging book business, an incredible love story, and a baby on the way.

I’d been practicing how to tell him. Sam, I’m pregnant. No. How about, Sam, we’re expecting. No, still not right. How about, Sam, we’re having a baby. Or better yet, Sam, remember how we talked about having fat, tan beach babies? Well, guess what?

I couldn’t wait to tell him—him first—and I couldn’t do it over voicemail or text.

I glanced at my silent phone. My sunset plan wasn’t working.

I closed my eyes, pushing back tears. Where was he? Why hadn’t he called? I breathed out heavily. The flakes flew at me now. The great division between Sam and me felt enormous, and this anti-sunset had only spawned darkness and shadows. All I felt was cold, and ironically, alone. This amazing thing was happening to me and no one knew.

You know, you really shouldn’t be out here in your condition.

Well, almost no one.

Mike Ancellotti leaned over me, blocking the flakes. I sat up. Sounds like something my mother would say, I said with a hint of irritation. That Mike knew had been an accident, stemming from my refusal to share a glass of wine with him the other day and his absolute refusal to believe that my New Year’s resolution was to stop drinking. He figured it out and had been acting like a mother hen ever since. As if I needed another one of those! This time, however, Mike was here to offer more than unwanted advice.

He smiled. Been looking for you. I need your help. Do you have a sexy black dress?

Two

Bouillabaisse

For centuries, fishermen made-do by creating recipes around their unsellables. The Greek fishers of the French Provence of Marseille used their leftover seafood as ingredients in bouillabaisse (pronounced Delilah Duffy-style as boo-ya-base). In a bouillabaisse, the method matters more than what goes into it. The ingredients, whatever’s available, aren’t added all at once, but cooked and served separately. Guests portion out their vegetables and seafood into their broths, family-style.

When it came to cooking, it’s all Greek to me, an expression that originated in the Middle Ages because of the dwindling population literate in the Greek language, and was later made famous in Shakespeare’s Julius Caesar. It meant, simply, I didn’t get it.

I didn’t get cooking. I’d be happy as an ant at a picnic with a diet of coffee, mac-n-cheese, Grandma Betty’s shrimp and grits, and pizza. But Mike was as generous with his fancy food as he was with his advice. Both made him a good friend.

Mike stood over the steaming stockpot and inhaled while he stirred. Every pot, pan, and utensil I owned could fit into that one stockpot. My cooking know-how could fit into the size of a pea. Still, Mike shoved a cutting board and knife at me.

Dice some onion.

I eyed the sizzling grills and steaming pots. How he could have so much going on at once was all Greek to me.

Mike busily prepared his version of the French classic, bouillabaisse, for a private dinner party.

Can’t believe this weather, Mike said. Snow freaks everyone out around here. There’s hardly an inch on the ground and people are hunkering down like it’s a blizzard.

This is a blizzard, by island standards. I smiled.

My sous chef won’t cross on the ferry because he’s afraid of getting stranded and my hostess won’t risk driving her car out of the driveway, he went on. Anyway, thanks for coming to my rescue.

I waved the knife dismissively, flinging onion pieces in the air. Not sure how much help I’ll be, but I’ll do my best.

You look the part. He nodded toward the black dress I’d thrown on. I curtsied. He pointed to my feet. Except for those.

Oh, right! I slid out of my polka-dot rubber boots, an unusually useful gift from my mother, though I’d never tell her how much I used these suckers. I slipped on the black heels I’d shoved in my bag and curtsied once more. Mike chuckled.

The hostess with the mostest.

I laughed. Right, we’ll be lucky if you get out of this evening unscathed by my lack of coordination, grace, and know-how. I’m an oaf when it comes to things like this—

All you have to do is smile and pay attention. Keep the glasses full and the dirty dishes cleared, and we’ll be fine. I have faith in you, Mike said. I smiled.

I doubted I’d live up to his standards, however limited, but I could use the distraction. I’d been reading, sleeping, and thinking non-stop baby stuff in between dealing with tummy troubles and worries over Sam, of course. My brain was starved for something else.

A pounding at Mike’s backdoor sent my knife clanging to the metal table. Thankfully, that mostly covered up my girly scream. Mike grinned, wiped his hands on a towel, and went to the door.

