A close-up of Lindsey filled the screen, and she began to speak. “Ishmael didn’t plan to fall in love. He used to tell me that I stole his heart before he even knew he had one.” She canted her head and tucked her hair behind her ear, her palm resting against her cheek. The gesture captured a girlish whimsy Mer never knew Lindsey possessed. “We got married. My training as an underwater photographer gave him the idea for the business.”
Lindsey dropped her hand and squared off on the camera, all business again. “Fortunately, I had money for funding it, too. Together we launched Spirited Divers Paranormal Scuba Team. Under Ishmael’s guidance, we created a successful enterprise.”
The documentary cut to images of Ishmael riding a dive scooter through the depths. Lindsey’s voice overlaid the film.
“We used underwater technology to locate and document paranormal activity. Bring closure to loved ones. Sadly, we often lose the people we love before we’re ready to let them go.”
Mer found the line prophetic. Lindsey certainly hadn’t been ready to lose Ishmael. That she lost him to another woman pushed her over the edge.
“Many such people became our benefactors,” Lindsey’s voiceover continued. “They sponsored our trips and, in turn, we gave them peace.”
The video cut back to Lindsey. “Death isn’t the finality we once thought it was. The dead can speak. We just have to learn how to listen.”
Detective Talbot paused the video. Lindsey’s face froze in an image of innocence.
Mer wasn’t ready to forgive her, but she did pity her. Ishmael’s actions were driven by greed, but love motivated Lindsey. How painful it must have been for her to watch Amber and Ishmael together. She’d sacrificed everything for him, and, in the end, that included her life.
“She forged the insurance paperwork to throw suspicion on Amber,” Talbot said. “I located some of their patrons. They were extremely unhappy with their returns.”
“Financially or spiritually?” she asked.
“Both. Several investors had confronted Ishmael and threatened him with legal action.”
Mer bit her lip. “I really didn’t have anything to do with the camera.”
“Ishmael planted it. We found the data card when we tossed the Sir Simon. There’s a nice shot of him swimming into the hatch. Not a ghost in sight. But that reminds me. I have something else for you.” He rummaged in his messenger bag and handed her a thin square object wrapped in brown paper.
“A peace offering?” Mer teased.
“I prefer to consider it a get-well gift.”
Mer slid her finger under the tape and withdrew a Finding Nemo soundtrack CD.
Detective Talbot cleared his throat. “When I was executing the search warrant for the camera, I noticed that you enjoyed movie soundtracks. All things considered, this seemed—”
“Perfect,” Mer interrupted. “Thank you.”
A nurse sailed through the door, and Selkie followed in her considerable wake.
“Oh good, you’re up. How are you feeling?” The nurse’s badge identified her as Helena, and she stood nearly as wide as she was tall.
“Like somebody tried to kill me,” Mer said, repeating her initial assessment.
“Ach, it’s just a flesh wound.” Helena tutted as she adjusted the drip on the IV, then pushed a syringe into the line.
The fuzzy feeling returned as a sedative meandered through Mer’s veins. A drug-pushing nurse. A detective who spouted Shakespeare. A neighbor she found intriguing and infuriating in equal measure. She’d been wrong earlier. This wasn’t heaven, but it beat the hell out of the alternative.
Chapter 36
Mer shielded her eyes against the November sun. Two days until Thanksgiving. She had a lot of blessings to count.
From her vantage on the deck of the LunaSea, the water above French Reef sparkled. She inhaled. Salt, sea, diesel, and something indefinable but comforting filled her lungs. Even this late in the year, the temperature hovered near eighty degrees, quite a contrast from the negative temps she’d be bundling up against in the Arctic. Maybe next year she’d apply for another research position. But not yet. She wasn’t ready to leave.
Normalcy returned to the Keys in fits and starts. The ghost hunters had largely left, disappointed that their paranormal phenomenon had a more temporal explanation. The media still occasionally tried to drum up a new twist on the old story. Wendy Wheeler had tried to interview Mer at the hospital—and several times afterward—but in Mer’s mind the story had already been told. The players had all moved on. Except her.
And that was by choice.
She stayed in touch with Amber. They shared a history now. Both wounded, both healing. Both needing time to process what they’d survived.
The raucous call of a seabird startled her out of her reverie. She tried to identify it, but the sun hid all but it’s silhouette from view.
Her hand brushed the scar on her thigh, the puckered skin numb to her touch. Her decision to stay in the Keys defied logic. Her career would take a hit. Publish or perish didn’t just apply to professors seeking tenure. But intuitively she knew she’d made the right choice. At least for now. She lived on an island. Surrounded by water. It wasn’t as if there wasn’t something just waiting to be studied right here in her own backyard. She had options.
And friends.
Mer marked her page and closed the book she held. Their divers should be coming up soon.
Leroy joined her on deck and picked up the worn paperback. “The Phenomenon of Man, by Pierre Teilhard de Chardin.” He flipped through the pages. “Do you ever read anything normal?”
Mer pulled the hem of her shorts down to cover the scar. Normal seemed to be an ever-changing point of reference. Perhaps there was life beyond fact. Perhaps not. Either way, she still had questions. The vision of her grandmother in the canal had affected her, given her a whole new panoply of possibilities to consider.
No sense limiting where she searched for answers.
“I just finished reading The Secret of the Old Clock,” she said in answer to the captain’s question.
“That one of them fancy thrillers?” He set the book down.
“Kind of. Nancy Drew.”
His straw spun. “Little old for that, aren’t you?”
“Is one ever too old for a good mystery?”
