Читать книгу Cold Blood, Hot Sea - Charlene D'Avanzo - Страница 12

5

PETER’S DEAD?” OPEN MOUTHED, I stared at Harvey.

She dabbed her tears with a damp linen handkerchief.

Angelo murmured, “My god.”

“Massive internal injuries. Nothing the doctors could do.”

“How did you find out? Isn’t he down in a Portland hospital?”

“My niece is an intensive care nurse. Sarah was down there, of course, and said she wanted us to know.”

“Give me a minute.”

I stumbled into the living room, over to a window. Dizzy, I leaned against the pane and closed my eyes. When I opened them, the channel buoy’s warning light flashed red on the black sea.

Angelo slipped next to me. “I’m so very sorry about Peter.”

I held onto the sill and looked into the night. “A husband, dad, friend, young scientist. Gone in an instant.” I turned toward him. “It feels all too familiar. Mom and Dad, you know—”

Angelo opened his arms and pulled me close. I rested my cheek against the soft wool of his vest and drank in warmth and succor. I stepped back, blinked, and whispered, “I love you, Angelo.”

“I’m always here for you, Mara, you know that. Peter and your parents—two oceanographic accidents? It’s not surprising his death triggers old memories.”

I coughed. “You’re right. We’d better get back to Harvey.”

In the kitchen Harvey stared into space. As usual, everything about her—clothes, hair, posture—was perfect. But something about her gave the impression that, like a glass statue, she could fall over and crack with a little push.

I slid into the chair next to her. “Can I get you anything? Coffee, tea?”

She murmured, “Just a glass of water.”

Angelo let the tap run and placed glasses of cold well water in front of Harvey and me. Between sips, we talked about Peter and his family. Harvey was a good friend of Sarah’s.

She leaned against the table and stood. “I’m exhausted. I’ll call Sarah tomorrow.”

I walked Harvey to the kitchen door. We hugged and held onto each other’s hands.

“Harv, I’ll call you first thing in the morning.”

She dropped my hand, turned, and walked down the stone steps. I expected her to do the usual reverse hand wave over her shoulder. But she didn’t.

In the kitchen, Angelo lit a burner on his ancient gas stove and got out the Italian roast. The teakettle whistled. He poured steaming water into a press and coffee aroma filled the kitchen.

Angelo slid a mug and bakery box in front of me. “Decaf and biscotti. You must be all in.”

The sugar perked me up a bit, but sorrow and guilt had taken their toll. “I’ll be off in a few minutes.” I nibbled the biscuit. “When I’m interviewed, what will they ask?”

“Why Peter took your place, what you saw. That type of thing.”

I dunked the rest of the biscotti. “Ted was there too.”

“Ted?”

“New hire. Algae expert. Ted McKnight.” The last thing Ted and I talked about was the Prospect Institute email. I opened my mouth, then shut it.

Angelo tilted his head. “What?”

He didn’t need more to worry about. “Nothing, really.”

“You’re worn out, dear. Why don’t you head home? Get some sleep.” He followed me out. At the bottom of the steps he said, “Mara, please stop by tomorrow. I’ll worry about you.”

On tiptoe, I kissed him on the cheek and promised I would.

Angelo was right. Fifteen minutes after I got home, I fell into bed and slept seven hours straight.

The next morning, I waded through the cruise data at my office desk. I’d called Harvey who said she’d get back to me about Sarah—so making graphs was a welcome distraction. A few hours later, I finished a preliminary look at the temperature data. Someone knocked on the door.

“It’s open!”

My cousin, Gordy Maloy, stuck his head in. His ratty Maine Fishermen’s League cap shadowed intense blue eyes that didn’t miss a thing. “Doc, got a minute?”

As with any native Mainer, this came out, “Gaut a minut?”

“Always for you, Gordy.”

Even though our mothers were sisters, Gordy’s upbringing was very different from mine. Bookish Bridget, my mom, became a marine scientist and married Carlos Tusconi, an oceanographer. Kate, Gordy’s mother, fell for an Irish lobsterman from Lubec. Gordy grew up in northern Maine around folks who made their living off the land and sea, while I spent my childhood around intellectuals like my parents.

