Copyright © 2019 by Sara E. Johnson
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Name: Johnson, Sara E., author.
Title: Molten Mud Murder / Sara E. Johnson.
Description: Naperville, IL : Poisoned Pen Press, 2019 | Series: An Alexa Glock Mystery
Identifiers: LCCN 2019020490 | (trade pbk. : alk. paper)
Subjects: | GSAFD: Mystery fiction.
Classification: LCC PS3610.O37637 M65 2019 | DDC 813/.6--dc23 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2019020490
Contents
Front Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Back Cover
To Mom, with love and admiration
Chapter One
“Boiled? Boiled in mud?”
“No, ma’am. The chicken is sautéed, in chili-infused oil.”
Alexa tore her eyes from the newspaper and stared blankly at the waiter of the Thai restaurant where she had stopped for lunch. She hadn’t realized she had spoken aloud.
“More water?” the waiter added.
“Yes, please.”
A New Zealand Herald had been left behind on the next table over, and she had grabbed it to keep herself company. Now it was all she could do to finish her curry. She was so absorbed by what she was reading that the wet wad of rice and lemongrass held midway from bowl to mouth slipped from her chopsticks and landed on her white T-shirt.
“Dammit.”
She dabbed at her breast with a cloth napkin dipped in water and resumed reading. The front page was filled with grisly details of a murder in Rotorua, the very place she was headed for her friend Mary’s memorial service. She had planned to call on Mary’s family this afternoon after checking in to a cottage she had rented for two weeks while she figured out a way to prolong her stay in New Zealand.
A body had been found yesterday half-submerged in a Waiariki Thermal Land of Enchantment mud pool.
Boiled. Boiled in mud. The urge to finger her scar, to reassure herself, flashed like neon. She drank the water instead.
Rotorua, on the North Island of New Zealand, lay smack in the middle of intense thermal activity, like Yellowstone National Park in the States. Alexa read that the temperature of the mud pools reached two hundred degrees Celsius. Hotter than water at the boiling point. What would be left of the body? Teeth? She ran her tongue across her own and thought back to three years ago at the North Carolina State Bureau of Investigation when she had completed a second master’s in odontology. Teeth were what had brought her to New Zealand.
Maybe teeth would be the reason she would stay.
An aerial view of the geothermal park took up half the page.
“Terrible, eh?” said a man leaning toward her from an adjacent table. He pointed to the paper while his companion, a woman roughly Alexa’s age, late thirties, nodded.
“Gruesome way to die,” Alexa agreed.
“Are you a Yank?” he asked, only it sounded like “yeenk.”
“I’m from North Carolina.”
The couple eyed her like she’d said “I’m from Mars.” The woman was wearing conflicting colors, and the balding man had on a tank and shorts that showed too much hairy leg despite the sixty-degree breeze wafting through the open restaurant door.
“I’ve been working in Auckland for the past six months,” Alexa added.
“We went to Las Vegas, yeah,” the man said.
“Choice,” the woman said. “But wouldn’t want to live there. Crazy people.”
Alexa, thinking not all the crazies were in the States, went back to her newspaper, but the man wasn’t done.
“The dead guy must have royally pissed off a Maori,” he said, stabbing her paper with his thick pointer finger.
“A Maori?” Alexa knew who the Maori were, but she was taken aback by this man’s brashness.
“A native, eh. They used to boil the heads of their enemies.”
Alexa shoveled down a last bite, gulped more water, and tucked the paper into her tote. She rearranged her afternoon schedule on the spot. Check in to her rental cottage. Stop by the police station to offer her services. Then call on Mary’s family.
Maybe she had found her way.
* * *
Trout Cottage was tucked down a gravel drive on the outskirts of Rotorua. Alexa climbed out of the ten-year-old Toyota Vitz hatchback she had purchased when she arrived in New Zealand and leaned back to stretch. The scent of lavender spiced the air; she located their purple heads bobbing in the breeze to the left of the weathered, single-story cottage. The hum of the Kaituna River and the dancing lavender made her close her eyes and give thanks for the opportunity to be in this faraway land of abundant beauty. Eight thousand, five hundred miles was a long way from home.
The key was under the mat, just as the owner had promised. Alexa walked into a living area: wicker couch covered in wide black-and-white striped cushions, tan leather easy chair with ottoman next to a reading lamp, full bookcase, soft gray carpet, fresh white walls. She smiled, dropped her tote and computer bag, and checked out the bedroom.
A queen bed covered by a muted gray-and-yellow floral du
vet was flanked by nightstands. Cracking the single window, she then probed under the bedding—yes, an electric mattress warmer. Spring nights could dip into the forties.
