I didn’t read the rest. A young man gone in an instant on his twentieth birthday was just too ghastly. Shaking my head, I set the computer to sleep mode.
My watch said it was just short of ten. Despite starting the day borderline hypothermic, I knew Lester’s horror and Cody’s dreadful end would make sleep difficult. But a distraction might help.
I walked out onto the deck. The big dipper lay low in the sky. What was the saying for Maine? Spring up, fall down for the dipper’s position. Yes, that was it.
Below, water sloshed back and forth on the beach. A lovely evening, warm for September, not much wind. An evening ideal for my annual check-out-the-bioluminescence venture. The perfect distraction.
Bioluminescence happens when a chemical reaction releases light energy. Organisms that glow—fireflies, fungi, deep-sea fish, and the rest—share the same chemical mechanism but not necessarily the same purpose. Fireflies use the light to attract mates, deep-sea fish to catch prey, and some squid to confuse predators.
The source of my bioluminescent quest could be tiny floating dinoflagellates or larger comb jellies. For once, I’d try to switch off my science brain and just take in the phenomenon’s beauty.
I carried my kayak and gear down to the beach, pulled a scribbled version of Charles Darwin’s description of bioluminescence from my pocket, flipped on a flashlight, and read it aloud. The young Darwin had spent four long years at sea on the HMS Beagle collecting specimens around the world. He’d also left flowery accounts of the voyage.
“The vessel drove before her bows two billows of liquid phosphorus, and in her wake she was followed by a milky train.”
Excited to see my own “liquid phosphorous” and properly fitted out in my wetsuit, lifejacket, and spray skirt, I climbed into the kayak and drifted away from the beach. The first sweep of my paddle left behind the most brilliant sparkle-swath I’d seen in Maine waters. Elated, I took a few more strokes, rested the paddle across the cockpit, and let the gentle current take me where it would through the shallow water. A halo of shimmer bathed the long, skinny boat. I splashed a hand across the surface of the water, grinned as bits of blue-white light appeared on command, and did it again. Paddling back to my beach, I created a riot of sparkles with each stroke.
After the boat was safely above the high-tide line a half hour later, I walked back to the water and waded in. It wasn’t overly warm, but the wetsuit was enough for a quick immersion. Floating on my back, I made like I was a kid lying in snow making snow angels. Each sweep of my arms and legs enveloped them in a swirling glow. A spectacular “bioluminescent bay” on the island of Vieques off Puerto Rico has something like a 100,000 dinoflagellates per liter. At night there, I’ve stood on a boat looking down on kids doing the snow angel thing. That’s fantasyland for real.
After a hot shower, I was definitely ready for bed. Grateful to have witnessed one of the ocean’s spectacles, I slept peacefully through the night.
At sunup Monday morning, I stood at my office window and watched lobster boats chug through a harbor turned crimson by the gaudy red-yellow sky. Before returning in late afternoon, the guys in those boats—Spruce Harbor has no female lobstermen—would have pulled up hundreds of traps, saved keeper lobsters and returned the others, re-baited each trap, and slid it off the stern. It was dangerous, back-breaking work, and I admired the hell out of them for doing it day after day.
I’d just erased number four on my whiteboard’s to-do list when Laurie Culligan knocked on my door. Laurie was well known for her research on juvenile lobsters, and I was delighted to see her.
Clad in green twill pants and a red and black checked flannel shirt, she looked like an off-duty game warden. Knowing Laurie, she might have been one in her early days. The scientist straddled the wooden chair beside my desk, pushed dirty-blond hair off her face, leaned back in the chair, and crossed her arms. “Hi there, Mara. How’s it going? What’s it been, two years?”
“Something like that,” I said. “I know you helped organize the lobster meeting. That’s great.”
“Lobstermen are asking about warming and lobsters. This is a small meeting, maybe fifty total.”
I nodded. “It’s so important that they’re learning what’s known and what’s not from the experts. So how’s the research going?”
“Several of us are studying how temperature impacts juvenile lobsters.”
“Sure. I’ve read your papers.”
Quick nod. “That’s why I’m here, actually. There’s a new field site I’d like to check out on scuba and my usual dive partner is sick. Do you have any time later today to dive with me? The site’s in Friendship.”