He pulled off his cap and tossed it on my desk. “Heard ’bout the cruise. Damn shame.”

“What’s the buzz?”

“One o’ yours died. Buoy accident.”

I pointed to a chair. “Not why it happened?”

“Ryan O’Shea was on the winch. Some’s sayin’ he’s accountable. That’s a load of bollocks.”

I nodded. “Ryan’s a fine man.”

“Got that right.” He looked down at his feet. “Um, boys in the League’s been pesterin’ me to ask ’bout the water temperature, but—”

“I’m working through it now. Here’s some data from a station off Mount Desert, on the continental shelf.” I swung the monitor in his direction and pointed to a graph.

He leaned forward for a better look. “I fished ’round there. So what’s this?”

“Last year. Temperature down through the water.”

He ran a finger across graying square-cut sideburns. “Gimme a sec. It’s from the surface down fifty feet, and, um, somethin’ like five degrees hotter at the surface.”

“That’s it,” I said. “Last April, the surface water was six degrees Celsius, about forty-two Fahrenheit. The highest ever measured.”

He whistled. “I didn’t know it was that high.”

“For fishermen, what difference would that make?”

Gordy stepped back. “Temperature’s everything. Take cod. If water’s too warm, their eggs’ll die. And where they go, so where we fish, depends on the temperature. Good fishin’s moving north, we know that. They’re off Georges Bank, we’re screwed.”

I nodded. For over four hundred years, New England fishermen had pulled cod and halibut from George’s Bank’s fertile waters. Losing that fishery was unthinkable.

“But that’s las’ year,” Gordy said. “What ’bout this year? That’s our bet.”

I inserted the graph I’d made.

Gordy leaned in and used his finger to draw the temperature profile in the air. It took a minute for his pursed lips to spread into a wide grin. “See? It’s back ta normal, jus’ like I said. Cousin, looks like you owe me a bottle of the best scotch they sell in Spruce Harbor.”

“You’ll get the scotch. But it’s still early April. In a week or so, I expect the surface temperature will go right up. Like last year, just later.”

He reached for his cap and yanked it on. “Ya know, warm water’s bad. But it’s almost like you want it to happen.”

That was Gordy. Called it like he saw it. “It’s a problem with ecology research. As if we’re looking for disasters. I don’t want Maine waters to get warmer. But since everything points in that direction, we need the best data we can get to show what’s going on.”

After Gordy left, I ran a finger over the keyboard. There was a lot riding on my assumption that springtime waters off Maine would be as warm, or even warmer, than the previous year. So far, the data didn’t show that. It was early days, I told myself. The buoys would continue churning out numbers for months.

But Gordy was right. A repeat of last year’s high temperature could be bad for fish and fishermen. And here I was looking for it to happen. It was good he was around to remind me about that.

I sighed and arched my back. A critical grant proposal date loomed, and mine centered on the idea that Maine’s spring ocean temperatures were regularly high. For researchers like me, getting grants was imperative. To study Gulf of Maine warming, I needed money to go to sea, buy equipment, and pay graduate students. That money came from sources like NOAA—the National Oceanographic and Atmospheric Administration. The NOAA proposal was due in a few weeks.

I needed to begin writing it now, but if the buoy temperatures didn’t rise quickly I’d be in trouble.

Two days ago, this realization would have devastated me. Now it was something I simply had to face. The same went for my Science Today paper. My prediction about even warmer water this spring might be wrong. I had to put that worry aside and figure out how to deal with it later.

Funny how death puts things into perspective.

I took the stairs down to the Biological Oceanography office and learned that Peter’s memorial service would probably be early the following week. Seymour wasn’t there. I grabbed a cup of coffee and left before he appeared.

Back on the third floor, I was partly down the hallway when a plug of a woman in a plaid flannel shirt and army boots reached the top of the stairs. Betty Buttz—cantankerous, smart as a whip, emerita professor at MOI.

I called out, “Betty. Got a minute?”

Betty kept marching and threw a response over her shoulder. “What?”

I didn’t mind. Betty was equally cranky with everyone.

I caught up with her. “You heard what happened on Intrepid?”

“’Course. It’s all around town.”