Mer turned to face the sun, enjoying its warmth on her bare shoulders. The months between summer and winter breaks often offered the best weather conditions and the fewest people. They had the reef to themselves this afternoon.
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a dark object floating in the water. “Any idea what that is?” She pointed off the starboard side. “I can’t make it out.”
Leroy’s straw stilled momentarily. “Looks like we got us a square grouper.”
“I’ve never heard of a square grouper.” Her curiosity stirred. “Are they indigenous to the Keys?”
He shook his head. “How can someone as smart as you act like a calf at a new gate?”
“It’s a logical question. The Arctic Ocean and the Florida Straits have completely different environments.”
“Well, before you warm up for a lecture I’m not interested in, don’t.” Leroy picked up the gaff. “A square grouper is a bale of marijuana, not a fish.”
“Oh.” The news disappointed her. “We didn’t have them in the Arctic.”
She looked over the side. The object bobbed on the surface and the current pushed it toward the LunaSea. Smaller than a bale of hay, it appeared to be wrapped in a black trash bag and tied with twine. When it neared, Leroy leaned over the side, hooked it, and pulled it to the swim step. Together they lifted it on deck.
The gaff had torn a small hole in the outer wrapping.
Mer dropped to her knees next to it and ran her hands over the contours. It felt as if there were smaller squares inside. “What now?” Mer asked.
Leroy stowed the gaff. “When we’re on our way back to the dock, I’ll alert the Coasties. Th
ey’ll come pick it up.”
“Why wait?”
“I don’t want to announce to the world what we’ve got on board. You never know who’s looking for their lost property.” He chewed on his straw and it jumped up and down. “Or what they’ll do to get it back.”
Mer tugged at the plastic and enlarged the hole. “I think someone’s definitely going to be looking for this.”
Leroy peered over her shoulder and whistled. “Now ain’t this a fine howdy-do.”
The plastic edge fluttered in the breeze, and she peeled it back a bit farther. Her pulse quickened.
“This certainly raises some questions.”
For David, because you’ve always believed in me.
For Mom, because you made me believe in myself.
Acknowledgments
The day I graduated from the police academy, I held up my hand and swore an oath to uphold the public trust. I was issued a gun, the keys to a patrol car, and a pen. I should have read the small print. Police work isn’t just about fighting crime; it’s about documenting it. And so began my life as a professional writer. After years of describing the misdeeds of miscreants, I thought writing fiction would be easy. After all, how hard could it be to make stuff up?
Turns out, it’s more difficult than it appears. Although no divers were harmed in the making of this story, I did kill a few bottles of wine with the people who helped me bring Adrift to life.
First, I’m fortunate to have two incredible critique partners. Special thanks to Mandy Mikulencak, my mentor and friend. We’ve traveled the road to publication together and when I grow up, I hope my prose becomes as lyrical as hers. I’m also indebted to Christine Finlayson. Her keen insight pushed me to delve deeper into my characters and saved me from more than one gaffe. Both possess talent that inspires me—along with crazy-good grammatical skills that I covet.
Even fiction requires accuracy, and at times I questioned my predilection of creating characters with specialized knowledge. Fortunately, several scientists and subject matter experts graciously answered my questions. Thank you to Chris Knowlton, assistant director of the Inner Space Center, Graduate School of Oceanography at the University of Rhode Island, for his assistance with hydrophones, and Sergeant Mark Coleman of the Monroe County Sheriff’s Office Criminal Investigations Unit, who is also the Sheriff’s Office dive team leader, for providing information regarding search-and-recovery missions. Any mistakes are regrettably mine.
A huge debt of gratitude to my agent, Helen Breitwieser of Cornerstone Literary, who championed Mer and the crew, and found them a home at Alibi/Random House. There, editor Julia Maguire embraced their quirkiness, made them publicly presentable, and offered enthusiastic support for the story.
A raucous shout-out to my dive buddies in Key Largo who were always willing to help me “research” dive sites—especially Autumn Blum and Scuba Girls. Your support warms my heart. A bittersweet thank you to Captain Joe Thomas for sharing his extensive knowledge of everything nautical. May your Crocs forever walk a deck.
I’m also indebted to two very special women. Norma has been my partner in crime for, well, forever. She isn’t the kind of woman who would bail me out of jail, but only because she’d be in the next cell over. The other person is my mother, who would laugh at us both for getting caught.
Most of all, I’d like to thank my husband, David, for his words of encouragement, cups of hot tea, knowing exactly when to break out the dark chocolate, and unwavering belief that I could accomplish anything I set out to do. Ours is an unfinished story, and I’m looking forward to the next chapter of our adventure.
Like most tales, Adrift began with a kernel of truth. Key Largo, Florida, is a real town. There are divers who search for paranormal activity. The Spiegel Grove is an actual (and fantastic) dive site. On the flip side, Hurricane Moby won’t be found on the list of suitable storm names issued by the National Hurricane Center. The Bilge doesn’t exist. And the humor that bleeds through in my dialogue would never have been tolerated in a police report.
Huh. Maybe writing fiction is easier, after all.
PHOTO: KAIA SAILOR
An FBI National Academy graduate, MICKI BROWNING worked in municipal law enforcement for more than two decades, retiring as a division commander. Now a full-time writer, she won the Daphne du Maurier Award for Excellence and the Royal Palm Literary Award for her debut mystery, Adrift. Browning lives with her partner in crime and a vast array of scuba equipment in South Florida, where she’s working on the second Mer Cavallo mystery.
MickiBrowning.com
Facebook.com/MickiBrowningAuthor
@MickiBrowning
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