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Overview
—BILL MCKIBBEN, author of Falter
A thrilling contribution to the new wave of cli–fi hitting the shelves, Cold Blood, Hot Sea pits climate change scientists against big–energy conspirators. When a colleague is killed aboard the research vessel Intrepid, oceanographer Mara Tusconi believes it's no accident. As she investigates, Mara becomes entangled in a scheme involving powerful energy executives with much to lose if her department colleagues continue their climate change research. Mara's career—and life—is on the line, threatened by intrigue as big and dark as the ocean.
Marine ecologist and award–winning environmental educator CHARLENE D'AVANZO studied the New England coast for forty years. As a scientist, D'Avanzo sees firsthand the effects of climate change, and as a college professor, she knows the importance of storytelling in bringing ideas to life. Today she uses mysteries to immerse readers in Maine waters' stunning beauty and grave threats. An avid sea kayaker, D'Avanzo lives in Yarmouth, Maine.
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781937226626 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Torrey House Press |
| Publication date: | 06/06/2016 |
| Series: | Mara Tusconi Mystery Series |
| Sold by: | Barnes & Noble |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 250 |
| File size: | 1 MB |
About the Author
Read an Excerpt
I want to get out in the water. I want to see fish, real fish, not fish in a laboratory.
—Sylvia Earle, oceanographer and author
Chapter One
My father once said, "When you step aboard a ship, you leave solid ground behind for that vast unseen."
I rounded Maine Oceanographic's biology building at a trot—and stopped dead mid–stride. Goddamn, she was regal. Royal blue against the blood–orange April sky, hundred–fifty foot Intrepid waited patiently for us, her mooring lines slack over yellow pilings.
Skirting a cart loaded with long skinny bottles, I all but skipped up the gangway and stepped aboard. My leg muscles tensed as Intrepid swayed with the incoming tide, and I checked the nausea patch behind my ear.
Yeah, I’m an oceanographer who gets seasick. Dreadfully, embarrassingly seasick.
In her red offshore jacket, Harvey Allison was easy to spot on the stern deck. She peered up at an orange buoy that looked like a gaudy mushroom lying on its side—a ten–foot tall, thousand–pound one.
My slippery old sou'wester made shouldering my duffle awkward as I backed down the ladder to join her.
"Dr. Mara Tusconi," she teased. "Good morning."
"Dr. Harvina Allison."
Harvey reached up and ran her hand across bold red letters—MOI—Maine Oceanographic Institution. "It's almost as if the buoys can't wait to be released into the sea."
I patted the instrument. "Just like we've waited all winter for the temperature data these babies will collect."
Last year, ocean waters off Maine were the hottest in a hundred fifty years. Suddenly everyone who sold marine critters—lobsters, shrimp, eels—demanded to know what the hell was going on.
"Now maybe we're more than nerdy scientists, Harve."
"The future of Maine fishing? That’s high profile and could be dangerous."
"What—?" Intrepid's engines came to life and drowned me out. Atop roiling water, the ship pushed seawater aside. We surged forward and pulled away from Spruce Harbor's pier. Legs wide for balance, I made my way to the port side and grabbed a handrail crusted with salt. I licked a bit from my palm and grinned.
Salt. With both parents ocean scientists, my mother always said there was extra salt in my blood. I looked toward MOI. If they were alive, mom and dad would be on the pier waving good–bye. They’d be proud of me. But they never knew I followed in their footsteps.
Harvey put her hand on my shoulder and interrupted my reverie. "Don't you think the village looks like a Winslow Homer painting from out here? You know, wooden piers around the bay, lobster buoys, tree–covered hills."
The harbor blackened beneath a purple cloud. "Whoa," I said, "Mr. Homer's pissed off."
Harvey stared at the darkening sky. In profile her prefect features—high cheekbones, Roman nose, large eyes—were even more evident. Who'd guess she drove a truck with a rifle on her gun rack and loved to shoot bear?
"Harvey, what did you mean danger—"
The ship lurched. I heard a groan and turned in time to catch a glimpse of something orange slide behind a hydraulic crane. The buoy rolled like an enormous toy top and headed straight for the starboard railing. Three guys jumped like fleas on a hot plate to stop it.
"Secure the lines!" someone yelled.
We watched crewmen scramble to get the buoy back into position and secured with stainless–steel cables.
