Page 89 of Life, Love and the Pursuit of Happiness

Soon after that, they all left the hospital room together after Merrill kissed his mother’s cheek, something he hadn’t done in maybe twenty years, and promised to come back in the morning. He had to be in Bell Cove by tomorrow afternoon to take care of the mess apparently unfolding there, but there was no way he could return tonight. Not with the rain coming down like bullets on a motorcycle, and the ferries probably not running anymore.

He grabbed his laptop case out of the waterproof leather sidesaddle on the bike and got into a Lexus SUV driven by Ben. He sat on the backseat with his father.

“You drive a motorcycle?” his father asked, trying not to sound horrified.

He shook his head. “It belongs to Delilah Jones, my . . . um, my girlfriend.”

“Oh,” Vanessa remarked, from the front passenger seat. “Is she someone special? Tell us about her.” She was undoubtedly looking for more dirt to add to his dirt dossier.

The bitch!

He thought about saying the first thing that popped into his head, “She’s a felon,” but he restrained himself, barely. Instead, he said, “She’s the cook on my boat. She’s in Bell Cove to renovate her uncle’s Elvis diner and Heartbreak Motel, where I’m staying at the present. She’s the single mother of a five-year-old girl.” Then, into the silence, he added, “And I probably love her.”

It was later that night, in the plush guest room at the Beach Manse, where Merrill was reluctantly staying for the night, that he took off his wet clothing to don a pair of sweatpants that Ben had lent him. When he emptied his pockets, he found the card Harry had handed him earlier that day. It was damp but still legible. He put it on the dresser with his wallet.

That was when he finally did what he should have done long ago. After drinking a half bottle of vodka he’d pilfered from the mansion’s lounge bar, he logged on to his computer, typed “Delilah Jones, Atlantic City” into his Google search engine, and watched as fifty-seven entries came up, most of them involving the trial of one David Zekus.

A half hour later, he turned off the computer and stared into space. Delilah had been convicted of a felony, and she’d served five years in a women’s prison. The Edna Mahan Correctional Facility for Women in Clinton, New Jersey. A quick search of that facility showed many newspaper articles indicating this was not a pleasant place to be. Bad things had happened there.

He couldn’t think about that now.

Back to Delilah’s conviction. Accessory to armed robbery and murder.

Murder!

Now, robbery he could understand. Or even forgive.

But murder? Of a seventeen-year-old convenience store clerk? That was a leap he found hard to take.

Something didn’t add up. This was not the Delilah he had come to know and maybe love. He wasn’t sure if he still did.

It just didn’t make sense.

He was reminded suddenly of Harry’s caution not to jump to conclusions, that there were two sides to every story. And he was right. Now that he’d cooled down a little bit, he realized that he needed to talk to Delilah. He checked his watch. It was still only ten o’clock.

He dialed Delilah’s cell number, which went immediately to voice mail. Same when he called again, and again, and again, finally giving up at midnight. He decided not to leave a text or voice mail. Better to talk it out in person.

Was it possible he’d waited too long?

Chapter 18

It was just another day in Bell Cove crazy land . . .

When daylight, or gray light, came in the morning, Merrill still hadn’t come, or called. It was raining so hard—the sideways kind of rain that made walking outdoors almost impossible—that Delilah was glad she’d gotten all her grocery shopping done yesterday. They could hole up here for days.

After a breakfast of blueberry waffles and orange juice, Delilah decided to play motel owner. She made two small aluminum trays of apple cinnamon rolls and a pot of fresh coffee, which she placed in two thermal carafes with four mugs. Barely balancing the tray in one hand and an overlarge golf umbrella (another thrift shop purchase) over her head at a tilt, she made her way across the short distance to the motel units. Under the overhang, she was able to drop the umbrella and set down the tray.

She knocked on the third door first, yelling out, “Breakfast!”

A gorgeous brunette wearing a Japanese-style robe that barely covered her yee-haw answered. “Oh, isn’t there any fresh fruit?”

“Not today,” Delilah said cheerily. What does she think this is? The Ritz?

At the other unit, a sheepish-looking Kevin, wearing nothing but a low-riding towel, said, “Hey, Lilah, this is terrific. Thanks.” He took the items from her and placed them on the dresser.

From the bathroom, a female voice called out, “Hey, Kev, would you mind bringing my shampoo? It’s in my Gucci bag by the bed. I wouldn’t put this Avon crap on my hair if I were dying.”

Okaay.