Stavis just shrugged.
“It left particles of hematite embedded in the rub rail of the Outcast.”
Stavis said, “Okay.”
“Given that you just expressed surprise that Donie hooked the float, we can rule out the possibility that he hauled his entangled line—with the float—all the way up to the rub rail. You were the only other person on board. Ergo, you hauled up the line.”
Stavis was silent.
“The question is why. So let's walk it through. Donie, trying to free his line, goes overboard. He gets entangled in the line and probably the kelp. The problem, for you, was that the lure had an LED flasher inside—the lights attract the squid. You couldn't simply leave a flashing lure there—someone might come along and see it. Get nosy. You needed to get that lure out of the water. And so you got hold of the entangled line—using the Outcast boat hook, perhaps. And you tried to haul the line aboard, to reach the lighted lure. The lure was hooked to the float, so you ended up raising the float, as well. Impacting the rub rail. But you didn't manage to retrieve the lure.”
“How could you know anything like that?”
“Because Jake Keasling tried, as well.”
“What?”
“You didn't realize Jake was out there, that night? He was. He heard you and Robbie arguing. And then, after you 'motored away' Jake motored in to find out what was going on. He spotted the lighted lure. Wanted to find out if it was a squid jig. He tried to haul it up—just as you had—and he dragged the float across the rub rail of his sister's boat.”
“Jake? Good golly.”
Tolliver put in, “I had a chat with Jake today. On the record.”
“Look,” Stavis appealed to Tolliver, to the recorder, “if I'd known Jake was in the area I would have called on him for help.”
“Missed opportunity,” Walter said. “Jake went back to harbor, not knowing what he'd done to Sandy's boat. Not knowing what happened to Donie. Not knowing where you went. But of course, you explained that—Silva picked you up. And then you returned to the site.”
“I didn't say anything about returning.”
“The evidence says that.”
Stavis shook his head.
“How else would Joao Silva's path intersect with the red float?”
“I don't know anything about any of that.”
“Ah, but we know. We know that you sent Silva diving to take care of the problem.”
Stavis just shook his head.
“Not just to retrieve the lure. You also had him disentangle Donie's body and remove it.”
“This is wild speculation.”
Tolliver said, “We'll continue the search, Fred. I'm assuming you instructed Silva to move the body to the dropoff at the shelf break, so the currents could take it away.”
“Assume all you want. For heaven's sake.”
Walter said, “Let me ask you something. Why did Silva return two days later—sometime early on Tuesday—to retrieve the float?”
“How would I know?”
“Think it through. He cuts the body free of the entanglement and he retrieves the lighted lure for you, but he leaves the float behind—perhaps for the simple reason that the float would have prevented the body from sinking. But in the following two days, as attention focuses on the mystery of Donie's disappearance, Silva understandably gets worried. What if the authorities find the site, and the red float? What if they learn that his boss—you, Mr. Stavis—worked on a job that used red floats at the site of that accident. Given his illegal status, he risked discovery, or jail, or deportation. And so Joao Silva did the only thing he could do to protect himself—he returned to remove evidence of his participation.”
Stavis was silent.
“And so early Tuesday morning Mr. Silva retrieves the float. He bags it. And that would have been that, had he not had his encounter with a jellyfish. Had he not been stung. And the current then took him on a course that intersected Sandy Keasling's whale-watching trip. And we had a mystery. An unconscious diver adrift with a red float in his dive bag.”
Stavis remained silent.
“A mystery now ninety-nine percent solved.”
Stavis finally spoke. “Just ninety-nine?”
“There remains the mystery of how Silva got to the site. We never found a boat.”
“I can help you with that.”
Walter paused. Looked at Tolliver and me—what's this? Tolliver shrugged, eyes narrowing. I shrugged. I had no idea where Stavis was heading.
Stavis smiled. “It wasn't exactly a secret, that you found my diver at sea. Like I told you earlier, I was in a pickle. Worried about the site being found. When Joao was found I couldn't keep it from Oscar any longer. And he wasn't a happy camper.” Stavis gave a brief laugh. “After he took my head off, we shifted into damage control. We went out to the site Tuesday night on Oscar's boat. He dove and replaced the iron-seeding floats with the standards, the yellows. I picked up my vessel—Joao had taken it without my permission.”
After a moment, Walter said, “Thank you, for clarifying that one percent.”
“You're welcome. And I'll confirm your ninety-nine. Can't argue with the evidence.”
“That's refreshing,” Tolliver said.
“I made a mistake. I was just trying to handle things. So yes, I admit that I had Joao move the body. And yes, I agree that he must have panicked and returned for the float. But none of that changes the fact that Robbie's death was an accident.”
Walter scratched his ear. “Mr. Stavis, I'm not implying that the red float proves you killed Robbie Donie.”
“Then what in hell is the point of it?”
“It proves motive.”
“For what?”
Walter indicated the unopened paper bag. “For this.”
Stavis turned to Tolliver. “Did we not just finish with Robbie?”
“We did,” Tolliver said. “Now we're discussing your Joao Silva problem.”
