Gordy was right. Research scientists, including marine ones, typically did not stick to Mondays through Fridays nine-to-five. On oceanographic cruises, scientists and crew often worked all day and night deploying buoys, sampling equipment, and the like. Research on the open ocean was very expensive, one reason why getting grant proposals was so critical. At sea, if you didn’t get your work done you might not get another chance. Many oceanographers I knew sustained that work ethic at home.
I ran a finger around the rim of my glass. “You’re right. I could take off a few days. It’d probably be good for me to get out of Dodge as well. So back to Malicite. How useful is that water temperature data to him?”
Gordy stuck a finger under the back of his baseball cap and rubbed his neck. There were streaks of gray at the temples I hadn’t noticed before. Gordy was in his forties, but that my vital, bombastic cousin would turn into a white-haired old man was hard to imagine.
His answer to my question interrupted my musing. “Would havin’ knowledge ’bout temp’rature where you trap matter? I’m sure no expert on this, but maybe it could. You know that bugs go down deep offshore in the wintah?”
“I do.”
“So, he said, “when the watah warms up close ta shore in spring, lobstah walk back there an’ stay through fall. But, ya know, there’s a whole lotta difference year ta year. This year, bugs might suddenly appear in shallow watah in June. Next year, it could be July. Hard ta say why.”
I stopped him. “Let me get this right. Let’s say Dupris tracks seasonal movement of lobsters he’s actually catching in relation to bottom water temperature. And maybe he finds out that his, um, bugs only head to shore in spring when bottom water gets up to fifty degrees there, regardless of the date. Since a key to successful lobstering is keeping one step ahead of migrating lobsters, would predicting his lobsters’ movement in a given year give Dupris an advantage?”
Gordy pulled off his cap with one hand, scratched his head hard with the other, and pulled the cap back on. “If Dupris was good at other things like what the bottom is like where he put his traps, messin’ with the traps ta make ’em catch more, and bait—how much, what kind—things like that. Then knowin’ the temp’rature could help I suppose. But, like I said, I’m jus’ guessin’.”
“Given all that, I’d love to talk with Malicite Dupris about how it’s working out and why he’s participating in the NOAA project. He must get a fair amount of ribbing from the other lobstermen out there.”
“Ribbin’s not the word. If he weren’t such a good guy, my guess is someone would’ve pulled up his temp’rature measurers an’ flushed ’em down the toilet.”
“So Macomek lobstermen don’t want information about bottom temp?”
“They know it’s important. But it’s only one thing—and besides, workin’ with the NOAA guys’d be admitting there’s global warming. That’s why scientists want the temp’ratures.”
On more than one occasion, Gordy had proclaimed that climate change was “baloney cooked up by Democrat eggheads lookin’ ta get money from the government.” Since much of my oceanography research focused on warming off the Maine coast, I would be included in this greedy group. But knowing the man, I guessed his ideas about climate change were actually very different from those he shared publically.
“Okay, so I’d really like to meet Dupris. But there are big problems with me going.” I stuck out my thumb.” First, I don’t know a soul on Macomek. Nobody is going to say a whole lot to an outsider, especially if they find out what I do for a living.” First finger. “Besides that, there’s no hotel, B and B, or campground out there.” Second finger. “Then, there’s work. I’m absolutely swamped.”
Gordy rubbed his chin. “No problem where you stay. Abby Burgess is as nice as they come. She rents out a room, ya know, on the side. She’s lived on the island her whole life, knows everyone. Bettah still, she loves ta talk. You could be her cousin’s daughtah for all anyone knows an’ Abby won’t let on who you really are. You’ll love it on Macomek, Mara. It’s an outstandin’ place fer an outdoorsy type like you.”
Gordy was right. Macomek Island was famous for more than cantankerous lobstermen. With no stores, paved roads, or other modern conveniences, it was old, long-gone Maine. Besides that, puffins—birds I’d only observed in Nova Scotia—nested nearby. If I brought my sea kayak, maybe I could take it and go puffin-watching. That would be a blast.
An image of my office flashed through my mind—the to-do list on the white board. Harvey’s graduate student’s thesis chapter I’d promised to critique. Two grant proposals waiting to be reviewed. With a shake of my head, I pushed the rest of the list aside.