An older, heavyset man carrying a grocery bag followed Mike inside the kitchen. Delilah, I’d like you to meet Ted Barner. He shook my hand, donning a wide, Joker-sized grin. Ted’s face could best be described as goofy, mostly for the saggy jowls that hung like sacks along his cheekbones. He looked familiar, but I couldn’t place him. He wore baggy gray sweats and layers of shirts topped with a flannel button-down. The shirt pocket was stuffed with a pocket protector overflowing with pens, a notepad, and business cards.

Nice to meet you, I greeted. His face flushed, like he’d just come out of a sauna.

Mike gave me a secret wink, and went on, Ted is one of our guests tonight. My mind raced. Was I supposed to know this guy?

Brought some bounty for da pot, he noted, holding up the heavy bag. Crawdads. Ted turned to me and asked, I hear you’re a real book smart lady. Gotta good one for you. What do crawdads and compound sentences have in common?

I shrugged, my mind blank.

At least two clawses. We laughed lightly, but Ted’s throaty chuckles drowned us out.

That is a good one, I told him.

These’ll be great, Ted, Mike said, taking the bag from his hands. Ted’s brother, Bill, is treating Tipee’s fleet of commercial fishermen tonight, celebrating a new business venture.

Sounds exciting.

Ted stepped closer to me, as if he were about to tell me a secret. He smelled weird. Sweat and mothballs. Any business that’s done over fresh seafood’s got my support. Ted rubbed his large belly.

Wrinkles creased my forehead. Would my belly get that big, I wondered. I distracted myself with, What’s the venture?

Ain’t a bookstore. Ted laughed.

I smiled. Thank goodness.

I’ll let Bill ‘plain it tonight. He’s better at the wordy-words than I am. You don’t think this snow’ll get in the way, do ya?

Ted put his chunky hands on his hips. My jaw dropped. I’d seen Ted before—dropping his pants! Mike had taken me to the roof months ago to see Ted and Bill acting out their tradition—a naked plunge into the ocean. Mike and I had run to the roof many times to see Tipee’s more interesting residents and tourists, when weather and weirdoes permitted, that is. Bill and Ted had been unwontedly memorable.

Mike shook his head, chuckling at the disturbed expression etched on my face. What’s a little snow to a bunch of hard asses like you?

I’m as hungry as a whale in the desert. My crawdads’ll be the best in the pot, but I’m lookin’ forward to tastin’ the other boats’ bounties.

We’ve got shrimp, Littleneck clams, oysters, flounder, bluefin tuna, blue crabs, and now crawdads, Mike said. You’re in for a feast.

I don’t like it any other way. Ted chuckled, rubbing his large belly again. Now if you and da lady don’t mind, I’m goin’ to take a pit-stop, and then get outta your hair. Ted moved his way through the kitchen, like he’d been through it a million times, and disappeared into the dining room.

Mike motioned me toward the walk-in fridge. Safely hidden from the outer kitchen, we broke down into laughter between shelves of lemons, limes, and lettuces.

Never thought I’d meet the man behind the hairy butt. I chuckled. How am I ever going to think of anything else when I look at him?

Bill’s coming tonight, too. Let’s hope they both keep their pants on.

I laughed. I’ll say that tonight, sometime, during the dinner, and you’ll freak out.

I bet you ten bucks you can’t do it without laughing, Mike said.

You’re on. We shook hands, growing colder in the fridge.

Mike’s laugh settled into a smile. Thanks again for helping me out.

"You’re helping me, actually. I can’t stand one more minute cooped up in my apartment. There’re only so many funny cat videos a person can watch on YouTube." An involuntary shiver ran through me.

Mike chuckled while rubbing my arms. Well, you’re always welcome here with me.

His eyes lingered a hair too long. I turned to the shelves. What’s next?

Mike loaded my arms with a plethora of veggies. A salad with my lemon basil vinaigrette. Magnifique!

Sounds delicious.

No one’ll eat it, but we’ll serve it, anyway. The only veggie these guys know is a potato.

Mike and I had grown close, even before he found out about the baby. With Sam gone, he’d been my much-needed comic relief. Yeah, I knew what people thought—that I’d stepped into dangerous territory, spending time with a single guy when involved with someone else. Sam wasn’t crazy about it, either. But Mike’s a good friend. He knew I was off the market. Besides, we had a lot in common. We’re both book nerds who run businesses, though he’s leaps and bounds more successful. He loved cooking; I loved eating. Conversations with Mike, whether about weirdoes on the beach