"Bizarre," I said. "Gear that heavy. You'd think it'd be fastened down."
"Damn right. I'm first on the list to deploy, and mine better not be that contrary buoy. Head down to our cabin?"
"Bottom bunk's mine."
Between us and the lower–deck staterooms were two sets of steep, narrow ladders. As I faced each one and clambered down, the rhythmic drone of the ship's engine got louder and stink of oil stronger. When we reached our stateroom, diesel bouquet had coated my tongue.
I threw my ratty duffel on our tiny desk next to Harvey's brand new one. Intrepid rolled to port and threw me onto the bunk bed. My stomach lurched, and I tasted diesel.
"Crap. I checked the weather forecast a dozen times. It's supposed to be calm until tomorrow. If the seas pick up, I'm in big trouble."
"Have your seasick patch on?"
I touched the spot behind my ear. "Yes. Look, I'm going up to check the forecast. And my email." I stepped out of the cabin door, then stuck my head back in. "You okay to deploy a buoy? I mean, in this weather?"
Harvey ran manicured fingers through her champagne–blond bob, then looked at me, her gray eyes steady. "I'll be just fine."
I stepped out into the passageway, then turned back once more. "You said dangerous. What did—?" But Harvey had already shut the toilet door.
In the main deck laboratory, a dozen computers lined the room, wires dangling down from above. I slipped into one of the mismatched chairs. My dear friend Peter, the youngest PhD on board, clicked away at the keyboard next to me.
"Hey, Peter. How're Sarah and the twins?"
Focused on his computer, Peter didn’t seem to hear me. "Peter, what on earth's the matter?"
He held both sides of the monitor like it might take off and turned to look at me. "Bizarre email here. Hold on while I read it through."
I logged onto the NOAA weather site for the Gulf of Maine. A low–pressure system would bring squally weather faster than predicted. Winds fifteen to twenty knots, swells eight feet. My hand went to my stomach.
I skimmed my emails. The subject line "Climate Change Scientists Fudge Data" caught my eye. I leaned forward to read:
Email exchanges show climate change scientists create their own heat by cooking the data. The researchers' words—"transforming the data" and "removing outliers"—prove what the Prospect Institute has long known. So–called global warming is a manufactured fiction.
I turned to Peter. "Are you reading 'Scientists Fudge Data'?"
He swiveled his chair to face me, his expression black as the storm racing toward us. "Yeah. This one might get us."
"But everyone knows the Prospect Institute nuts claim smoking isn't a problem, there's no acid rain, ozone isn't depleted. They're not a credible source."
"They've hacked emails and quoted researcher's words. Don't you see? That's entirely different."
I reread the message, then stared at him, speechless. Like a doping scandal for athletes, this could ruin a scientist's career in a heartbeat. And the harassment could be horrific. In Australia, climatologists had to move after radical skeptics threatened their families.
"There's something else, Mara. At the bottom of the email is a list of the ten hacked scientists. You're number seven."
Chapter Two
The ship lurched, but this time it wasn't the wild sea that made me feel sick. "Why me? I'm not a famous climate change scientist."
Peter said, "Maybe it's your Science Today paper, and they've pegged you an up–and–coming troublemaker."
The bitter taste of bile filled my mouth as the room closed in. "I don't feel so great. Maybe we can talk later?"
Back out on deck my stomach settled down as I gulped cold sea air. I tried to quiet the chaos in my head. Could a bunch of quacks jeopardize my reputation? I wasn't an old silverback who could laugh off bad press. The funding I needed for research was hard enough to get. A scandal could be very bad news. And was Peter right about my paper? I'd taken a chance with preliminary data and predicted unusually high temperatures in the Gulf of Maine this spring. As a young scientist, it's hard to get noticed. Had my desire for attention endangered my career?
I leaned back against a railing and looked around. A half dozen crew and scientists circled the buoys, peering at instrument settings. Harvey's deployment was soon, and I was on the list for the second after lunch. Taming my long wind–whipped hair with an elastic band, I regarded the messy ocean twenty feet below. Blue–green waves shot silver spray halfway up the side of the ship.
Not good.
Someone bumped into me. A freckled redhead apologized, held out his hand, then pumped mine enthusiastically. "I'm Brian, Dr. Tuscani. Brian White. MOI photographer. So happy to meet you."
I winced. Being called "Doctor" by a guy who looked sixteen made me feel my thirty–one years.
