Читать книгу Cold Blood, Hot Sea - Charlene D'Avanzo - Страница 14

7

BY MID-MORNING I WAS ON Route 1 North heading to Sunnyside Aquaculture. Maine’s coast still clung to winter hibernation, and I zipped past forlorn lobster shacks, ice cream stands, and pottery shops with empty parking lots.

When we spoke on the phone, Hamilton bought my excuse—oceanography students’ fascination with Maine aquaculture. Somehow I’d insert questions I really wanted him to address.

South of Winslow Bay, a big sign bordered with intertwined seaweed announced “Sunnyside Aquaculture” in gold letters. A half-mile driveway snaked through spruce forest and ended at an impressively large gray-shingled, two-story building. I pulled open a wooden front door, stepped into the lobby, and gasped. A ring of skylights illuminated a floor tiled in a blue and tan fish motif. Paintings depicting marine scenes hung on cream-colored walls, and an enormous cherry art deco desk gleamed at the far end of the lobby. I turned slowly, taking it in. All this money had to come from somewhere.

The receptionist seated behind the desk stood. “Welcome to Sunnyside, Dr. Tusconi. Mr. Hamilton is waiting for you.”

She pointed to a tiled stairway leading to the second floor where John Hamilton greeted me at the top of the stairs. I’d spoken to him for only a moment on the ship and driving up could barely remember a thing about him. Hamilton was shorter than I recalled—hardly more than five feet—with thinning brown hair combed straight back, revealing streaks of pink scalp. As he shook my hand, I examined his face. There was nothing compelling about the man except for his brown, almost black eyes where a spark hinted of intelligence and determination.

I followed John Hamilton into his office. The room was cozier than the reception area.

He pointed to a large picture window. “Aquaculture tanks. You can see ’em from there.”

We stood looking out of the window. Hamilton tossed a pencil from one hand to the other. Below, five piers easily fifty feet long stuck out into the water. Each supported two rows of cylindrical tanks in various shades of green, red, and yellow-brown, fifteen or more feet in diameter. Water boiled up inside the tanks. Some spilled over the sides, running onto the pier.

Inside each tank lived millions of cells of a single species of algae—microscopic plants at the bottom of the marine food chain. The algae that grew the fastest, providing the greatest amount of mass in the shortest time, would be the winner. The so-called super-seaweed.

I spotted the likely candidate. On the leftmost pier, four tanks looked remarkably green. Wizard of Oz green. They were a vibrant emerald, almost glowing. Super indeed—and bizarre. I couldn’t wait to see the tanks up close.

Beyond the piers, odd-looking white pods bounced in the waves.

“My, an impressive operation,” I said.

Hamilton looked down. “Indeed.” This was clearly a favorite spot for him.

“Tell me what you do here. The algae you grow, nature of your work. That kind of thing.”

He gave the pencil another toss, catching it in his right hand. “Come. Show you the lab.”

Back downstairs, Hamilton led me into a bright, well-equipped laboratory. Expensive scientific equipment—large microscopes, instruments for aquatic chemical analyses, an array of glassware—lined three sides of the expansive room. He directed me to sizeable walk-in incubators on the fourth wall, pulled a handle, and ushered me in.

“Here we experiment with algal cultures.”

Glass vats six feet tall sat neatly side by side—some bright red, others shades of green and rusty brown. Banks of bright lights hung over the vats, which bubbled with air delivered by intertwining arrays of plastic tubes.

The room was alive with light, gurgling water, and color.

I whistled. “This is amazing. In this chamber alone, you’re growing what, six algal species?”

“More. And there’s two other growth chambers.”

“John, if you spoke to my oceanography students about growing algae, what would you say?”

He explained the basics of algal aquaculture—that algae needed a good deal of light, the right nutrients, and well-circulated water. I knew all of this but nodded encouragement to be polite.

When he finished, I said, “Ah, this is pretty expensive. Do you have grants? Investors?”

“Both.”

I waited for more, but he only led me back into the lab. He gestured toward the lab equipment. “You need no introduction to this.”

Hamilton headed toward the door leading to the lobby.

I pointed toward the bay. “But what about the piers? The tanks outside look fascinating.”

He stopped and turned around. “Outside? Off limits to visitors now.”

“Off-limit algae? Why?”

“Let’s go back to my office—we can talk there.”

I followed him up the wide tile stairs, trying to keep my disappointment and irritation in check. Voicing either would get me nowhere. As I trailed my host, the oddest feeling came over me. Something weird was going on at the facility. I didn’t have a clue what was off, but my sixth sense had served me well in the past. I shelved the impression for later.

I returned to the picture window in Hamilton’s office with its view of the tanks—the closest view I could get. He gestured to a plush leather chair, and I sat down opposite him. He looked down at his hands.

“Sorry we couldn’t go on the piers.” He glanced at me. “Frank’s worried about security.”

“Frank?”

“Frank Lamark. Brains behind the research. Guy’s a genius and likes to tinker. Great combination for us.”