Spring in October. Crazy.
A small table and two chairs were all the furniture that fit into the kitchen. A vase of lavender sprigs brightened the windowsill. Alexa leaned over to inhale and then checked the cupboards where she discovered pots and pans, an electric kettle—she’d have to be careful, the water boiled almost instantly—plunger, salt and pepper, tea bags, and a canister of coffee that she opened, sniffed, and dumped. No smell, no buzz.
A trip to the grocery store had to be squeezed into the afternoon. She had started a mental list when her cell phone rang.
“Hello?”
“Terrance Horomia,” a voice said. “I am Mary’s brother. We heard you were in town for the funeral, and we’d like to invite you for tea. Five o’clock?”
She had called Mary’s family yesterday and told them she’d be coming to Rotorua and would like to pay her respects. Mary had befriended her at Auckland University, or uni, as the locals said, and during her six-month visiting professorship, they had become close. Mary, who had worked as a biotechnician in an adjoining lab, was always eager to gab about biosecurity and conservation and New Zealand’s wonders. She had enticed Alexa to stay longer, to travel as soon as her fellowship finished. “I’ll take you round,” Mary had promised. “We’ll have adventures.”
“That’s kind, yes,” Alexa said. “I look forward to meeting you all.”
Terrance told her that Mary had mentioned her. “She said you were whãnau, like cousin, so come meet your family.” He gave Alexa directions said haere rã, and the phone went silent. “Whãnau.” Alexa said it out loud, tasting it, hearing it, seeing Mary’s bright eyes.
A short two weeks ago, Mary had popped into her office and invited Alexa to drive from Auckland to the tip of the North Island. “Cape Reinga. Talk about tidal rips. At the lighthouse, you can watch the Tasman Sea meet the Pacific, man-sea meets woman-sea.” Mary had laughed. “You know how that goes.” But then she had turned serious. “It’s the leaping point for spirits, the place the soul departs.”
Alexa shuddered. What had Mary meant, leaping place for spirits? It must have been another Maori saying.
A single, never-married friend her age was rare. Often when people discovered Alexa had never been married or had children, their eyes scrutinized her like a magnifying glass, searching for hidden faults, cracks. The assumption that she grieved for the Prince Charming husband she’d never found or the baby she’d never cradled was below the surface, ready to pounce. It infuriated her.
Alexa should have dropped everything and said “yes!” to Mary’s invite. But she prided herself in never shirking work responsibilities and had had final exams to give and the six- month fellowship to wrap up.
Days later, Mary was dead in a one-lane bridge collision. Dead.
I could be, too. Who would mourn?
Back home, she had blown it with her boyfriend, Jeb, when he mentioned marriage. “I like things the way they are,” she’d answered.
Jeb had been incredulous. “We bought a couch together, and you won’t commit? What’s up with that?” He’d let it rip, and she knew she had hurt him. But Jeb hadn’t been the right man. She doubted the right one existed, and when a colleague at the dental lab had posted the “Auckland University Seeking Odontologist Fellow” notice, she had thought “What the hell” and applied. Now she was here and determined to stay longer in New Zealand. Mary had had the right idea—explore. Why not? What else did she have back home? She’d never even been to Canada, and here she was in the Southern Hemisphere.
Alexa went back outside to unload the car, and after lugging in one large suitcase and one bulging backpack, she kicked off her Keds and sat on a porch chair in the sunshine to reread “Mud Pot Murder.” According to the article, the body of a man, face and shoulders partially submerged in molten mud, was discovered by a busload of Chinese tourists at 8:50 Sunday morning. “We came from geyser and I was first here. I saw body sticking out but the head was in mud,” one of the witnesses was quoted as saying. Police were declaring the death suspicious and asking for information from the public. At press time, no missing person had been reported. “The victim’s identifying features are indistinguishable,” said district medical examiner, Dr. Rachel Hill. “All we know is that the victim is male, Caucasian, and forty to fifty years of age.”
Couldn’t a tourist have just gone rogue? Right before she had left the States she had read about a visitor in Yellowstone National Park who had ignored warning signs and wandered off the designated boardwalk, stumbling into a hot spring. All that was left of the guy was a Boston Red Sox cap. No remains had been recovered.
Her work visa was good for six more months, as long as she found another job. No office or classroom. No man to anchor her. A sudden breeze wrestled the paper out of her hands. She looked up, surprised, at the swaying, limbless trees topped by green pom-poms along the driveway. They were having a bad hair day. An urge to explore New Zealand’s wildness—glaciers, the Great Walks, locations from The Lord of the Rings films, the bubbling mud pots right here in Rotorua—struck like a bolt. And Mary had said there was even a thermal waterfall near her hometown.
