back to my office—we can talk there.”
I followed him up the wide tile stairs, trying to keep my disappointment and irritation in check. Voicing either would get me nowhere. As I trailed my host, the oddest feeling came over me. Something weird was going on at the facility. I didn’t have a clue what was off, but my sixth sense had served me well in the past. I shelved the impression for later.
I returned to the picture window in Hamilton’s office with its view of the tanks—the closest view I could get. He gestured to a plush leather chair, and I sat down opposite him. He looked down at his hands.
“Sorry we couldn’t go on the piers.” He glanced at me. “Frank’s worried about security.”
“Frank?”
“Frank Lamark. Brains behind the research. Guy’s a genius and likes to tinker. Great combination for us.”
“So it’s important to keep him happy.”
He nodded.
“I’m guessing you’re experimenting with growing algae for biomass,” I said. “Local energy source. So the military, for one, doesn’t rely on foreign oil?”
He perked up. “That’s right. Air Force especially.”
“Tell me more about that. It’ll really interest my students.”
Hamilton’s eyes sparkled. “Algae’s a great choice for biomass fuel. The cells grow quickly anywhere there’s enough light and water. You don’t need expensive farmland.”
Again, I nodded encouragement. As he talked, Hamilton’s face turned from pale to flushed, and his words spilled out in an excited rush. The man came alive.
“I’m convinced we need alternative sources of fuel for a sustainable future. Algal aquaculture is my contribution to that future. Sustainability, climate change, all that, interests me. That’s why Seymour—we’ve been friends for a long time—why he told me about the Intrepid trip.”
I blinked. It surprised me that Seymour was anyone’s friend.
“I was thrilled to go on your research cruise. Until what happened, of course.”
Time to switch gears. “You were on deck when the buoy dropped on Peter?”
Hamilton shook his head. “Lord, yes. I’ll never, ever forget.”
“I’m just wondering. Did you happen see anything, ah, odd?”
“It happened so fast, you know.”
I nodded.
“There was one thing. That photographer.”
“Cyril?”
“Never caught his name. He was on deck taking pictures with that big camera. Right before the accident he disappeared. I noticed because a crew member moved over to the spot where he, ah, Cyril, had been.”
“Huh.” I tried not to sound too interested in this intriguing bit of information.
I stood and looked out at the piers again. I counted four massive cylindrical tanks on each pier—twenty tanks in all. A man on his knees fiddled with a pump beside a tank, his blond hair wet from the squirting water. The whole thing was an impressive, expensive setup. I couldn’t imagine what the maintenance alone entailed or cost.
The emerald tanks caught my eye once more.
“Those green tanks at the end. Is that what you’re calling the super-seaweed?”
“Yes. The name was Frank’s idea. You know, get publicity and more backers.”
I pointed to the rows of white pods bobbing a quarter mile beyond the piers. “What are those?”
“Frank calls them flootles. Floating noodles, ’cause they’re like pasta tubes. Silly name. Something he’s experimenting with—growing algae in floating containers. White to reflect light and lined up in a row so they don’t bang into each other when it’s rough.”
I slid into the leather chair again. I wanted more details about this operation.
“What type of growing media do you use for the algae?”
Hamilton shook his head. “Sorry. Don’t know that type of thing.”
“What about the total number of species you’re growing?”
“You’d have to ask Frank.”
He couldn’t answer my other questions about growing algae either. After all, I decided, he was a businessman and not a scientist.
I stood up to leave. A voice behind me rang out. “John. We go in five minutes.”
He leapt to his feet. “Yes, Georgina. Oh, and this is Dr. Mara Tusconi. She’s interested in aquaculture. Dr. Tusconi, this is my wife.”
Georgina Hamilton towered over her husband. She wore a crisp pink cotton shirt and a pencil skirt. Her red lipstick was a striking contrast to shining black hair that expertly framed her face.
Georgina gave me the once over and extended her hand. “Delighted,” she said. “I’ll meet you outside, John.” She walked briskly out of the room.
I thanked Hamilton for the tour, and he apologized again for its brevity. Back in the lobby, Georgina passed me going the other way. Clicking by in high heels, she gave me a quick nod.
After a bathroom visit, I stepped out the front door of the building just as a black BMW sprayed gravel my way. Georgina sat at the wheel. Her husband sat in the passenger seat beside her, his combed hair barely visible over the headrest. I walked down the wide granite steps. The wind picked up, and bits of sand skittered along the bottom step.
The BMW disappeared from view. I headed for my own car and stopped at an intersecting gravel path skirting the facility. Could I follow it back and get a closer view of the piers? I looked around and—feeling more than a bit guilty—stepped onto the gravel.
The path hugged the building on a windowless side, so I guessed the lab was on the opposite one. I walked quickly. What looked like water flickered through the trees where the path turned behind the building.
I took the turn and stopped. The walkway ended at a cement slab beneath double doors. Two trashcans graced the slab. This was a walkway to a back door. I squinted to catch a glimpse of the piers, but the evergreens were too thick. To see more, I’d have to bushwhack through them, which wasn’t a great idea.
I stared at the trashcans. Trash. In the last Miss Marple book I’d read, she poked around in the trash for clues.
I lifted the lid of the first can and peered in. Nada. Must be garbage pick-up day. The other one was most likely empty too, but I gave it a try. Something rested at the bottom. I reached in, grabbed a large crumpled mesh bag, and held it up. The label said “10-10-10.”
Fertilizer, probably for the lawns. Certainly not a clue. I threw the bag back into the can and quickly replaced the lid.
