"Pleasure." She pumped Mer's hand. "I'm Phoenix."
A male student dropped his bag on the dock and called, "Hey, Professor. Do you want me to go check us in?"
"Thanks, I got it," Phoenix answered, and then turned back to Mer. "There's always one bucking for brownie points." She let out a bark of a laugh that sounded remarkably like a seal.
"Come on up. I'll get you squared away while your students stow their gear on the boat." Mer pointed to Taylor on the deck of the thirty-foot Island Hopper. "We're on the Dock Holiday."
"Ha!" Another seal bark. "Round 'em up!"
Fifteen minutes later, they cast off.
Taylor captained the boat and Tom served as deckhand, leaving Mer with nothing to do but nervously scan the horizon for pirates as the small vessel bumped along the waves to the dive site.
The students huddled around their professor as she spoke over the engine noise. They all held onto rails but Phoenix. She stood in the center of the deck, her legs absorbing the motion of the boat.
A wave of nostalgia crashed over Mer. Perhaps she'd been too hasty in her decision to take a hiatus from academic life. She missed the sense of accomplishment that accompanied a discovery, missed her undergrad days, when every class afforded an opportunity to appease her curiosity. She edged closer.
"The HMS Winchester was nine hundred and forty-four tons of British man of war built in 1693," Phoenix said. "Her keel was an impressive one hundred twenty-one feet, and she had a thirty-eight foot beam." She chopped her hands through the air as if outlining the dimensions of a box. "Most importantly for us, she had an armament of sixty cannons."
A brunette with a long braid scrunched her face. "What's the big deal about cannons?"
Phoenix tossed the question to the group. "Anyone?"
A sunburned blonde fluttered her hand, but the young man from the dock answered first. "They don't deteriorate."
A suck-up and a know-it-all.
"Actually, they do," Phoenix said. "Just at a much slower rate than the wood that made up this particular ship."
The students wore varying levels of interest on their faces, but Phoenix's enthusiasm remained strong and her hands flew in time to her words. "The Winchester's cannon was the clue to the ship's identity."
"How did a cannon help identify it?" This time a heavyset young man posed the question.
"Cannons were the bling of the high seas. By the end of the sixteenth century, bronze edged out iron. It was expensive, but a far superior material for ordnance. Cannons were embellished and engraved. Occasionally, the guns even had nicknames. Put that all together and cannons are a nautical archeologist's dream."
Phoenix lectured several minutes more as the boat traveled north across gin-clear water. A low profile speedboat rushed toward them, its hull slapping the water. Mer dashed to the port rail. It wasn't until the speedboat steered a wide berth around them that she relaxed.
They were nearly at the dive site when Mer's curiosity got the better of her. The students had underwater slates, tape measuring reels, and rulers. One student prepped a camera. But what they didn't have were specimen containers, lift bags, or the means to retrieve or protect any artifacts. "Not collecting anything today?" Mer asked Phoenix.
"There's not much left. Some cannonballs, a few pins, a pile of ballast stones, but they're hard to find unless you know what you're looking for. A lot of coral can grow in a couple of centuries. But that's the point of this lesson."
"What is?" Mer asked.
Phoenix grinned. "Learning to recognize what nature wants to hide. Besides, collecting in the Keys requires permits. Getting them can be a nightmare."
"Even for academics?"
"Oh, it can be done, but you've got overlapping jurisdictions here. There are sixty-three thousand plus acres of protected water in John Pennekamp Coral Reef State Park. Then there's the Key Largo Coral Reef National Marine Sanctuary—not to be confused with Pennekamp, which is actually inside the federal boundaries. All in all, you've got approximately twenty-nine hundred square nautical miles owned by the government."
Mer whistled.
Tom glared at her and hollered, "Hasn't Leroy schooled you about whistling?"
"I'm a work in progress."
Phoenix laughed and jerked her thumb at the deckhand. "Let me guess. He probably has a problem with women on board, too."
"Surprisingly not. He just puts on a good show. You ever had Cuban coffee?"
"I live in Miami."
"Then you know the type. Strong. A tad bitter. Best enjoyed in small doses."