I glanced at my wristwatch. “Gordy and I are driving up to the Maine Patrol office in Rockland in a bit. You know what happened to Buddy Crawford, of course. We’ve got information they might be interested in. Gordy can drop me off in Friendship when we’re done.”
She shook her head. “Poor Buddy. He was a really, really good guy.” She stood. “Can you meet in Friendship at the public boat launch at eleven? I’ll have all the dive gear and can drive you back here.”
“It’ll be terrific to see what you do up close and personal,” I said.
As Laurie shut the door behind her, I glanced at the whiteboard. I’d made progress, but half the list was still up there. Everything but Alise’s grant could wait and a research dive with legendary lobster researcher Laurie Culligan was something I simply couldn’t pass up. Knowing Laurie, we’d be in wetsuits, not drysuits, and I’d come out blue-lipped and shivering. Harvey and I joked about the scuba dives in warm places like Hawaii or the Caribbean that never seemed to happen.
Alise arrived as I was organizing the papers sprawled across my desk. She pointed at the tallest pile. “What’re those?”
Grant proposals and scientists’ research papers I promised to review.”
“How many?”
“Um, five. Maybe six.”
“Ouch.”
“What you have to look forward to when you finish your degree. What time is it?”
Alise pulled a phone out of her denim jacket. “Eight”
“Good Just enough time to go through any questions you have with your proposal.”
14
At 8:45 I sat on MOI’s granite front steps eating a bagel while I waited for Gordy to pick me up. The weather was perfect for September—bright sun and a cool breeze that hinted at the fall chill on its way. The front door slammed behind me as one of Betty Buttz’s army boots tapped my thigh.
“Shove ovah, Mara, so we can chat a bit.”
Betty, a legendary retired oceanographer who’d broken the gender barrier on oceanographic research vessels before I was born, lowered herself onto the step with a grunt and straightened out her legs one at a time. “Goddamn arthritis. It’s awful getting old, Mara.”
“My mother used it say it beats the alternative.”
“I do recall Bridget saying just that.” She turned and examined my face with such intensity it was hard not to look away. “You’re more and more like your mother every day.”
My eyes tightened. Would this pain ever diminish?
Betty didn’t appear to notice and said, “Heard about you finding that flood in the basement. Last time that happened was in the ninety-nine hurricane. Also heard you came across Buddy Crawford’s body under Gordy’s mussel raft. Busy lady.”
“Yeah. Gordy and I are going up to the Maine Marine Patrol office to talk with them about that. That’s why I’m sitting here. If those guys have made progress finding Buddy’s killer, they’re keeping it quiet. Hey, weren’t you involved in that investigation of a crewmember who died on an oceanographic ship a couple of years ago?”
“Yes, I was. A core-drilling cruise. Poor guy was done in by another crewmate.”
“Any advice for finding Buddy’s killer?”
“Just the usual.”
Gordy’s truck came into view at the end of the street. I popped the last bit of bagel into my mouth,
licked a dab of butter off my lip, and stood. “I’ve got to go, Betty. What’s the usual?”
“You know. Power, money, love—or all three.”
Gordy and I made small talk until he turned north on Route One. “Okay, I said. Let’s figure out what we’re going to say.”
He passed a slow-moving car with an out-of-state plate. “Damn, it’ll be good when tourists stay home for the wintah.”
“It’s says ‘Vacationland’ on our license plates, Gordy. Money in lots of locals’ pockets.”
“Ayuh, well, Marine Patrol. We’re gonna talk with Larry LeClair. Good guy.”
Always the good old boys, I thought. “Sergeant LeClair stayed with the body under your raft overnight. An officer named DelBarco was also on the Marine Patrol boat, but she had to go home at the end of her shift.”
“I’ll tell LeClair all ’bout Tyler,” he said.
Pushing down my irritation, I sighed. “Like I pointed out a couple of times, you and Patty have no proof about Tyler. You can’t just say he’s guilty because you think he is.”
He adjusted his rear view mirror. “Patty’s positive.”