“Can we talk?”

Betty scrunched her mouth, as if about to say no. Instead, she invited me into her tiny office. The walls were lined top to bottom with thick books, some with faded titles. She motioned to a folding chair.

“What is it?”

I told her everything that had happened. “You’ve been around winches for a long time. What do you think?”

Betty shook her head. “The winch freefalling like that. Suspicious, but hard to know.”

“And MOI’s investigation? Any thoughts there?”

She sat back and crossed her arms. “Think about it, honey. They’re gonna shift the blame to the winch manufacturer as fast as they can. Bad publicity, especially that kind, is a disaster for this institution. Oceanographic research is extremely expensive, donors skittish.”

“MOI? You can’t mean they’d cover up wrongdoing.”

“No, but they may not dig too far, if you get my meaning.”

I let Betty’s words sink in. “How can we find out what happened?”

“Damn arthritis.” She shifted her position and stretched her right leg. “If it was me, I’d investigate on my own. But not so anyone knew.”

“Boy, I’ll have to think about that. I just want to do research, teach, work with grad students, and write.”

She shrugged. I waited for more, but Betty was a woman of few words. Unless, I discovered, they were about Seymour.

“As long as I’ve got you, I’d like your take on Seymour.”

She rolled her eyes. I took that as a signal to keep going. “For one thing, I’m beginning to wonder about his competence. He should’ve been more concerned about that loose buoy.”

She snorted. “Seymour’s had an iffy reputation for a long, long time.”

I leaned toward her. “Fill me in.”

“Twenty years ago, Seymour was a cancer researcher down in Woods Hole studying squid. He worked with someone. Can’t remember who. Anyway, word got out that he wasn’t an independent scientist. Phillip Morris paid for his research. Seymour was an expert scientist for tobacco interests.”

I whistled. To me, this was like being paid for sex. “Was there evidence he cooked his data?”

“No proof. In those days, electronic data trails were hard to trace. But I think he did. His cancer tobacco research was just too clean. Anyway, that’s why I put up a stink when he applied for the MOI job.”

“So why was he hired?”

“He’s aggressive as hell and knows how to get dough. Like I said, oceanographic research is expensive.”

I nodded. Seymour brought in a lot of money for MOI.

While I was at it, I figured Betty could help me understand what really bugged me about him. “As you know, Seymour was here when I was hired.”

“I remember. You came right from your post-doc and looked like you were fifteen. This was your first real job.”

“Right. And department chairs support and mentor young faculty. But from day one, Seymour’s been snarky to me. Any idea why?”

She rotated her right ankle. “I bet it’s something to do with your parents. As department head, he’s automatically Distinguished Professor of Marine Science. He’s probably sick and tired of hearing about the brilliant Tusconis.”

That made sense. After my parents’ deaths, MOI established the distinguished professorship in their name. To be fair, repeated remarks about the wonders of two people you never met could get old.

I dearly loved my parents, but sometimes their legacy was a burden, even for me.

“Thanks for everything. Let’s share a pot of tea at the Neap Tide soon. Bet you know a few stories about my parents.”

She looked up at me. “Sure. You seem like a smart cookie, Mara. But watch yourself with Seymour. If he thinks you suspect him of anything, he’ll come after you like a two ton truck.”

By the time I reached my office, I felt uneasy. Being the target of Seymour’s spite was a dreadful prospect. I shut my office door and plopped into a chair. The phone rang.

Sharon from the Biology Department office said, “Chief Warrant Officer Wilson called. He’s Coast Guard and wants to ask you about the Intrepid incident. Do you have time? He’ll come to your office.”

“Sure. Now’s okay.”

Fifteen minutes later, Officer Wilson, spotless in his whites, was seated in my office. My spare wooden chair was too small for his two hundred pound bulk, and each time he shifted position his Coast Guard cap fell off his knee. With a quick look at the floor, he shoved the thing under his armpit.

I answered his questions as clearly as possible. Peter took my place because I was seasick. Yes, I was out on the deck when the buoy dropped. No, I didn’t know why Peter halted the deployment or what he was looking at on the buoy.

Wilson stood and straightened up so tall I thought he was going to salute me.

