Luna-Sea: A Delilah Duffy Mystery, #2

By Jessica Sherry

We're all just one pain away from lunacy.

 

Book lover and amateur sleuth Delilah Duffy returns in her second thrilling adventure. With her bookstore open and her sweet romance with Sam deepening, Delilah's finally won the quiet, small-town life she wants, or so it seems. Nothing's easy, not with continued business woes and leftover trauma from her last case adding to the chaos.

 

A fancy party at the luxurious Peacock Inn should be a pleasant distraction, but when the party takes an eerie turn, Delilah discovers another mystery – she thinks. Her anxiety disorder intensifies, and with no evidence to prove her claims, she can't be sure of anything. Even her relationship with Sam feels strained with secrets.

 

Not one to back down from a challenge, Delilah's desperate search for the truth soon lands her in trouble with a ruthless criminal ring. Danger lurks around every corner, and she must use all her wits to uncover the truth and take down the lunatic masterminding it all.

 

With her business on the line and her romance with Sam at stake, will Delilah be able to solve the mystery in time, or will this be the end of the cozy life she's worked so hard to build?

 

⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐ "I loved Luna Sea! Delilah Duffy is such a great character, strong willed and smart. But her impulsive side is what keeps me interested! I love when she gets herself in trouble!"

 

⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐ "… if you like a light read with some humor, some fear, some violence and some sweet love, well, you have it all with this book."

 

⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐ "It's also great to see a character who is fighting her personal demons and able to work through them with the help of a loving and supportive partner. I'm really enjoying this series and can't wait for the next installment!"

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jessica Sherry
• Release date: Jul 25, 2015
• ISBN: 9780996294133

Book preview

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Published by Jessica Sherry

Copyright © 2015 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: 978-0-9962941-3-3

Book Cover Design by Elizabeth Mackey

Printed/Published in the United States of America

Contents

1.One

1. Turtles & Sharks

2.Two

2. The Peacock

3.Three

3. Moon Effects

4.Four

4. Moonfish

5.Five

5. Sea Smoke

6.Six

6. Moon Snail

7.Seven

7. Four

8.Eight

8. Decorator Crab

9.Nine

9. Undercurrents

10.Ten

10. Fortified Areas

11.Eleven

11. Curiosity

12.Twelve

12. The Lighthouse

13.Thirteen

13. Paper Nautilus

14.Fourteen

14. Mooning & Adapting

15.Fifteen

15. Gargoyles

16.Sixteen

16. Why Not… Tequila?

17.Seventeen

17. Imitation

18.Eighteen

18. Rabbit Holes

19.Nineteen

19. Mole Crabs

20.Twenty

20. Finders, Keepers

21.Twenty-One

21. Losers, Weepers

22.Twenty-Two

22. Things Fall Apart

23.Twenty-Three

23. Sandbars

24.Twenty-Four

24. Mary Shelley

25.Twenty-Five

25. Boundless

26.Twenty-Six

26. The Art of Distraction

27.Twenty-Seven

27. Wait

28.Twenty-Eight

28. Yellow

29.Twenty-Nine

29. Southern Hospitality

30.Thirty

30. Transformations

31.Thirty-One

31. Hide-n-Seek

32.Thirty-Two

32. Colossal Squid

33.Thirty-Three

33. Bites

34.Thirty-Four

34. Angelfish

35.Thirty-Five

35. Upwelling

36.Thirty-Six

36. Upwelling, Part Two

37.Thirty-Seven

37. Oysters

38.Thirty-Eight

38. Ghosts

39.Thirty-Nine

39. Pearls

40.Forty

40. Ophelia

41.Forty-One

41. Moon Jellies

42.Forty-Two

42. Tides

43.Forty-Three

43. The Moon

44.Forty-Four

44. Moon Seas

Epilogue

A Million Whispers

Links

Books by Jessica Sherry

One

Turtles & Sharks

My feet teetered on the wooden planks of the boardwalk overlooking the great Atlantic, dipping into the sand like toes into cold water. My heart pumped wildly, stomach churned like the waves. Willie, my golden retriever, sat beside me, waiting. Daylight hung on stubbornly, spewing its last hues across the mighty ocean, warming my skin and giving everything an orange glow. It was all so typical of a Carolina beach—gorgeous, peaceful, breathtaking. Still, I couldn’t move any closer.

Willie whined, as if saying, Come on, Delilah. You can do it. It’s only the beach.

In my defense, Willie hadn’t been a firsthand witness to all my recent traumas. After our move to Tipee Island at the end of June, I’d been embattled in a fight to save my business—my late-great-aunt’s bookstore—solve a murder, and stay alive, while keeping the past where it belonged, far 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 had felt just as tangible. I’d muddled through, but only barely.