"Ha! Anyway, the Division of Historical Resources grants archaeological research permits. Mostly to museums and universities. They're a lot easier to get than exploration and recovery permits. In theory, those go to any Schmoe who can convince the state they deserve one, but in reality, it takes a well-funded salvage company to comply with the regulations these days. Either way, the state oversees the whole production. Helps to preserve the archaeological integrity of the site, but frankly, I think they just want a piece of the action."
"Action?"
Phoenix raised an eyebrow. "Academics recover artifacts, looters bring up treasure."
"What happens if you find something but you don't have a permit?"
"Unless you want a Class Three Felony on your record, you can look but don't touch. Wrecks located in state waters belong to the state—which pissed off a whole cadre of salvors who'd operated under the Finders Keepers doctrine since man started plying the seas."
"From an archeological standpoint, it sounds like good legislation."
"Personally? I love it." Phoenix swept her arm around the horizon. "But the ocean's a big place. Hard to patrol. Tomb raiding occurs underwater, too."
Tom held up both hands and flashed his fingers. "Ten minute warning!"
The boat exploded into a hub of activity. Students pulled on wetsuits, rifled through gear bags, and double-checked their equipment.
Phoenix peeled off her T-shirt, exposing a breathtaking tattoo of a bird surrounded by flames that covered her back.
"Which came first, the tattoo or the name?" Mer asked.
"Ha!" she barked. "You'd be surprised how many people don't make the connection. The fire came first. Which is why I spend so much time in the water. You splashing with us?"
Mer pulled her wetsuit up over her shoulder. "I'm going in. Maybe take some photos."
Phoenix looked up from her gauges. "Alone?"
It was a good question. Recreational diving was done in buddy teams—two or more divers who stayed close enough together to assist each other in the event of an emergency. Charter boats insisted on it, unless divers could prove they'd had additional training and carried redundant gear in the event of equipment failure. "I'm certified self-reliant," Mer answered.
Tom leaned his head between the two women. "Dr. Cavallo is a marine scientist, too."
Phoenix waited for clarification.
Mer rolled her tank valve open and checked her air pressure. "I'm a teuthologist. Earned my doctorate at UCSB, did most of my research in the Arctic, studying the biogeography of Arctic cephalopods."
"You tracked octopuses. Nice." Phoenix resumed her gear check. "Sure you don't want to help ride roughshod over a group of baby scientists?" She chucked her chin at Mer's pony bottle. "It's a lot easier than schlepping an extra air tank on a reef dive."
Why not? Plus, she liked Phoenix. It was nice to hang out with another academic. Especially one who knew the plural of octopus was octopuses, not octopi. "I can circle the herd. Make sure none wander off."
"Thanks. Once they start their site diagrams, their focus on each other goes out the window."
Taylor motored to the GPS coordinates of the HMS Winchester. Unlike the reefs at Molasses and French, there were no mooring balls on the Elbow to mark this particular site. She found a nearby sandy area and came to a dead stop while Tom lowered the anchor over the side. The boat settled into the current and floated over the top of the reef
.
Mer stood at the edge of the swim platform, slipped on her fins, and lowered her mask onto her face.
Taylor cut the engines and gave her the thumbs up. "Pool's open!"
Mer entered the water with a giant stride and scattered a school of blue tangs. They quickly regrouped and sheltered in the shallow reef.
She loved this moment, when everything around her surged with life. In truth, it made her feel insignificant. One small creature in a vast ocean. It put her troubles in perspective and made them seem manageable. Almost.
Dry air hissed through the regulator and filled her lungs as she descended the anchor line to the sand. Bubbles tickled past her ears when she exhaled. At the bottom, she checked the set of the anchor and waited for the professor and her students.
Cold water trickled down the neck of her wetsuit and she shivered. In the Keys, the changing of the seasons was marked by the thickness of one's wetsuit. She wore a three-millimeter, but it was almost time to break out the five and retire the thinner one until spring.
The divers rallied at the anchor. Phoenix shot a compass heading and set off.