“So it’s important to keep him happy.”

He nodded.

“I’m guessing you’re experimenting with growing algae for biomass,” I said. “Local energy source. So the military, for one, doesn’t rely on foreign oil?”

He perked up. “That’s right. Air Force especially.”

“Tell me more about that. It’ll really interest my students.”

Hamilton’s eyes sparkled. “Algae’s a great choice for biomass fuel. The cells grow quickly anywhere there’s enough light and water. You don’t need expensive farmland.”

Again, I nodded encouragement. As he talked, Hamilton’s face turned from pale to flushed, and his words spilled out in an excited rush. The man came alive.

“I’m convinced we need alternative sources of fuel for a sustainable future. Algal aquaculture is my contribution to that future. Sustainability, climate change, all that, interests me. That’s why Seymour—we’ve been friends for a long time—why he told me about the Intrepid trip.”

I blinked. It surprised me that Seymour was anyone’s friend.

“I was thrilled to go on your research cruise. Until what happened, of course.”

Time to switch gears. “You were on deck when the buoy dropped on Peter?”

Hamilton shook his head. “Lord, yes. I’ll never, ever forget.”

“I’m just wondering. Did you happen see anything, ah, odd?”

“It happened so fast, you know.”

I nodded.

“There was one thing. That photographer.”

“Cyril?”

“Never caught his name. He was on deck taking pictures with that big camera. Right before the accident he disappeared. I noticed because a crew member moved over to the spot where he, ah, Cyril, had been.”

“Huh.” I tried not to sound too interested in this intriguing bit of information.

I stood and looked out at the piers again. I counted four massive cylindrical tanks on each pier—twenty tanks in all. A man on his knees fiddled with a pump beside a tank, his blond hair wet from the squirting water. The whole thing was an impressive, expensive setup. I couldn’t imagine what the maintenance alone entailed or cost.

The emerald tanks caught my eye once more.

“Those green tanks at the end. Is that what you’re calling the super-seaweed?”

“Yes. The name was Frank’s idea. You know, get publicity and more backers.”

I pointed to the rows of white pods bobbing a quarter mile beyond the piers. “What are those?”

“Frank calls them flootles. Floating noodles, ’cause they’re like pasta tubes. Silly name. Something he’s experimenting with—growing algae in floating containers. White to reflect light and lined up in a row so they don’t bang into each other when it’s rough.”

I slid into the leather chair again. I wanted more details about this operation.

“What type of growing media do you use for the algae?”

Hamilton shook his head. “Sorry. Don’t know that type of thing.”

“What about the total number of species you’re growing?”

“You’d have to ask Frank.”

He couldn’t answer my other questions about growing algae either. After all, I decided, he was a businessman and not a scientist.

I stood up to leave. A voice behind me rang out. “John. We go in five minutes.”

He leapt to his feet. “Yes, Georgina. Oh, and this is Dr. Mara Tusconi. She’s interested in aquaculture. Dr. Tusconi, this is my wife.”

Georgina Hamilton towered over her husband. She wore a crisp pink cotton shirt and a pencil skirt. Her red lipstick was a striking contrast to shining black hair that expertly framed her face.

Georgina gave me the once over and extended her hand. “Delighted,” she said. “I’ll meet you outside, John.” She walked briskly out of the room.

I thanked Hamilton for the tour, and he apologized again for its brevity. Back in the lobby, Georgina passed me going the other way. Clicking by in high heels, she gave me a quick nod.

After a bathroom visit, I stepped out the front door of the building just as a black BMW sprayed gravel my way. Georgina sat at the wheel. Her husband sat in the passenger seat beside her, his combed hair barely visible over the headrest. I walked down the wide granite steps. The wind picked up, and bits of sand skittered along the bottom step.

The BMW disappeared from view. I headed for my own car and stopped at an intersecting gravel path skirting the facility. Could I follow it back and get a closer view of the piers? I looked around and—feeling more than a bit guilty—stepped onto the gravel.

The path hugged the building on a windowless side, so I guessed the lab was on the opposite one. I walked quickly. What looked like water flickered through the trees where the path turned behind the building.

I took the turn and stopped. The walkway ended at a cement slab beneath double doors. Two trashcans graced the slab. This was a walkway to a back door. I squinted to catch a glimpse of the piers, but the evergreens were too thick. To see more, I’d have to bushwhack through them, which wasn’t a great idea.

I stared at the trashcans. Trash. In the last Miss Marple book I’d read, she poked around in the trash for clues.

I lifted the lid of the first can and peered in. Nada. Must be garbage pick-up day. The other one was most likely empty too, but I gave it a try. Something rested at the bottom. I reached in, grabbed a large crumpled mesh bag, and held it up. The label said “10-10-10.”

Fertilizer, probably for the lawns. Certainly not a clue. I threw the bag back into the can and quickly replaced the lid.