Stavis lifted his palms.
“You were afraid Silva was going to talk.” Tolliver's voice was tight; he was making the effort to remain composed. “After he fled the hospital, you and Oscar were, as you put it, in a pickle. It took you until the next day to figure out that Sandy was hiding Silva. You knew that cave, you'd played there with Sandy and the boys, as kids. So you waited for your moment and paid Silva a visit. He was still suffering from the jellyfish sting and was rattled by Sandy's interest.” Tolliver paused. “Yes, Fred, I had a chat with Sandy today too. On the record.”
“She lies,” Stavis said.
“I don't think so. I think you, the big boss, told Silva to keep his mouth shut and then you told him chin up, playing the good guy. You'd brought him a treat. His favorite? But the anchovies were contaminated with domoic acid. Your boss had a supply in his lab.”
“I don't know anything about that.”
Tolliver opened the bag and removed the stack of clamshell food containers and slid them across the table toward Stavis.
Stavis gave a little jerk. And then laughed. “What's this?”
“This is courtesy of Lanny. He's a loyal young man. It took him a long while to even consider your role. He had a rough day yesterday—we all did. He had a big shock. And it shocked him out of his misplaced loyalty.” Tolliver showed a grim smile. “He went by your warehouse yesterday and got these. He knew where you kept them.”
“So? Yes, I keep picnic supplies on hand.”
“Don't have many picnics, though? Too busy? And those supplies last forever, right? At least, your foam trays have—they're way out of date. That model was discontinued five years ago. You can find a similar model at Costco—not all that different, just a modification of the fastener. I wouldn't have noticed but my techs are eagle-eyed. Bottom line, Fred, your discontinued-model foam tray was used to serve Joao Silva poisoned anchovies.”
“No.”
“Frederick Stavis, you're under arrest for the murder of Joao Silva, and for obstruction of justice in the conceal
ment of Robert Donie's body.”
“No. No.”
“And I'll advise you that a reckless endangerment charge is pending for your role in the development of venomous jellyfish at the Diablo Canyon dock.”
“Doug.” Stavis shook his head. “This isn't right. You know me. You've known me all my life.”
Very deliberately, Tolliver snapped off the recorder. “I knew Robbie Donie. Didn't like him but he was a citizen of my town. I knew and liked the citizens of my town who went for a swim. You, Fred? I don't want to know you.”
***
After Stavis had been removed, the four of us sat around Tolliver's table.
Drained.
Satisfied, that feeling of achievement that wells up upon solving a case, no matter the circumstances.
Adrift. Looking at one another. It's all over.
Walter cleared his throat. “What about the Keaslings, Doug? The legal ramifications.”
Tolliver let out a long sigh. “At the least, I have Sandy on harboring an illegal, I have Jake on the possession and discharge of an unlicensed firearm, I have Lanny on the theft of a boat.”
I said, “They all cooperated, in the end.”
“That they did. I could reasonably make a case for sentences of community service.” He looked up at his poster of the harbor, of Morro Rock. “Not sure the community can weather being served by the Keaslings.”
CHAPTER 52
We rose early.
We needed to pack our equipment and drop by the market to pick up fruit and something chewy, yet to be negotiated, and then drop by Peet's to fill our thermos for the trip back home to the mountains.
But outside it was sunny.
Walter said, “What do you say to a quick walk on the beach? Stretch our legs before the long drive?”
“I say yes.”
Walter opened the sliding glass door and we went out to the golden sand and the blue sky and the sea sparkling like mica.
Keep this up and we'd find an excuse to extend our stay.
We had the strand nearly to ourselves.
It was low tide—incoming—so we took off our flip-flops and edged down to the wet sand and headed south, for no reason other than that direction gave us a splendid view of Morro Rock.
The sand molded to our feet and the sun warmed our backs.
We came to the eroded remains of a sand castle and, beside it, a child's orange plastic shovel. Walter picked up the shovel and tossed it to higher ground.
He didn't say it and I didn't bring it up but I was abruptly yanked back to a vision of the showy sand castle on the Keasling beach. If we reversed course and headed north we would in time come to the bluffs and the Keasling turf. I recalled Lanny's pride in the sand castle, and his boasting of the Keasling childhood nickname. Suitable name, I thought—the Sea Urchins. Prickly, brightly colored, eye-catching. But you wouldn't want to pick one up.
We remained on our southerly course.
Up ahead, a small group was gathered around something in the sand.
We drew up and I nearly shouted stand back but there was no urgent need of the warning.
The group gave the jellyfish some space.
It was about the size of a fist, flattened in the sand. Translucent—grains of sand visible right through it. It was hardly recognizable as Aurelia aurita, but for the clover-leaf pattern in the center of its bell. So pretty, even in death. A harmless-looking saucer.
“Over there, like, here comes another one!” A teenage girl in the group pointed down the beach.
We looked.
A small wave sent a lip of water onto the sand and deposited another gelatinous disk.
The little group started for the newcomer.
I said, “Stay back.”