Mer lingered, enjoying the solitude underwater. The barrier reef that protected the Florida Keys was the Nation's only coral reef. It sheltered twenty-five percent of all known marine animals and they all appeared to be out to welcome the divers. Mer's gaze swept the area, searching for signs of an octopus.
Phoenix took the group on a tour of the reef. Mer skimmed the seafloor, peeking into the nooks and crannies as she followed the students. A school of grunts congregated under a ledge, moving forward and back with the surge.
The students had their work cut out for them. The elkhorn and stony corals reached nearly to the surface in places, the product of over three hundred years of growth. Given the choice between looking for iron pins on a reef and a needle in a haystack, Mer figured the odds probably favored those covered in straw.
When they returned to the starting point, Phoenix released the students in buddy teams. They parted ways, their heads down as they searched the crags for clues of the wreck.
Mer slowly kicked and glided over the reef. Bright sunshine sliced through the water, casting lacy shadows through the purple sea fans. A cluster of painted tunicates with their ethereal chrysanthemum petals formed underwater bouquets that rivaled any flower found topside. And yet they were invertebrates, not flowers.
She froze. Oscar had plucked flowers for her from behind a church. Bijoux had mentioned the Catholic Church's food bank. Oscar wore a crucifix—and St. Justin's might provide more than a meal to a man in need.
It was a long shot, but suddenly she couldn't wait for the dives to end. She might be able to talk to Oscar after all.
Phoenix swam over to Mer. She pointed two fingers at her eyes and then directed Mer's attention to a crevice between two overhangs. At first glance, it looked the same as the rest of the area. She ignored the tiny wrasses that played hide-and-seek among the fauna and scrutinized the lumpy structure of the reef and its contours. The uniformity was the clue. Nature didn't build uniform reefs.
She smiled as she finned over a mound of coral-encrusted coconut-sized cannon balls.
Phoenix raised her finger vertically in front of her regulator, swearing Mer to secrecy, and swam to another section of the reef.
Mer remained a moment longer. She had to appreciate the irony. Her entire life had recently exploded, and now, she'd found peace with three hundred-year-old cannon balls.
The ocean was a fascinating combination of history and life, revelations and secrets, danger and comfort. And sometimes, one experienced them all in the same day.
* * *
Mer's hair was still wet when she entered the gym a few minutes before six. She'd driven by the church, but the lot was empty. No Oscar, no cars, no one. Even the food pantry was closed.
She took a sip from her water bottle and walked through the cardio and weight rooms to an area in the back of the building. The Keys had more jails than gyms, which considering her recent burglary, suggested there really was trouble in paradise.
Several women and a couple of men were stretching. Mats lined the floor and mirrors covered the walls. Stations with heavy bags, speed bags, and a giant tire dotted the perimeter. A sparring ring dominated the rear corner. She was willing to bet her paycheck that the Marquis de Sade had nothing on this place. It was perfect.
A lithe teenager breezed in and threw her bag against the wall just as the instructor roared his first command. She looked familiar. It took two burpees before Mer placed her. Gabriella, Detective Talbot's daughter.
Another four burpees and she no longer cared. As it turned out, learning to kickbox started with a lot of the four-part modified push-ups, followed by too many squats, and an unending circuit of sit-ups. Sweat trickled down the side of her face. Halfway through the warm-up she wondered if anyone in the room knew how to operate the defibrillator. By the time the instructor transitioned to punches, Mer had mentally drafted her will.
"Your stance is all wrong. Look at the instructor. Bend your knees." The freckle-faced Gabby ran circles around her. Literally.
Mer stepped out her legs, bent her knees, and envisioned decking the fresh-faced teenager. It carried her through the simple punches.
Then came the combinations. Two punches punctuated by hooks, uppercuts, kicks.
"Seriously?" Gabby torqued into her uppercut. "Haven't you ever thrown a punch before?"
Talking wasted air, but she managed a hoarse response. "Never had to."
Gabriella rolled her eyes so dramatically she should have won an award. "Your thumb goes outside your fingers. Throw a punch like that and you'll break your thumb."
Mer rearranged her fist and threw two more shadow punches.
"Stop. Just stop. Are you right handed?"
Mer nodded.