“That doesn’t make her right. Naturally, you should explain what you think about Tyler and why. Just don’t go barreling in there claiming he’s guilty, okay?”
He tapped a finger on the steering wheel. “What else?”
“Your idea that someone, or more likely at least two people, killed Buddy on Macomek and left the island with him in a boat. That makes good sense.”
We passed an ice cream place that already looked closed for the season.
“Someone like LeClair would’ve figured that out already,” he said.
“That they planned to dump the body somewhere onshore but saw your raft as great place to stash it—it’s an interesting idea he may not have thought of.”
“I’ll tell ’em that. No, wait. Why don’t you? LeClair might think I was makin’ somethin’ up ’cause it’s my raft.”
“Okay, I’ll explain the raft idea. What else?”
“Tyler’s the big thing.”
Tyler, Tyler, always Tyler. “Gordy I know she’s, um, a good friend, but Patty seems…I don’t know, a little too sure Tyler did it. Does she have something against the guy?”
Gordy frowned. “Don’t think so. She never said if she does. Tyler’s got a bad side you don’t know about. That’s what Patty meant by—”
“Me being an outsider?”
“Yeah.”
“So tell me.”
Gordy glanced to the side, pulled out, and passed a slow-moving car. “’Nother outta-state. As a kid, Tyler was pretty wild. Drinkin’, goin’ with girls too young, throwin’ money around.”
“He’s a skinny little guy,” I said. “Could be he was trying to make up for his size.”
“Maybe. Tyler lef’ Macomek. Lobstahmen don’t just take off like that.”
“He did? Well, I have to agree with you there. So besides Tyler, who could it be? I’ve only met a few of the lobstermen out there, but they seem like pretty good guys.”
“They are. But if one of ’em offed Buddy, it’s for a good reason an’ nobody’s gonna say one word.”
“So Marine Patrol will have a heck of a time solving this murder.”
“Ayuh. That’s why I asked you ta snoop around. Somebody might let somethin’ slip ’cause you’re like a tourist.”
“Didn’t you hint around that I was an investigator?” I asked.
“Ayuh. I tol’ Calvin Ives I was tryin’ ta spook Tyler inta takin’ off. Calvin thought that was a real interestin’ idea an’ passed it around.”
That Macomek’s lobstermen discussed who I was and wasn’t pissed me off. “Goddamn it Gordy, it’s like I was specimen on display out there.”
“’Course you were, Mara.”
We passed two gulls fighting over a bag of chips in an empty parking lot. I said, “So bottom line is Marine Patrol’s got a heck of a job figuring out what happened to Buddy.”
“Ayuh. It’s why I took my sweet time talkin’ with them. Gave ’em a chance ta poke around an’ not jus’ jump on me when they’re stuck.”
“We haven’t discussed that. I assume LeClair’s pretty angry with you.”
Gordy shrugged. “He wasn’t real happy on the phone.”
The Marine Patrol office was classic institutional architecture. Concrete, Formica, linoleum in gray and puke green. LeClair met us at the front desk and led us back to a small, spare room with a rectangular metal table bordered by a half-dozen wooden chairs that bore nicks, scratches, and scars. He gestured toward the two chairs closest to the door and circled around to the other side, an oversized notebook under his arm
LeClair flipped the notebook open, thumbed a few pages with the eraser end of a pencil, and cleared his throat. “Nice to see you again, Dr. Tusconi.” He nodded at Gordy. “Mr. Maloy.”
I stole a glance at Gordy. He stiffened in his seat.
“As you know, we’ve got a real serious situation here. It’s nearly a week after Dr. Tusconi found Buddy Crawford’s body under the aquaculture raft, and this is still an unsolved homicide.” Slow pivot toward Gordy. “It didn’t help that you disappeared for two days.”
“Like I said on the phone, we went out ta Macomek ta see if.…”
LeClair cut him off. “We prefer to do the investigating ourselves.”
Gordy studied his hands.
LeClair lifted a pen from his shirt pocket. “Having said that, I’d like to hear your thoughts and ideas about who killed Buddy.”
For the next hour, Gordy and I laid out everything we’d talked about in the car. To his credit, Gordy backed off a bit on Tyler’s guilt. LeClair had already come up with the idea that the stashing the body under the raft was a last-minute decision.