"Please, call me Mara."
"You got it. Hey, I'll get better photos if I know what these buoys are for. I got the basics." He pointed toward them. "One end's the mooring anchor. The orange float's on the other end, and instruments between measure things like water velocity and temperature. But what's the purpose of this cruise?"
"To predict how ocean warming will impact Maine fisheries. For that we need measurements at more stations."
"Why's that?"
"Fishermen need to know if the ocean's warming. That impacts where and when they catch fish like cod. But Gulf of Maine temperatures vary a lot. The buoys give us better data, so we can judge if last year's highs were an anomaly or the beginning of a trend."
"Wow. This is a hot cruise. I'm psyched."
This was a "hot" cruise, and I was proud to be part of it. That the Prospect Institute might tarnish work critical to Maine fishing sent a spurt of outrage through me.
Brian was still speaking. "I heard your talk on climate change doubters. I had no idea. They harp on 'scientists aren't sure,' even though ninety–nine percent of experts agree—"
"Brian—"
The guy was on a roll. "—the climate's changing and we're mainly the reason. They're going after scientists. Does that include you?"
It was like he'd punched me in the stomach. "Where'd you hear that?"
He shrugged. Time to change the subject. "If you were in my oceanography class, I'd give you an A. Shouldn't you be taking photos?"
I watched him scamper off. For a photographer, he asked lots of questions.
We'd reached the first deployment location. The engine droned down as the captain slowed Intrepid and held her steady on station. From the rear deck, Harvey shouted orders up to the winch operator. In her orange jumpsuit and yellow hardhat, she looked completely in charge. I gave her a little fist–pump.
The winch whirred, then kicked into a whine. Suddenly a half–ton buoy sprang to life and lifted off the deck. Shipmates and scientists worked the guy wires to keep the buoy steady as it rose up over the bulwark before dipping into its new home at sea.
Brian White, back pressed against a portable van, tried to rotate between the camera around his neck and camcorder wedged between his feet. I walked over.
"Need help? I could hold the camcorder."
"Yes! Could you shoot the video?"
Intrepid rolled and nearly tossed me into Brian. Given the sea state, videotaping wouldn’t be smart. But this frazzled lad needed help. Brian thrust the camcorder into my hands. I lifted the thing to eye level. What the hell, I figured. It's just a few minutes. I captured the orange blimp dangle from the crane, plunge into the sea, and pop up to whoops of the deckhands. In the water, the buoy looked like a half–submerged yellow R2–D2 topped with wind vanes and a couple of solar panel eyes.
Stupidly, I forgot a basic oceanographic physics lesson. Intrepid, now sideways to the waves, tossed port and starboard as well as fore and aft. I squinted through the viewer, trying to keep the bobbing buoy in the picture.
Bitter stuff oozed up from my stomach into my throat. I dropped the camcorder to my thighs, swallowed hard, took a deep breath, and lifted it once more.
The zooming back and forth did it.
I threw up. Bad enough. But I didn't do it over the side. I doubled over and let loose right where I was standing. I'd had cereal for breakfast so, well, it was a goddamn mess.
Finally my gastrointestinal tract was empty. Panting and coughing, I blinked open tightly scrunched eyes. Splattered boots came into focus. I prayed it wasn't another scientist. Much better for a crew member to see me in this thoroughly undignified condition. I unfurled halfway. My splatter ran up yellow rain pants. Please be the deckhand who winked as I boarded the ship.
No such luck. I stood and looked straight into the face of Ted McKnight, my brand new colleague. Someone I'd really, really wanted to impress. In a good way, that is.He handed me a tissue.
I wiped my chin. "My god. I am so sorry."
His baby blues flickered with amusement. "Hey, not your fault. Hold on a sec."
Ted skidded a water bucket our way, put his hands on my shoulders, spun me around, and splashed my rubber boots. I turned to face him and he emptied the bucket on my boots and his pants.
"There you go."
Before I could retort with something clever, Ted walked away to deal with the buoys.
One of the crew mumbled, "Great. A seasick oceanographer."
Ryan, first mate and my oceangoing pal, scowled at the seaman. "Enough." He turned toward me. "Don't you worry Dr. Tusconi. We'll take care of this."
I climbed down the ladders to change. At the bottom, I missed a rung and landed with a thud at a crewman's feet. I looked up into the liver–colored eyes of a ponytailed bruiser. He didn't bother to offer his hand.