"Put your left foot slightly in front of your right. Stay on your toes." She demonstrated, and her auburn ponytail bounced. "Now, you want to have a straight punch. The first two knuckles should hit first. Don't lead with your pinkie."
"Why not?"
That earned Mer a jaw drop. "It'll collapse your punch and you'll end up with a boxer's fracture."
"Ladies!" the instructor yelled. "Socialize on your own time."
Gabriella grabbed Mer's arm. "Come here." She led Mer away from the people dipping and punching in perfect precision and stopped in front of a heavy bag. She sized it up. "This one will do."
The bags all looked alike to Mer. "How do you know all this?"
"My dad's a cop." Gabby pulled a pair of fingerless gloves from her duffle, and then hit the bag with a series of jabs, crosses and hooks.
"Your turn." Gabby tossed Mer her sweaty gloves, crossed her arms, and stood back.
Knocking the snot out of a heavy bag was a lot harder than it looked and her first hits were awkward. Tentative.
"Try this." Gabby demonstrated in slow motion without hitting the bag. At least she didn't quote Shakespeare like her father.
Mer tried again. This time the punch landed on the bag with a satisfying thud.
"Just like that, but harder," Gabby ordered. "That's it. Keep going."
Mer fell into a rhythm. Each hit reverberated through her body. Primal.
The gym receded. Gabby disappeared. Mer torqued her hips, punched through the bag, and imagined landing blows on the assholes who had ransacked her home. The swinging bag knocked her off balance. She returned with a growl and slammed her fist into the bag in a quick double punch.
A tap on her shoulder startled her. She spun, acutely aware of her surroundings again.
"Remind me not to spar with you. By the way, I'm Gabby."
Mer gulped air like a beached fish. "I know. We've met."
Tiny lines formed on the young woman's forehead. "We have?"
Mer peeled off the gloves. "Well, maybe not technically. I'm Mer Cavallo. You were in my house on Thanksgiving." Still no recognition. "The burglary?" she prompted.
"Oh, wow. That was you? Sorry I didn't recognize you." Gabby took the outstretched gloves and jammed them into her gym bag. "Dad said you were a doctor."
That surprised her. Not that he'd said she was a doctor, but that he'd mentioned her at all. "A teuthologist."
"You specialize in teeth?" She pulled a towel from the bag.
Mer's mouth twitched. "Octopuses. I'm a marine scientist."
"That's cool. I've been diving since I was ten. Dad taught me."
"Your father is an instructor?" Although considering his position on the sheriff's dive team, she shouldn't have been surprised.
"Long time ago."
Factoring in the girl's appearance, a "long time ago" looked to be about six or seven years. Mer grabbed her own towel and tried not to wince. "I work at the Aquarius Dive Shop. You'll have to come out with us someday."
"Sure." She slung her bag over her shoulder. "I'll say hi to my dad for you."
Mer was still trying to figure out how to respond when Gabby left.
14
Mer woke up the next morning tired, sore, and hungry—a grumpy trifecta that could only be remedied by an all-you-can-eat buffet, a deep-tissue massage by a woman named Helga, and going back to bed—none of which figured into her plans for the day. She settled for buying a cup of coffee and a donut from the gas station. Four unladylike bites and a sip later, her body and mind were back in sync.
Time to find Oscar. She licked her fingers and turned north.
Few things in Key Largo soared higher than the Saint Justin Martyr Catholic Church bell tower. The cross at its pinnacle rose above the treetops and served as a landmark from the highway. Mer puttered through the parking lot searching for Oscar's car and had almost completed her loop around the church complex when she spied his white Corolla tucked into the corner by the butterfly garden.
She tapped her knuckles against the passenger window, but there was no movement inside. Cupping her hands around her face, she peered through the window tint.
No Oscar. Nothing to suggest he was living in his car, either.
She straightened and glanced around her. Mer's relationship with the Church was complicated—ironic, considering the collar her brother Franky wore. It had been the topic of more than one of their conversations. Entering the inner sanctum rarely made her to-do list. Plus, she wasn't really dressed for the occasion, although if there was a God, He probably wasn't all that hung up on fashion.
Beached_A Mer Cavallo Mystery Page 9