“Gordy, I’m really not sure I can take off for a whole weekend right now.”
Gordy looked down at his hands. I felt awful letting him down.
I reached over and laid my hand on his. This was my bighearted cousin who kept me honest and would do anything for me. “Let me think about it and get back to you Friday morning. Okay?”
Both hands on the table, he leaned toward me. “I’ll be waitin’ on your call.”
“Tomorrow’s Thursday,” I said. “If I work extra hard and get caught up, I can get the ferry Friday afternoon. It’d be terrific to paddle off the island, and I can take the kayak on the ferry.”
Grinning like a little boy who’d managed to wrangle a cookie from his mom, he waved a hand. “Nah. I’ll take you out. The kayak too.”
“But everyone knows your lobster boat, Gordy. You can’t be out on the water in Bulldog.”
“I’ll borrah a boat an’ pick you up at the beach below your house.”
“We haven’t discussed who I should talk to — and about what.”
“Ayuh. Assumin’’ I’m right about the poor dead soul undah my mussel raft, I need ta think on that. On the way out, we’ll make a plan.”
My throat constricted at the memory of a waterlogged corpse emerging from the depths. With our back and forth about lobsters and temperature, I hadn’t thought about, as Gordy put it, “the poor dead soul” I’d discovered hours earlier.
I reached for my glass and finished what was left. “I hope the police quickly figure who died and why.”
Gordy stood, drained his beer, and said, “If I’m right an’ he’s from Macomek, the cops’ll get nowheres on why. That island is sinkin’ undah a whole lotta secrets.”
Gordy wasn’t gone five minutes when my cell rang. It was Harvey.
“Does dinner work tonight?” she asked. “It’ll be quick. Just you, me, Connor, and some grilled fish he caught.”
It was hard to believe she’d mentioned a meal only a few hours earlier. I glanced at my empty refrigerator. “Love to, Harve. Sorry I didn’t get back to you about dinner. So much has happened since we talked this afternoon. You’ll be amazed.”
“Like I’ve said many times before, Mara, nothing about you amazes me.”
Harvey lives in a spotless cape-style house minutes from MOI. Side by side, two trucks claimed the driveway. Harvey’s was ruby red. Connor Doyle, her significant other, was a proud Irishman. So his, naturally, was green.
I parked on the street.
Connor pulled open the front door before I reached it. “Mara—a sunny sight for tired eyes. Come on in.”
With ringlets of dark hair just going to grey and lively blue eyes, Connor always reminded me of an aging altar boy.
I kissed him on the cheek. “Last time I saw you was right after Ted, ah, decided to go his own way. You gave me your favorite baseball cap to remind me I wasn’t alone. I’m a whole lot better now. Do you want it back?”
“Nah. Keep it for good luck. Harvey’s in the kitchen.”
Connor led me through the living room. With its comfy sofa and chairs facing the fireplace, shining pine floor, and soft lighting, the room spoke of good taste and comfort. I stepped into the kitchen and took in the aroma of basil—gastronomic perfume to a half-Italian like me.
Chef’s knife in ha
nd, Harvey looked up from her cutting board. “Hey, girlfriend. I’d give you a hug, but my hands reek of garlic and onions.”
“I know you love me,” I said. “It smells amazing in here. What’re you making?”
“Connor caught some stripers today.” She nodded toward the open cookbook on the counter. “Thought I’d try bass with tomato scampi. Garlic, shallots, capers, white wine, lemon, tomatoes, chopped basil. Sautéed, then baked for a bit.”
“Huh. Always thought scampi was a shrimp dish,” I said.
“Something to drink?” Harvey asked.
“Some white wine would be perfect.”
Connor half-filled a glass and handed it to me. “Scampi means cooked in olive oil, garlic, and lemon.” He winked at Harvey. “Or so I learned five minutes ago.”
Since dinner preparations were well along, I settled onto a stool at the granite counter to enjoy my wine and two of my very favorite people. Harvey and Connor had hit it off the previous spring when they’d teamed up to help me identify the killer of a dear friend and colleague.