LeClair was very interested in what Tyler had said to me about Buddy. “Can you remember Tyler’s exact words?” he asked.
I looked at the ceiling and imagined myself standing in the cemetery listening to Tyler. “Something about Buddy spending a lot of money on a new boat and other things. Tyler wondered where the money had come from since Buddy’s lobster catch hadn’t increased.”
LeClair rubbed his forehead. “Hard to know what to make of that. This Tyler doesn’t seem like a reliable source of information. Also, if he’s got something to hide, he’ll shift the blame elsewhere.” He looked down at his notebook. “Let’s see. Besides Tyler, what lobstermen did you meet on Macomek?”
The question surprised me. “I only talked to a couple—Calvin Ives and Malicite Dupris. Why?”
“Just give me your impression.”
“As I’m sure you know, Calvin is the highliner out there. Abby Burgess, the woman I stayed with, told me that people looked to him for leadership. I talked to him very briefly. He struck me as intelligent, personable. I spent more time with Malicite because he’s involved in a NOAA project in which lobstermen attach temperature monitors to their traps. He was very generous with his time. I liked him a lot.”
LeClair tapped the end of his pen next to what he’d just written like he was deciding something. “Dupris has dual citizenship, US and Canadian.”
My response was quick. “He told me he spent time in Canada.”
“Hold up. This might not be relevant, but he was in and out of juvie up there for a couple years.”
I’d watched enough cop shows to know that “juvie” referred to a juvenile detention facility. “Some guys have a hard time as kids. What of it?”
“We’re looking into the background of anyone who knew Buddy well. Part of what we do. I’m telling you about his history to see if the information rings any bells.”
I shook my head. “Malicite seemed like a smart, great guy. At the harbor I did overhear a conversation that sounded fishy. A couple of guys whose voices I didn’t recognize said things like ‘We agreed on what we had to do’ and ‘Talking about it is one thing but doing it is another.’”
LeClair wrote someth
ing in his notebook and looked up. “Hard to know what to make of that. Do you know their names?”
“One of them was called Richie. I don’t know about the other one.”
LeClair asked, “Okay. Anything else you want to tell me?”
“That’s it. I am wondering if Buddy drowned or what.”
He shook his head. “Can’t tell you anything about that. Ongoing investigation.”
LeClair scanned his notes, closed the book, and looked at Gordy. “There’s an angle we’re working that I’d like your take on. We’ve been told that Buddy may have sold drugs to teenagers on the mainland. Do you know anything about that?”
I expected Gordy to say he didn’t. Instead, he just sat there biting his lip.
“Mr. Maloy?”
“Patty Burgess out on Macomek said something about that. You should talk to her.”
LeClair said he’d like to speak with Gordy alone, so I left the room and closed the door. A minute passed. Two. Four. I looked up and down the hallway. Nobody was around so I pressed an ear to the closed door. Muffled voices, one louder than the other. When the Gordy and LeClair finally emerged, I was leaning against the wall studying my nails.
We climbed into Gordy’s truck and turned south on U.S. Route One.
“Drop me off at the Friendship boat launch,” I said.
“Ayuh. That’s what you tol’ me.”
We were nearly there when I couldn’t stand it any longer. “So what did LeClair want?”
“Let’s see. We talked about trap poaching.”
“Be serious.”
“We did. And he said if I ever took off like that again, he’d pull my license.”
“What was that business about Buddy selling drugs?”
He tapped the wheel with his finger. “Patty said somethin’. That’s all I know.”
“I don’t suppose you learned anything about how Buddy died.”
He pulled into the boat launch parking lot right on time. “Nope, but I will.”
I stepped onto Laurie’s dive boat and turned back, but Gordy and his truck were already gone.
Finned feet squarely planted on the inflatable’s deck, fingers gripping a handle, Laurie sat poised on the gunwale opposite me a half hour later. In a wetsuit, weight belt, dive mask, scuba tank, regulator, and buoyancy compensator, she was unrecognizable. The woman was all business.
Secrets Haunt the Lobsters' Sea Page 13