Alexa scooped up the newspaper and padded back into the cottage, found directions for connecting to the internet, and set up her laptop. A quick search revealed directions to Rotorua Central Police Station and the name of the inspector in charge of the investigation: Bruce Horne. Alexa clicked on the inspector’s bio: born in Wellington, 1973, bachelor of science, Auckland University, special agent in charge of improving police efficiency, promoted to detective inspector in 2012, held in esteem by Maori community, outreach coordinator, married, two daughters, yadda yadda. A dark-haired man with intense blue eyes did not smile from a studio portrait.
* * *
The police station was new and modern. A band of red wood Maori carvings—faces with protruding tongues, fish, birds, and canoes—wrapped around the exterior. Inside, the welcome desk in the high-ceilinged lobby was vacant.
Where was everyone?
Alexa waited three minutes, staring up at a lightly balanced Calder-like mobile of six large birds—albatross? They had huge triple-jointed wings and cast undulating shadows.
“Be with you shortly,” said a no-nonsense voice belonging to a severely bunned woman with cat’s-eye glasses perched on a sharp nose. The restrained hair was an unnatural black. The woman busied herself arranging steaming tea in a Save the Penguins mug and then several files. Her “Kia Ora! My name is Sharon Welles” name tag straightened, she finally spoke.
“How can I help you?”
“I’d like to see Inspector Horne regarding the mud pot case.”
Her eyes sharpened. “Is the detective inspector expecting you?”
“No, but I think I can be of assistance. Is he in?”
“He’s on his way back to the station now. Have a seat,” she answered, pointing to an empty bench along a wall of windows. “I’ll phone to let him know you’re here. Whom shall I say is waiting?”
“Alexa Glock. Forensic odontologist.”
“Odontologist?”
“Teeth.”
“You got here quickly.”
Alexa smiled and took a seat. It was three o’clock. She let the floating birds capture her attention, pondered her personal albatross, and then let her thoughts migrate to her career. Seven years she had been with the North Carolina State Bureau of Investigation in Raleigh. She fished out her curriculum vitae: criminal psychology, crime-scene processing, trace evidence analysis, courtroom testimony. Three years ago, ready for a change, she’d left to earn a second master’s in forensic odontology. “Comes in handy when face recognition is…not possible,” she’d explain to friends. Pearly whites had shifted her career to teaching, fir
st at the dental school in Chapel Hill and then—a convenient relationship escape hatch—to Auckland, New Zealand.
A voice jarred her back to the present.
“Detective Inspector Horne, remember I told you someone from forensics is waiting to see you.” Alexa could hear the receptionist’s voice, gone a bit syrupy, but not the reply. The clock on the wall read 3:22. After a few seconds of listening, the receptionist gave Alexa a puzzled look. Putting her hand over the voice piece she said, “Now just who are you?”
“Alexa Glock. I’m a forensics odontologist.”
“Detective Inspector Horne says he is not expecting you.”
“I’d like to offer my services. I can help him with the mud pot case.” As the receptionist began to speak into the phone again, a tall, fit man with dark hair graying slightly at the temples appeared in front of Alexa. Shrewd blue eyes assessed her as his hand extended down.
“DI Bruce Horne. How can I help you?”
“I thought I might be able to help you,” Alexa replied, rising. She took the man’s offered hand in a firm shake. He had aged pleasingly since his bio portrait. “I’m Alexa Glock from North Carolina. I mean, I’ve just finished a job in Auckland, and I am looking for work.” She took a breath and continued before the man could stop her. “I’m qualified in forensics, odontology, and crime-scene investigation. I read about the mud pot death in the paper. I’d like…”
“Hold on. You aren’t from Auckland CSI?”
“No.”
“You’re from North Carolina? That’s across the pond,” he said, his forehead wrinkling. “What brings you to Rotorua?”
“A funeral. But I have a work visa and I’m highly qualified.”
“A funeral?” The man’s glacier-blue eyes stared at her until Alexa felt her face get hot. He was disconcertingly handsome. She swatted that thought away like a pesky fly. “I’m expecting a forensics expert from Auckland in the morning. So I don’t have any need of your services.”
“In the morning? That’s wasting time.”
The detective inspector frowned as Alexa barreled on.
“I can ride out to the crime scene right now and do an initial analysis. I imagine safety is an issue.” The number one rule in crime-scene investigation was to remove environmental hazards that could threaten investigators, but how could a bubbling mud pot be removed?
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