They were an unlikely match. Harvey’s wealthy parents had sent her to boarding school and an expensive college, and Harvey saw no need to hide her patrician upbringing from down-to-earth Mainers. But god bless her, she’d fallen for a retired cop from Augusta who’d moved to Spruce Harbor because he loved saltwater fishing. They did share a passion for hunting deer and bear and, as Connor put it, “the glorious Maine coast.” Connor was also my godfather Angelo’s fishing buddy, so I saw him a lot.
Connor pulled up another stool, emptied a bottle of beer into a glass, and sat down. We clinked glasses.
“May good luck be your friend in whatever you do,” he said.
“Thanks, Connor.” I eyed the empty beer bottle. “What’s that? Not a Guinness?”
“I’m tastin’ Maine beers. There’s more than fifty little brew’ries heah. Can’t believe it.”
“Why not? Seems like beer goes well with lobster.”
“It does. But these beers? That’s what southunahs drink down in Taxachusetts.”
I rolled my eyes. Once, I’d teased Connor about his Maine accent, which only made him lay it on thick now and then. For native Mainers, a “southunah” was anyone in the US who lived south of Kittery, Maine’s southernmost town. Taxachusetts was, of course, Massachusetts.
Harvey put down her knife and washed her hands in the sink. “I’ll cook the fish in a bit, but first I’m dying to hear what happened to Mara this afternoon. Let’s go into the living room.”
Connor said he’d join us after he checked on the grill. Harvey slid onto the living room couch while I took a soft chair facing her. She jiggled a silver ballet flat that complimented her grey cashmere slacks. As usual, I hadn’t bothered to change out of my jeans.
I ran a finger around the lid of my wine glass. “It’s funny,” I said. “I only talk at any length with people like you, Connor, and Angelo over food. Does everyone do that?”
She said, “Moms chat with other moms during kid’s sports games, things like that. But neither of us has kids. And actually, Mara, eating and talking makes a lot of sense for you. First of all, you’re Italian, and Italy’s a country where everyone does everything over food, far as I know. Also, you work all the time. That doesn’t leave much room for casual chit-chat.”
I shrugged. “Can’t argue with any of that.”
When Connor was seated next to Harvey, her hand in his, I relayed my story from when I’d reached Gordy’s raft to my paddle back to Spruce Harbor. Harvey gasped, and her gray eyes widened when I described the body popping out of the water, but she didn’t interrupt me. Connor, the retired cop, simply nodded now and then.
“So where’s Gordy?” he asked.
“Um, well, I can’t say. I looked for him in town but didn’t find him until I walked into my kitchen. He’d heard about what happened on the VHF and stashed his truck in the woods. He’s hiding out someplace now. Honestly, I don’t know where.”
Harvey shook her head. “Disappearing like that looks suspicious. Why doesn’t he talk to the Marine Police?” She bit her lip. “Unless he’s involved in what happened.”
Connor leaned forward on the couch, arms on his knees, hands clasped. “I’ve known Gordy a long, long time. He’d nevah harm a soul except to save himself or someone else.”
“You’re right, Connor,” I said. “And he plans to talk to the police in a few days but says he needs to find out a few things first.”
Connor’s bushy eyebrows came together. “How’s he gonna do that if he’s hidin’ out?”
I let out a sigh. “He thinks Macomek lobstermen are behind what happened and wants me to go out there and poke around. Macomek’s such an iconic Maine island. It would be great to visit. There’s also a lobsterman who’s in the eLobster program. I’d love to talk with him.”
Harvey frowned. “What about all the work you keep worrying about?”
“Right. If I get up real early tomorrow and Friday and barrel along, I’ll get it mostly done. Alise can revise the proposal while I’m gone, and we can give it to Seymour right after I get back. You’ll be around to answer any questions she has.”
“I will but bet she won’t need it. You got a winner with her, Mara. Alise is the smartest grad student I’ve worked with. Nothing throws her—not the chemistry, the AutoAnalyzer, not even Seymour.”
“Harvey told me Seymour walks in the other direction if he sees Alise,” Connor said.