"Ah…"
"J…Jake."
Jake walked away. If he was nicer, I'd feel sorry for a guy who stuttered his own name.
Sitting on my bunk, I stripped off the offending pants and pictured my excruciating moment with Ted. I pushed it out of my mind. No time for that now.
Back on deck, I closed my eyes and took in the cold, clean air. Intrepid was steaming straight now, heading for the next station. Out of the blue, the ship slowed to a crawl. The whistle sounded. Ear–splitting shrill—three short blasts—four times.
"Man overboard, port!"
I ran. The port railing was already three deep with scientists and crew. Crewmen below shouted as they lowered the rescue boat, but even on tiptoe I couldn't see them. From the railing, Ryan pointed past the aft end of the ship. "There! He’s way back there!"
My mind raced though a grim list. If the man fell face down into the icy ocean, he'd reflexively gasp and flood his lungs with seawater. His blood pressure would spike. Then his heart would stop.
I put my hand on my chest and whispered "God bless."
Ryan yelled, "Level the damn boat and get in!"
Finally, the outboard roared then faded into a drone as the men sped toward their target, probably hundreds of yards off by now. A minute later, the boatswain shouted, "Turn to!" The railing cleared, and I peered over the side. The inflatable was already heading back, a bright red dummy sprawled on her deck.
Ryan joined me, shaking his head. "Much too slow. Guys looked like rookies."
Chapter Three
The ship resumed speed. In fifteen minutes senior scientists—me, Ted, Harvey, and Peter—would gather in the tiny lab off the fantail deck and review the deployment schedule. Regrettably, that included Seymour Hull.
Seymour, whom I nicknamed See Less Dull, was department chair and in charge of things that mattered, like grants. Others buttered him up, which I refused to do. So Seymour resented me.
He also could appear out of nowhere.
"Mara, I need to speak with you."
I spun around. Seymour's thin lips formed what could pass as a smile.
"Our meeting's now." He held up my Science Today paper. "This will take a moment." I waited. He licked his lips. "Your paper."
"Yes?"
"You made a rash prediction and didn't pass it by me."
"Pass it by you?"
He waved the reprint. "Incorrect projections reflect badly on MOI. Not just you."
"Scientists sometimes make risky predictions. It's a judgment and why they took the paper."
"I don’t think so."
"What?"
"They published it because the author was a Tusconi."
I stepped closer and growled, "I do not use my father's name to get ahead. They took it because I'm an excellent scientist."
"Excellent?" He pointed to my nausea patch. "You can't even handle conditions out here."
I snatched the paper and marched toward the lab. That Seymour would throw my dead father's name in my face was obscene. Seymour called out, "The Prospect Institute. More unwelcome publicity for MOI."
Harvey caught up with me. "That looked like a nasty interaction."
I quickly told her about the hacked emails and Seymour's accusation. "No suggestion I consult MOI's lawyers."
"He wants you to stew for a while."
"Yeah."
"And Mara. What can you do about the email?"
"I have no idea. They don't teach you this stuff in grad school. I'll talk to Angelo when we get back."
Angelo de Luca, my godfather, is my only family. Eleven years ago my parents died in a research submarine accident. I was nineteen, on the threshold of being a woman when my world fell apart. Angelo helped me try to make sense of senseless then and is as devoted to me now as I am to him. He's my rock in a rough sea.
We squeezed into the lab for our planning meeting. Head scientist, Harvey led the discussion. "We're on schedule with the deployments. Questions?"
"When can we look at CTD data?" I asked. Tethered to the ship by high–strength line, the Conductivity–Temperature–Depth (CTD) profiler drops through the water and records real–time temperature and salinity from the surface down. Very, very cool.
"The profiler's already downloading," Harvey answered.
My throat tightened. What if—? I shut bad thoughts off.
Peter asked, "Who's up for this afternoon's deployment?"
Ted gestured toward me. "It's Mara's turn."
"What's the report on that loose buoy?" Harvey asked.
We all turned toward Seymour, who shrugged. "Chief mate's looking into it."
Not a satisfying answer. Surprise telegraphed around the room.
"The buoy wasn't secured," Ted said. "Are there inexperienced crew aboard?"
Standing, Seymour said, "I really don't know."
Peter met my look and raised an eyebrow.