A month had passed since the grand re-opening of Beach Read Books, Gifts, and More, and not much had changed. I was still fighting to save my business while battling the demons 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 could no longer enjoy it. Or let Willie enjoy it, either.

On the pier above us, 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 paintbrush in hand.

Normal islanders doing normal island things, and me wondering if I’ll ever be a normal islander. Unable to take another step, normalcy seemed unlikely.

The Atlantic Ocean is the world’s second largest. It’s 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 grew tired. The heavens spilled 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, taking a step toward him. My palms sweat while the rest of me 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, darkened before my eyes. 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. The weight of my near-death bore down on my shoulders. I knew how Atlas felt.

I pulled back, giving Willie’s leash a gentle tug. Sorry, Willie. Maybe next time.

Weeks ago, I’d survived a night in the ocean. My mistake was not going farther out to sea, you bitch! Mavis Chambers’ wicked voice echoed in my ears. Her attempt to murder me by sea wasn’t the first time I’d almost died by drowning. When I was six, I fell into a friend’s tarp-covered swimming pool. The blue tarp suctioned to my body like being swallowed by a snake. My friend’s father pulled me out and brought me back to life. Strangely, my first experience had saved me from the second. My fear of water had forced my father’s insistence that I learn to swim—lessons that saved my life many years later.

Here, standing on the edge of the beach, my memories waved over my reality. My eyes burned. My throat tightened. My breaths became shallow. Panic pulled me back into those dark places, like I’d never left.

Willie whimpered as we turned away from the sea.

We crossed Atlantic Avenue and headed up Starfish Drive. Middle August meant 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 testaments to the near end of a difficult summer. Still, while most businesses lavished in long sales receipts and large bank balances, I’d nothing to show for the summer, except survival. 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 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 had 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, closing only because she got sick. Beach Read and Laura Duffy died together, and my resurrection of the business had been zombie-like. It’s not nearly the same as it was.

Great Uncle Joe had dished out a good deal of money for the store’s revival, and he still waited for a return on his investment. While consoling myself with the fact that he had a lot of money to dish out, here, there, and anywhere he pleased, I felt guilty that it’d been nothing but a money pit for nearly three months with no signs of recovery.

Let’s talk. He opened up the passenger door of the Hummer. He nodded toward the window of Top to Bottom, where Aunts Clara and Charlotte eyeballed us. Little would interest Clara Duffy-Saintly more than eavesdropping on a conversation between Uncle Joe and me. She’d probably give up her own children to get her hands on the property. I huffed. Willie jumped into the truck with zero coaxing, 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 now properly contained left only a black sky, dotted intermittently with stars and a nearly full moon.

What’s this all about? Nervous stomach acids popped as the engine roared.

Time to talk ‘bout turnin’ turtle.

When the people of Tipee speak, I often say, Huh? Most locals, 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 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 predicted I’d be a TV news reporter for that reason. Aunt Clara always brushed off this idea, saying I was too pale and freckly for TV.

They often pair Southern dialects with colorful clichés and idioms; these I’m learning as I go. Turn turtle is a nautical term meaning to capsize; when a turtle turns over, it’s 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 said.

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

Then why—

Delilah, listen here. When it comes to Beach Read, you’ve been thinkin’ with your heart, not your head. It’s a special place, no doubt. But, 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—which it ain’t.

Tears crested my eyes, running tracks through my sweat. A flush of embarrassment rushed over me—crying in Great Uncle Joe’s Hummer like a child with a boo-boo. I stared 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 help with the books. I should’ve known that included snooping. I pictured her rummaging through the office, around the counter, finding my overdue bills and notices. Anger mixed with my embarrassment.

We may not like what numbers say, but they don’t lie, Bean. 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’s way overdue.

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

Yep. It’s your decision, Bean. I’m only offerin’ my advice. But there’s somethin’ else.

What?

Ya see, my old friend Baylor came callin’ with a bottle of Wild Turkey yammerin’ 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?

It’s called TIBA. 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. It’s all about makin’ sure the businesses meet standards.

I don’t understand. What’s this got to do with me?

Well, Beach Read now falls under the leadership of TIBA, he said, and the leadership of TIBA is—

Clara. I sighed.

Clara.

My temples throbbed. I put the window down, letting the warm breezes hit my face. The panic I’d felt earlier near the water rose again.

Joe cleared his throat. Not sure what that’ll mean 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. Maybe I hoped he’d give me some kind of encouragement, like Great Aunt Laura would’ve done.

Instead, he scratched his head. I hear you’re goin’ to that party at The Peacock Inn tomorrow night.

I’d forgotten all about the party my cousin Rachel had suckered me into. Right. I’m Rachel’s wingman.