I snorted. “Don’t know if it’s her fish tattoos, her “Love Your Mother Earth” T-shirt logos, her smarts, or what. But it’s terrific.”
Harvey sat back and crossed her arms. “Let’s get back to you visiting Macomek. That’s where lobstermen shoot each other in the street.”
“That was only once,” I said.
Significant eye-roll. “What about the lobster wars in the Penobscot Islands when fishing docks burned to cinders and a warden raced back to the mainland as bullets were flying by his boat’s windshield?”
“I think that was back in the nineteen-thirties,” Connor said. “Things have settled down a whole lot. More to the point, how will an outsidah like you learn anything?”
“Sure. I asked Gordy that. He said I could stay with a woman named Abby Burgess. Apparently, she knows everyone and everything and will help me. At the very least, I’ll spend a couple of days in Maine-the-way-it-used-to-be, go birding, and talk to that eLobster guy.”
Harvey stood and put a hand on my shoulder. Her eyes searched mine for a moment. “I don’t like it, but I know you’ll go. Please, please be careful, Mara.”
Connor’s advice was more specific. “See what’s what before you go out at night.”
4
I was at my desk by six the next morning. Fueled with caffeine, I plowed through work—research papers got read, data sets crunched, a grant proposal draft flew through cyberspace to a colleague’s computer.
Every hour, I got up and looked out the window to check on Gordy’s aquaculture raft. Around nine, two boats approached the Marine Patrol vessel, but I couldn’t make out what anyone was doing. I tried not to dwell on the horror divers would drag onto their deck. An hour later, the boats were gone.
After that, my window visits were more peaceful. I breathed slowly and focused on happy thoughts. By lunchtime, I was one calm, centered woman.
Feeling pretty good, late in the afternoon I marched down the hall and knocked on Ted’s partly open door. To his “Come on in,” I took two steps into his office, and stopped dead, my “Time for coffee at the Neap Tide?” stuck in my open mouth.
Seated next to Ted at his desk—knee-to-knee I noted—was a woman with lustrous, black hair draped over a soft, ivory sweater. She turned, appraised me with long-lashed, chocolate eyes, and pursed her lips.
I instantly disliked her.
“Mara Tusconi, meet Penny Russell. Penny’s been chief scientist on several HOV missions. Last time on a hydrothermal vent in a Pacific seamount chain.”
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“HOV?” I asked.
Penny blinked. “Human Occupied Vehicle.”
“Of course,” I said.
Ted beamed. “We’re talking about a HOV dive in the Gulf of Maine to one of the deep-sea coral gardens.”
Few people realize that the Gulf of Maine is home to dense “gardens” of lush, diverse corals hundreds of feet below the surface. Exploring these barely studied, spectacular habitats in a submersible would be a Maine marine biologist’s dream.
“Is that so,” I said.
Ted raised an eyebrow in what I recognized as a “What’s with you?” gesture. Normally, my response to a deep-sea expedition in the Gulf of Maine would be wildly enthusiastic.
I gave it a go. “Yes, well, happy to meet you, Penny. Ah, where in the Gulf?”
She launched into a detailed lecture about various dive sites and ended with, “We’re most interested in Mount Desert Rock and the hanging coral gardens near Schoodic Ridge. The Fishery Management Council is considering protecting these areas from fishing and needs more information.”
“Outer Schoodic Ridge and Mount Desert Rock are prime offshore lobster grounds,” I said.
Her head snapped back just enough to notice. Perhaps the HOV chief scientist didn’t expect me to know a whole lot about Gulf of Maine corals.
She cleared her throat and said, “We have evidence that fishermen’s gear has damaged coral communities in these areas.”
“That’s true,” I countered. “But the damage is primarily from trawlers, not lobstermen. The footprint of a lobster pot is very much smaller than a trawl dragged along the bottom.”
She stood and crossed her arms. “Deep-sea corals are vulnerable to any disturbance, however small the footprint. They grow slowly and must be protected.”
I mimicked her crossed arms. “Naturally, I’m sensitive to your points. But the lobstermen who fish Maine’s waters must be considered in any action like this.”
She dug in. “We can’t be talking about that many lobstermen.”
Secrets Haunt the Lobsters' Sea Page 3