Nibbling on a starfish isn’t pleasant. By way of a defense, the starfish has a crunchy protective layer and a body wall that contains toxins that give it a bad taste (some are poisonous). Still, predators eat them anyway. Manta rays, sharks, birds, sea otters, crabs and other starfish are just a few of the creatures who don’t mind these tough, spiny, bitter snacks. This goes to show that no matter how cool you are, no matter how tough or nonthreatening, something will come along and take bites out of you. The first round of Duffy bites wasn’t as bad as the second.
Shawsburg Hospital boasted an enormous lobby, complete with marble columns, a hundred-gallon fish tank, and an atrium. A plaque on the wall attributed the beautifully renovated entrance to Lucius Kayne, among other donors. It took us two elevators to meet in the lobby, where my dad offered to take everyone out to dinner before he and mom headed back to Wilmington. Clark, Beverly, Sam and I agreed while the rest made excuses to get back to the island. My ordeal had already turned into a circus, so I was glad that with most of them gone, dinner shouldn’t be a new act. Mom reviewed the menus at two restaurants before deciding to patronize a third, determined for me to have suitable healthy choices. And to let her feel like she’d accomplished something, I ordered a citrus salad even though I wanted the double bacon cheeseburger with fries (which was what Sam ordered).
“Beverly, I noticed that Lucius Kayne donated money to renovate the hospital,” I prodded, while sneaking a fry from Sam’s plate.
“Yes, after his wife died, he gave a substantial donation,” she said. “I always thought her name should be on the plaque, not his.”
“Plus, wouldn’t it have been more fitting to donate to the oncology ward since she struggled with cancer?” I added.
“I figured that he blamed the oncology ward for her death, indirectly,” Beverly suggested. “It was their combination of medications that caused her overdose.”
Clark leaned over and said, “I always suspected he murdered his wife.”
“What?” I replied, shoving three more fries in my mouth. “Why?”
“Well, Miranda Kayne died from a medication overdose,” Clark explained. “The same medicines she’d been taking for months, and one day, she just got it wrong-”
“Maybe it was suicide,” Sam suggested, while he cut his burger into quarters.
“Yes, I considered that, too,” Clark went on, “but her treatments were working and her prognosis was good. Hopeless people kill themselves. Not ones who are on the way to recovery.”
“Surely you must have had some other evidence than her medication routine to think that Lucius Kayne killed her,” I prodded.
“Of course, but I couldn’t prove anything,” Clark replied. “The medical examiner at the time was a guy named Casper Jennings. He ruled the death as accidental and didn’t perform an autopsy. A few months later, Casper Jennings quit the ME’s office and walked onto the hospital’s board of directors. Kayne’s incredible donation came with him.”
“So, you think Jennings covered up something so he could get that position?” I clarified.
Clark nodded. “And not only that, when this mess with Allison Love’s botched surgery came up, I think Jennings used his weight with Kayne again and got the hospital out of a jam.”
“That’s a pretty hefty accusation to make without evidence,” Sam said.
“Too many coincidences,” Clark decided. “And the only reason for a medical examiner to have blackmail material is if Miranda Kayne was murdered.”
“What about a motive?” Sam asked. He slyly handed me a section of his burger, which I quickly stuffed in my mouth when my mother wasn’t looking. “Why would Kayne kill his wife?”
“Money?” I tried, mouth bloated by burger.
“No, Miranda owned the Peacock,” Clark replied, “but Kayne was rich on his own. I couldn’t find a motive. According to everyone I talked to, they had a great marriage, no affairs, nothing to indicate problems. They’d actually been looking into adoption right before she died, certainly not indicative of a couple in marital trouble. Without a clear motive, it was a dead end.”
“Delilah, is there any avocado in that salad?” my mother asked, leaning across the table to eyeball it. “You need to start eating foods that are better for your body: avocados, grapefruits, whole grains, pomegranates-”
“I hate pomegranates,” I mumbled, trying to hide the fries in my mouth.
“Have you tried a pomegranate martini?” Clark smiled. “Those are good.”
“And enough of this murder talk,” my mom went on, ignoring me and over Clark. “This is exactly the type of thing Delilah needs to stay away from, and none of you should be encouraging. This isn’t an episode of Law and Order or Murder, She Wrote, where everything’s tied up nicely into a neat little bun at the end of the show and everyone walks away with the killer going off in handcuffs saying, ah shucks they got me! This is real life, and Delilah, you’ve pushed your luck with these people already and almost ended up in the grave because of it!”
“Honey, that’s all in the past,” my dad piped up. “She’s not in any danger-”
“Don’t give me that,” mom protested. “I’m not an idiot. She wasn’t trudging through a crawlspace to find an earring. Delilah’s lucky if her ponytail isn’t lopsided. She doesn’t care about earrings, and I highly doubt you’d be willing to go to so much trouble to hunt one down. Right?”
“I-”
“And before you answer, just remember. We get the paper, too.”
My shoulders dropped. “No, I wasn’t looking for an earring. You’re right. I-I thought I could prove that the redheaded-”
My mother shook her head, and pointed her steak knife at me. “You know, Delilah, you had a good thing going in Durham and you ruined it by poking your nose around where you shouldn’t have. You lost everything. And here you are, doing the same thing again, except this time, you’re going to lose more than just a job. You’re going to lose yourself. This attack you experienced today was your body revolting against your head. You’re learning the hard way to leave things well enough alone.”
“Gee, I wonder where you get your anxiety issues from?” Clark mumbled softly.
“Delilah’s no longer in Durham because she didn’t belong in Durham,” Sam corrected sternly, “and Delilah’s instincts are usually right. You should be proud of her for being the type of person willing to crawl into a dingy, dirty crawlspace for the sake of a stranger instead of being an uptight, judgmental coward who’d sooner crawl under a rock than take such a risk.”
“We are very proud-” my father started to say.
“You’d have her put herself in danger?” my mother countered. “Again?”
“No. She’s my life. I want to keep her safe,” Sam said. “But, she’s a starfish. She’s going to keep reaching out, even if it means she might lose something by doing it, and I wouldn’t want her to be any other way.”
My mouth dropped open and I wanted to smother him with kisses right there at the table, but I held back, smiling instead, and whispering a quick, “Thank you, Sam.”
My mother made valid points, and went on to elaborate on them at length, but I didn’t care. I was tired and still hungry and still stinging for the shame that went along with having a mental disorder (and everyone knowing about it). But, like the moon at night, Sam turned my attention and gave me light in a very dark place.