Great Uncle Joe laughed. It’ll be good for ya to get out, have some fun. But let me tell you what I tell anyone ‘bout to jump in the deep. Watch out for sharks. He chuckled heartily.

I watched him drive away, my unease growing. Sharks? What did he mean? It was just a party, right?

Clara waved from her store window, smiling deviously—a stark reminder that nothing around here was as it seemed.

Two

The Peacock

While known for their prissy plumages, for being beautiful and showy, like supermodels in alluring dresses, peacocks are all males. The females, called peahens, don’t don the same impressive decorations. Peacocks flaunt their stuff to get what they want, and the larger and flashier, the better.

Aptly named, The Peacock Inn was just as flashy. The lights on in most of its many rooms reminded me of eyes. The Greek goddess Hera took the one hundred eyes of her servant, Argus, and transferred them to the peacock, giving them their signature look. Tonight, The Peacock looked like it had a hundred eyes, bearing down on the whole island of Tipee.

Lined with white dogwoods and lantern posts, the lane gave way to a circle drive surrounding a mermaid fountain that stretched over a dozen feet into the night sky. 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 turned the Jeep around the circle, following the cars ahead.

Told ya it was fancy. Rachel adjusted 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.

The Kayne family owned The Peacock and the surrounding land, including a beautiful, though unused lighthouse. People knew the Kaynes most, though, for two other things: being rich and being geniuses. Lucius Kayne, the fifty-year-old patriarch, was better known as a cutthroat lawyer than the owner of an inn, the latter a title he inherited from his wife, Miranda, who’d died six years ago from cancer. It was common knowledge in Tipee that if you got in trouble, Kayne could get you out of it—though no one gave me that advice when I was in trouble. Go figure.

Tonight’s party honored Chris Kayne, Lucius’ only son and Tipee Island’s Bill Gates even though Chris’ specialty wasn’t computers, but science. He held two Harvard degrees in biology and chemistry. He was twenty years old.

I’m goin’ to catch that boy’s eye if I have to snag it with a fishin’ hook, Rachel’d said when she heard about the party. When her pregnant twin Raina refused to go with her, Rachel insisted, that danged baby bump’s made you nothin’ but a lump on a log! before turning to me. I was officially Rachel’s wingman, whatever that meant.

The last thing I wanted tonight (or any night lately) was a party, a fact made clear when instead of entering the lobby, I detoured to the mermaid fountain.

What are you doin’? Rachel rolled her hazel eyes.

Check it out. I pointed to the mermaid’s chest. She’s had a makeover recently.

Rachel huffed, but complied. She met me around the front of the mermaid, and we both ogled her like middle school boys seeing concrete breasts for the first time. Across her chest, the mermaid donned a drippy, asymmetrical red heart, and judging by the black burn marks, she’d been set on fire. The marks were faded from stringent cleaning, evident by the scrub marks and Comet leftovers sprinkled on her arms.

How do you set a fountain on fire? Rachel asked.

The water only reaches up to her fins. Theoretically, you could douse her with an accelerant, like lighter fluid, and she’d burn for a few minutes.

Weird. Can we please get to the party now?

I could’ve stayed with the mermaid all night, speculating over her angry wounds. A jilted lover? A disgruntled employee? A serial vandal?

Rachel waved me on. Come on! I ain’t got much time. He’s leavin’ for Cambridge soon. Can’t compete with those European girls, with their long legs and fancy accents.

I chuckled. Are you kidding? I glanced at Rachel’s long legs—made longer by a short dress and high heels. You’re beautiful and you’ve got an accent, too. Besides, European women don’t shave their legs and armpits.

Rachel’s eyes widened. That true?

I shrugged, unsure, but the suggestion was enough for Rachel, who grinned more confidently as we strutted into the lobby.

The party was lavish and lovely. As if ordered for the occasion, moonlight draped the huge banquet room through a wall of windows and skylights. Gorgeous hand-blown chandeliers dotted the ceiling with sea hues. A long bar occupied the left leading toward a hallway. A stone fireplace held up the far-right wall facing the ocean. Though still warm outside, a blaze gave the room an inviting feel. Round tables, dressed for the occasion, filled the spaces in between. Golden, sand-hued linens, even sashed around the chairs, formed the background to elegant, gold-rimmed place settings and tall, fluted glasses. In the center, tea lights in seashells, and brass lanterns finished the elegant look.

I noted the multiple forks at each table setting and cringed.

My own fancy experiences were limited to rare encounters with my maternal grandparents, who I’d affectionately labeled as cleanse the pallet people. On our visits to Baltimore, and much to my father’s chagrin, they insisted on dinners at restaurants that offered many courses. As a child, I remember being surprised and delighted when a glass bowl of sherbet was set before me after I’d picked through a salad.

