LITMIR.BIZ

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had to buy cookies for a scientist’s talk. Part of me understood her reluctance. Harvey was ambitious. But she’d left me alone with this.

      And that felt, well, lonely.

      “Tusconi,” I said aloud. “It’s up to you to figure this out.”

      Pacing, I talked to myself Italian-style, with my hands. Palms up—what to do? How would I proceed? More pacing.

      Fist into palm. Got it. Write it out. Make lists. That’ll help me think.

      I have a large whiteboard on one wall that I use for lists and the like. I grabbed a whiteboard marker and wrote “ideas” and “talk to” at the top. I’d half-filled my whiteboard with a list plus people I might question when I heard a gentle knock. I opened the door, stood aside for Harvey, and shut the door again.

      “I feel crummy leaving you with this.” Harvey walked over to the whiteboard and stared at it. “Huh. I see what you’re up to.”

      Another knock on the door. This time much louder.

      “Mara, are you there?” Seymour’s voice. “I want to speak with you.”

       6

      HARVEY AND I FROZE. MY scribbles were clearly visible on the whiteboard, and there was no time to erase them. As department chair, Seymour had keys to all the offices. Harvey pantomimed him putting a key into the lock. My mouth went dry.

      We scrambled.

      Seymour opened the door and walked in to find Harvey at my desk, earphones on, staring at a computer screen. I sat cross-legged on my yoga mat, eyes closed.

      “Why didn’t you open the door?” he demanded.

      Harvey pulled off her earphones. “What?”

      I opened my eyes. “Seymour, what’re you doing here?”

      “You didn’t hear me knock?”

      “Guess I was in om-land.”

      Seymour narrowed his eyes. He waved his hand at the whiteboard. “Rolling buoy, a bunch of names—what’s this?”

      “Oh, that? Just what happened on Intrepid.”

      “But why would—?”

      Harvey interrupted him. “Do you always open office doors when nobody is inside?”

      That took him by surprise. Harvey was always so polite.

      He pressed his thin lips together and looked sideways at her. “Why do you think I have a passkey? I always knock first, but sometimes I need to check to see if everything’s okay. Any more questions?”

      We stared at him.

      “Good,” he said—and marched out.

      I let go of the breath I was holding and looked up at Harvey. The hot pink, dangling earphones and wide eyes were too much.

      My chortle morphed into a snort, and in seconds I was doubled up on the yoga mat, laughing like a lunatic.

      I managed one “Harvey, I’m so, so sorry” in there somewhere.

      Harvey couldn’t help herself either. She giggled and held her sides as tears streamed down her cheeks. She pulled a tissue out of the box on my desk, mopped her face, and said, “When he walked in, did you see his face?”

      I crawled to the closest chair and climbed onto it. “Like he fell into Alice’s rabbit hole.” I grabbed a tissue. “But seriously, Harvey, you want to be department head and would be great at it. This is bad for you, and it’s my fault.”

      She shook her head. “I chose to come back.”

      “But Seymour—”

      “Don’t worry about Seymour. I can deal with him. If I go for chair and he mentions this, who’d believe him?”

      “Guess this shows what I’m doing is risky, at least where he’s concerned.”

      “What we’re doing, girlfriend. Looks like I’m in it now.”

      The surge of relief surprised me. I dabbed my eyes once more. “You’re one tough babe, Harv.”

      After Harvey left, I walked over to my window. The floor to ceiling opening—a nod to the 1800s architecture of the original building—allows me full view across Spruce Harbor. A perfect place to muse. The bizarre incident with Seymour had helped me vent some tension. I took in a deep breath. Here I was about to go poking around, looking for answers about Peter’s death.

      Was my decision to investigate only because, as I said to Harvey, Peter deserved an honest and thorough investigation?

      Maybe it was more than that. Last night I stood before another window—Angelo’s—facing the ocean, and Peter’s death brought me back to a dreadful time.

      I was nineteen. In an instant, both my parents had died. After the initial shock, I insisted that the incident was not an accident. My mom and dad would’ve checked that sub a dozen times and so would their pilot, someone they’d done similar dives with a dozen times. But the authorities wouldn’t listen to a grieving daughter.

      I couldn’t investigate then. But I would now.

      The list on my whiteboard was a start. Of the names I’d listed, Ryan was the most obvious person to talk to. But waiting a day was a good idea. Ryan was one of the kindest men I knew, and gossip that he’d intentionally harmed Peter pissed me off. Overwrought with guilt and shame, he was probably in his own hell.

      I’d give Ryan a bit of time.

      John Hamilton’s name was below Ryan’s. There were a few reasons why he might be a good person to start with. First, it was odd that he was on Intrepid since he wasn’t a scientist. Also, it was Seymour’s idea for him to come along. Given what Betty told me about Seymour’s past, that might mean something—or nothing. And Hamilton was on deck when the buoy fell on Peter. Maybe he saw something. Finally, John Hamilton owned an aquaculture company, something that genuinely interested me. That added up to four reasons to talk with him.

      Tapping a pencil against my thigh, I tried to come up with a credible purpose for my visit to Hamilton’s facility. Maybe I claim to be curious about aquaculture. That was pretty lame. There must be a better excuse. My brain felt fried, and none came to mind. I needed food—something sweet. And Angelo had asked me to stop by.

      I bought a quart of my favorite gelato—strawberry balsamic—and drove to his house. The latest Spruce Harbor Gazette was on the table in Angelo’s kitchen. I scanned the front page and waited for his take on the gelato.

      Angelo looked at his bowl and wrinkled his nose. “Who puts balsamic vinegar in ice cream?”

      The headline piece of the Gazette caught my attention, so it took me a few seconds to respond. “It’s good. Give it a try.”

      He sampled a tiny bit. “Huh, you wouldn’t expect this to be so tasty.”

      “Glad you like it. Did you see this?” I pointed to the headline—“Local Seaweed Farm Wins”—and slid the paper over to him.

      Angelo dipped into the gelato again and leaned over to read the article. “Could be hype.”

      “Yeah. Sunnyside Aquaculture successfully develops a super-seaweed. Maine scientists triumph. Etcetera.”

      Angelo put down his spoon, leaned back in his chair, and crossed his arms. “With all that’s going on, why the sudden interest in aquaculture?”

      I relayed what Betty had said about MOI, plus my disappointment with the Coast Guard’s inquiry.

      He frowned. “I’ve known Betty Buttz for what, forty years? Hate to think of MOI like that. But she’s shrewd and might be right.”

      “Betty

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