I hoofed it back to my car feeling like someone was watching me. The hairs on the back of my neck didn’t settle down until I sat behind the wheel. I blew out a breath. Okay, I’d gotten carried away, opening the trash cans. Not nice, but in a list of crimes certainly on the minor side. I looked around. Other than a few cars in the lot, the place was deserted. My guilty conscience must have manufactured a spy.

I pulled out of the driveway and passed the fancy “Sunnyside Aquaculture” sign. John Hamilton’s interest in sustainable fuel for the U.S. was obviously genuine. He was truly apologetic that I could not go out on the pier, which he could see I itched to do. All in all, a decent guy.

His wife was a different matter. I’d only seen her for a moment, but the way he jumped when she walked in was curious. I also didn’t like the way she gave me the once over—sizing me up, I guessed, to judge who was smarter or maybe more attractive.

Besides that, John had given me a tidbit of information that might turn out to be important. Cyril White disappeared from view right before the buoy fell on Peter.

I stopped to buy yogurt and fruit for lunch before I hid away in my office. Despite my concern about the circumstances around Peter’s death, my focus had to be the NOAA grant proposal. The deadline was approaching fast and there was a hell of a lot of work to do.

I logged on to check the streaming data from the buoys we’d deployed. Columns of numbers from the first buoy lined up on my screen—wind direction, wind speed, wave height, water temperature. I looked skyward and sent a prayer to the science angel (there might be one), and ran my finger down the hourly averages.

Damn. The temperature hadn’t budged. I rubbed my eyes. Maybe the second buoy would be different. It wasn’t, and neither were the others.

I walked to the window and leaned my forehead against the pane. If water temperature didn’t increase significantly real soon, the proposal would be much harder to write. I could rely on earlier data, but the argument about rising temperature in Maine’s waters wouldn’t be nearly as strong.

I was excited about my research and hopeful grant reviewers would be, too. My former grad students and I had evidence that phytoplankton were dwindling in Maine’s warmer waters. We’d found declines in numbers and types of phytoplankton, the lovely tiny floating plant-type species that feed Gordy’s fish, and speculated the reason might be reduced mixing between increasingly warm—and therefore lighter—water floating on top of denser, colder water below. Phytoplankton need light, and grow in the upper sunlit layer. But as they grow, they use up nutrients. If new water from below can’t mix in, the algae starve.

One of my students won a prize for his talk about this research at the last Society of Oceanography meeting. But we’d just started the work, and I needed more grant money to continue.

Thank goodness there was time to write the proposal; I’d taught my half of Introductory Oceanography during the first part of the semester and now another faculty member was in charge. I loved teaching, but the course took a lot of time—hours to prepare lectures delivered electronically to students all over the state three times a week plus more hours to answer students’ emailed questions plus exams to grade. Every professor I knew struggled with balancing teaching and research.

My teaching skills hid a secret. Nobody, not even Harvey, knew that public speaking terrified me. Just the thought of it made seasickness seem like a picnic. People from MOI’s publicity office asked me to talk to local groups like the Lions and Rotary Clubs, but I made up any excuse I could think of. They stopped asking, and I felt guilty as hell about the whole thing.

By midafternoon, my back hurt from hunching over the computer. I got up to stretch. A heavy knock on my door startled me, and I opened it to a most unwelcome visitor.

“I would like to speak with you, if I may,” Seymour said.

Stepping aside, I pointed to a chair and sat back down at my desk, swallowing hard. Whatever Seymour had to say to me couldn’t be good. He sat, shifting his weight as if he found the chair uncomfortable. His thin face was impassive, and his steel-gray eyes gave nothing away.

“Well.” He cleared his throat. “To the task at hand. I must deny your request for a match for your NOAA proposal.”

My heart froze. Matching money from MOI was a pre-requisite for even submitting the NOAA grant. “But that means I won’t have money for research cruises. I’ll miss a whole year.”

He looked away, then back at me. “Mara, my budget—”

“You’ve known for months I’d need that match.”

“Listen to me. Matching money came from a state program that’s been gutted. I just found out about it.”

“So nobody in the department will get the match?”

Seymour crossed his legs. “I think I can squeeze out one or two. Your research is, ah, somewhat preliminary. You only have last spring’s data. Is that correct?”

“I’ll have two years with the new buoy values.”

“I believe your proposal is more likely to be funded if you have data from spring, summer, and fall.”

Seymour stood, pulled my door open, looked back at me, and left.

I shut the door, returned to the window, and again rested my forehead on the cool pane. My whole body seethed hot with anger. Seymour knew I couldn’t collect data without research money. He said his matching budget was slashed, and in the next breath said he’d squeeze out funds. For someone else, of course.

I stepped back and looked out. A breeze picked up on the bay, and several sailors briskly rowed tenders out to their boats for an afternoon jaunt. All smiles in yellow and red wind jackets, they looked so happy. It was, what, only four days since I’d felt that way as I bounded up Intrepid’s gangway.

I rolled my shoulders. My back muscles were tense and a dull ache crept up my neck to my head. Time for a break. When I’m low, there’s a soul whose gentle ways never fail to lift my spirits. His name is Homer.