Dessert already? I’d said.

To cleanse the pallet, the waiter had corrected me.

This was a cleanse-the-pallet type of party with anomalies.

I wasn’t the socialite Rachel hoped for, so she abandoned me for her young friends. I enjoyed a quiet meal at a table with other guests as socially inept as myself.

Lucius Kayne delivered a brief, but eloquent toast to his son, and all his great accomplishments, ending with, Your mother would be so proud of you. When all the formalities were complete, the party continued with its meshing and drinking and laughing and networking.

I perched at the bar alone. I rubbed at my nagging heels, letting my shoes dangle from my toes. My social faux pas didn’t matter. No one paid any attention. I wished to go home, to see Sam, to cuddle up with Willie and finish reading Three Bedrooms, One Corpse. Instead, I people-watched, making a game with myself. Aside from my foot rubbing, what other lapses in social graces could I find? A young man hanging out in Rachel’s group chewed a wad of tobacco. Several young ladies wore tight tube dresses, little more than bathing suit covers, and one had an undone hem. A gruff fellow near the pianist wore a suit at least two sizes too small, and his bulky frame made him look like the Hulk, mid-transformation. Several gentlemen wore jeans with their suit coats and ties. Even Chris Kayne donned Converses with his suit pants. I spied one older lady licking the rim of her margarita glass like a popsicle. I continued massaging my feet, realizing that mostly, these weren’t cleanse-the-pallet types.

Rachel continued laughing with her small group of friends, but when she glanced my way, I motioned for her to bust-a-move. She held her hands out helplessly and shrugged. The Kaynes were hard to corner.

The tall, dark, handsome Lucius Kayne worked the crowd like a seasoned politician, smile fixed.

Not as seasoned, but maybe more charming, Chris was preppy handsome, with a mischievous grin and relaxed manner. He loosened his silk tie and kept one hand in his pocket. A phone weighted down his suit jacket on one side, matching a tattered notebook on the other, the ends sticking out like a white Mohawk. The phone, he pulled out continuously, checking it between each lull in conversation and sometimes mid-sentence. I thought that kind of rude, but like the Converses, his guests accepted it as part of his charm.

I huffed and turned back to the bar, bored. Decked out in a white vest over his tuxedo shirt, a gold pocket watch chain drooping across his belly, and a bright red bow tie, the bartender grinned at me.

These parties can be so droll, a flock of hens trying to peck their way to the roosters. May I get you something to ease the agony?

His nametag read Hugh Huntley. He had a lovely British accent. His sheet white hair and pale blue eyes gave him an angelic look. A Long Island Iced Tea, easy on the spirits? I’d like to be conversational, not falling over.

Wise. He prepared the drink, and asked, How do you know the Kaynes?

I don’t. I’m here with my hopeful cousin. I pointed to Rachel—still no closer to the prize. Hugh Huntley smirked.

The Kaynes attract many such hopes. He placed my drink down on a coaster, as the elder Kayne made a beeline to the bar.

The Sauvignon Blanc is warm, Kayne told Mr. Huntley, the gap between his eyebrows closing together in a stitch.

Warm, sir?

Did I stutter? Warm. We should store the wine at fifty-five degrees and serve chilled. Kayne's words were soft, but severe, and Huntley’s genial expression vanished.

Yes, sir, he said. I will attend to the matter.

Huntley nodded and headed toward the kitchen. Kayne sighed, eyed me with annoyance, and reapplying his smile, went back to his guests. I had no idea about the wine, but he left me chilled.

This is impossible! Rachel barreled over to me. The crowd expanded. They bumped Rachel into the bar, further instigating her anger.

I can’t even get close ‘nuff to smell his two-hundred-dollar cologne, let alone talk to ‘em. That slutty Lena Britt keeps gettin’ in my way, flashing her boobs at ‘em. Rachel leaned over and whispered to me. They’re fake, ya know. I saw the scar in gym class.

I grabbed toothpicks from Mr. Huntley’s side of the bar. Maybe if we aim just right, we can pop them.

Rachel’s anger fizzled in laughter. She snatched the toothpicks from my hand and aimed them like darts at her big-breasted friend across the room.

Not a bad idea. We could take out half the competition like that.

Rachel was right. Big boobs hung out everywhere, pushed up and presented like invitations. Our laughter turned to giggles. I sucked down half my tea, and almost let it come out my nose when Rachel said, Well, if a tidal wave comes, we’ll all be safe. Just grab on to the nearest boob flotation device.

We fell into laughter, and I considered, with chagrin, that the peacock wasn’t the only bird with plumages. The entire party seemed to be a strut-your-stuff showdown. Boobs. Bad jokes. Relentless flirting and tiresome schmoozing.