“That’s all, Dr. Tusconi. I appreciate your help with this accident.”

I stood as well. “Accident? You think it was an accident?”

He smoothed his hair and settled the cap into proper position. “Sorry. Can’t say more. It’s an ongoing investigation. We’re talking to everyone.”

The man was out the door before I could respond. The whole interview couldn’t have taken more than ten minutes.

Harvey appeared in my doorway. She looked toward the stairwell. “Who was that?”

“Lots to tell you.”

She stepped into my office, and I closed the door. Harvey had come from a run and looked as sleek as a cat in black compression leggings and a hot pink wind jacket. Her high-end earphones only added to the allure.

“Cool duds,” I said. Her outfit was better suited for Central Park, not Down East Maine, but I admired Harvey enormously for her class and style.

She grinned. “Too bad you’re my only admirer.” The smile faded. “Did you sleep? How’re you doing?”

“I’m okay. ’Course, I keep thinking about Peter’s family.”

“Me too. Running helped a bit.”

We were silent and sad for a moment.

“I just got an earful from Betty Buttz about MOI and Seymour. And right after that a Coast Guard officer interviewed me.”

“Think I need to sit down for this.”

“Betty thinks MOI might not look too hard into Peter’s death. They’ll try to shift the blame somewhere else, like the winch company.”

“Because of bad P.R.?”

“And fundraising.”

“Betty can be awfully cynical. But she might be right.”

“When we spoke I wasn’t sure. But now, I’m beginning to think she is. This Officer Wilson called what happened an ‘accident.’” I air-quoted the word. “I questioned that, and he gave me the ‘we’re talking to everyone’ line. Maybe I’m overreacting, but he couldn’t get out of here fast enough. The Coast Guard’s in charge of things like this. You’d think they’d do a better job.”

“But what can you do about it?”

“Betty thinks if I really want to know what happened, I might have to investigate myself.”

She sat up even straighter than usual. “Mara, you’re no detective.”

“Scientists work on puzzles all the time. I can apply scientific reasoning to this one.”

Brows knit, she studied my face. “What’s at the bottom of this? Guilt?”

I walked to my floor to ceiling window. An osprey skimmed over the water, searching for prey.

I turned toward her. “Sure I feel guilty—the whole thing’s horrendous. But it’s more than that. Peter was a good friend. The best. His death deserves honest and thorough investigation.”

“But what does that mean?”

“It means an authentic, in-depth look at the circumstances. Maybe start with weird things that happened, like the loose buoy”

“Do you have time for this? What about your work?”

“I’ll have to fit it in.”

“And not sleep.” Harvey shifted in her chair. “Seymour and Intrepid’s captain. If they claim it was an accident, you’d be challenging them.”

“Yeah, but I just feel. I don’t know. Damn it, I’ve got to do something.”

She shook her head. “This feels too risky. Seymour’s already on your case.”

“Yeah.”

“And if you pursue this, I can’t help.”

“I didn’t ask—”

“We’ve talked about me being department chair after Seymour.”

“And this might jeopardize your chance.”

She stood. “Hope you understand.”

Harvey left, and I frowned at the closed door. I couldn’t remember the last time Harvey and I were at odds. Probably when we had to buy cookies for a scientist’s talk. Part of me understood her reluctance. Harvey was ambitious. But she’d left me alone with this.

And that felt, well, lonely.

“Tusconi,” I said aloud. “It’s up to you to figure this out.”

Pacing, I talked to myself Italian-style, with my hands. Palms up—what to do? How would I proceed? More pacing.

Fist into palm. Got it. Write it out. Make lists. That’ll help me think.

I have a large whiteboard on one wall that I use for lists and the like. I grabbed a whiteboard marker and wrote “ideas” and “talk to” at the top. I’d half-filled my whiteboard with a list plus people I might question when I heard a gentle knock. I opened the door, stood aside for Harvey, and shut the door again.

“I feel crummy leaving you with this.” Harvey walked over to the whiteboard and stared at it. “Huh. I see what you’re up to.”

Another knock on the door. This time much louder.

“Mara, are you there?” Seymour’s voice. “I want to speak with you.”