Walter was already on the phone with Tolliver, and then he was on hold, and then when Tolliver came back on the line Walter put the phone on speaker.
Tolliver was saying, “I'm getting other reports. She says looks like they're all dying. She says their stingers can still hold venom—I'll be sending my people to collect them but meanwhile keep everybody away. She says Flynn engineered a fast-growth gene, he was hurrying up the moons, he wanted to see the effects in action—the sonofabitch—but she says his notes say the side effect is likely sterility so those polyps at Diablo might be the last generation. We can only goddamn hope.”
Walter said, “By 'she' I assume you mean Dr. Russell.”
“That's right, Violet Russell, she's here with me now.”
“Here, where?” I asked.
After a moment he answered, “Fresco Cafe.” And then in the background he was speaking to a waiter, “We'll take it with us,” and then he came back to us to say, “Every time I order olallieberry pie these goddamn jellyfish interfere.”
I said, “You and Violet Russell and olallieberry pie for breakfast? Romantic.”
He didn't respond to that. I figured he blushed. I figured he deserved a happy morning.
And then we heard Dr. Russell, in the background, “We'll have the pie now, Doug. Your people can collect the specimens and I'll get to them this afternoon. More will probably be coming in. No need to dash off right now.” There was the clink of dishes being set down, and then Russell, once more, “We're in it for the long haul.”
I wondered if she was referring to herself and Tolliver—the romantic breakfast being just the start.
I feared she was referring to the sea. To the changes, where the ecosystem is flipping. To the new normal out there, where jellyfish are on the rise.
As for me, I wondered if Oscar Flynn's big bad boys were going to stay put in our patch of ocean, for the long haul. Sure, they were chipped and could be tracked. But then what? According to Russell, if they're threatened as they die, they release billions of reproductive seeds which produce more polyps, and grow into more big boys.
I shivered.
Walter and I moved up to the dry sand and sank down, wriggling our toes into the warmth. Keeping an eye on the people drawn to the little saucers coming in on the tide. Waiting for Tolliver's people to come collect them.
Looked like we weren't going to be getting on the road any time soon.
After a time baking in the sun, I asked, “No wisdom from the ancient mariner?”
Walter took his own sun-warmed time to reply. “Best not commit a crime against nature.”
I nodded. “Food for thought.”
We fell silent.
After another pensive pause, he said, “Here's more food for thought. We could pick up an olallieberry pie, for the road.”
I nodded.
Now that gave me a measure of comfort. Some things just never change.
THE END
FROM THE AUTHOR
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____________________________
THE FORENSIC GEOLOGY SERIES:
Quicksilver (a novella)
Forensic geologists Cassie Oldfield and Walter Shaws plunge into the dark history of the California gold country, into the dark past of two brothers, into a poisonous feud that threatens lives and the land.
Badwater
Death Valley earns its name when a terrorist threatens to unleash lethal radioactive toxins. The only ones who can find and stop him are the forensic geologists, and they are up against more than pure human malice. The unstable atom—in the hands of an unstable man—is governed by Murphy's Law. Whatever can go wrong, will go wrong.
Volcano Watch
The volcano beneath the geologists' home town is seething, and the mayor is found murdered with a note sayi
ng NO WAY OUT. The fate of the town now rests in the hands of an emergency planner with his own twisted agenda. As the volcano moves toward red alert, the geologists race to prevent 'no way out' from becoming a prophecy.
Skeleton Sea
A mystery at sea plunges the geologists into deadly waters. Investigating a strange fishing accident off the California coast, they track it to an even stranger project. Someone with toxic skills is at work in this sea. If the lethal project is not ended, the outcome will be unstoppable.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
“Writing is easy. All you have to do is cross out the wrong words.”
― Mark Twain
I had some help identifying the wrong words:
I want to thank the following science experts in their fields for information, education, reading the book, giving me terrific suggestions and support: Guy Cochrane, G. Nelson Eby, Raymond C. Murray, Jenny Purcell.
Thanks to Russell Dwiggins for the diving tutorial.
If there are factual or technical errors in Skeleton Sea, they are mine alone.
Thanks to the following for reading and commenting on the book: Wanda Sue Downs, Don Dwiggins, Russell Dwiggins, Quinn Richardson, Catherine Thomas-Nobles, Emily Williams, J.T. Yeager.
An added note of appreciation goes to Emily Williams for consulting on beer, teenage slang, and professorial style ;)
To Chuck Williams, for the support, reality checks, patience, wisdom—thank you. Seven houses full.
A big thanks and a margarita toast go to the Cayucos gang.
***
I have one final thank you, to an amazing man who wanted to read this book, who died before I completed the manuscript.
I first met him as a reader who wrote to tell me how much he enjoyed my series. From there, we struck up a friendship, talking about writing and music (he was a talented musician) and travel and family and the odds and ends that find their way into correspondence. We talked about his illness and—I hope and believe—that gave him a small measure of support. We exchanged some laughs. I smile now, remembering him.
To a smart, funny, talented, deeply kind man: Michael D. MacDonald.
Skeleton Sea Page 29