The Volcano That Changed The World (9 page)

“Sure. Just don’t take any
with you. Everything here is protected.”

“Even
the dust?”

“Yes
, sorry.”

Mark laughed. “No pro
blem, I’ll just take a sample from my boots later.”

He then
touched his finger to the dust on the floor and pulled a hand lens out of his shirt pocket to study it more closely. Through the powerful lens he saw the familiar glass shards. He was becoming confident that he could recognize the Thera ash by visual observation, but his trace element fingerprint analysis was needed to be certain.

“
What are you doing?” Alexia asked curiously.

He showed
Alexia the view through the hand lens and explained about the ash and the shards. Then he told her about the trace element signature he had discovered. “It can be used to fingerprint Thera ash wherever it is found throughout the world.”

“
That’s great! That should help to unravel some of the mysteries associated with the Thera eruption,” Alexia said, handing back the lens.

Checking her watch, she asked, “Are you ready for a lunch break?”

“If you are.”

“I’m ready and I know ju
st the place.”

Driving to a nearby restaurant, The Cave of Nikolas, Mark followed Alexia’s lead and ordered the fish. It came with local produce and was
delicious. Following their meal, they returned to Akrotiri.

They
spent the rest of the day exploring the ruins, with Alexia giving her interpretations of what they were seeing. She showed him the most recent excavations, where she was currently working. Mark was captivated by what he learned. This was just what he needed as a foundation for his work this summer—a critical introduction and overview of the archeological points of interest in the area and how they related to the Thera eruption. Tomorrow he could finally begin studying the rest of the island with a focus on geology, collecting ash without restriction.

F
ull of high hopes, he could almost forget what he had left behind in Florida.
Almost
was the operable word, for the events in Tallahassee still weighed heavily on his mind.

Chapter Six

If the quantity of carbonic acid (CO
2
) increases in geometric progression, the augmentation of the temperature will increase nearly in arithmetic progression.

—
Svante Arrhenius

Tallahassee, June 1998

Originally from New York City, Detective Carter spent ten years working mainly burglaries and homicides with the NYC Police Department. Tired of the damp, cold winters, he applied for and was accepted into his current job. Getting shot in the left shoulder during a routine domestic disturbance call also may have contributed to his decision to leave. After the shooting, his shoulder ached whenever the temperatures dropped. His shoulder bothered him much less in Tallahassee.

His present job
was a complete change from what he was used to back in New York, but he quickly grew accustomed to the slower pace in Tallahassee. Even with his very noticeable New York accent, he was accepted and seemed to fit in. Since being in Tallahassee, he had not had to dodge any bullets, which was a plus.

He was good at what he did
—investigating. It was not uncommon for his southern colleagues to give him a backhanded compliment by saying, “Carter, you’re not half bad for a Yankee.”

His standard
tongue-in-cheek reply to this Civil War era reference was, “Yea, and you southern boys are only half as slow as I was told to expect.”

***

The
Dr. Mark Malloy investigation was growing cold—too many potential suspects, too few leads. Detective Carter had interviewed most of the professors and many graduate students in the FSU Geology Department. Nothing helpful had developed.

His main focus was
Professor Bolton, the only person Mark had identified as making any threat to him. Those were nothing like death threats, but Bolton’s alibi was weak; he had simply said he was home in bed on the night in question. Carter had his doubts.

On the other hand, Carter
wasn’t convinced that attempting to thwart someone’s tenure at a university could lead to murder. He understood that two veto votes were needed and that Bolton had been unable thus far to find a second one. Malloy was probably going to receive tenure despite Bolton’s best efforts to the contrary. But could that lead him to murder? Only if the murderer were seriously unhinged, he thought. That was the question gnawing at Carter. He had checked out all the people associated with the ice core lab; now he needed to check secondary witnesses, those who could verify alibis.

             
His grey sedan pulled into the driveway of the Boltons’ residence. He had called earlier to make an appointment to question Bolton’s wife, Priscilla. She sounded pleasant on the phone and eager to help. He parked in the driveway in the shade of a large live oak draped in Spanish moss that gave the tree a stately look. The vegetation gave the property a distinctly southern charm, to which Carter had grown accustomed. He had studied the local flora and fauna in an effort to better perform his job.

L
ive oaks, he learned, derived their name from the fact they were actually evergreens, not becoming dormant and losing their leaves in winter. Often they were covered with Spanish moss, a flowering plant, not parasitic as some thought, and neither Spanish nor a moss. It absorbed nutrients and moisture from the air and rainfall.

He exited his car and stood in the driveway.
In response to a slight breeze, the Spanish moss swayed to and fro on the tree producing a calming effect, thought Carter, consistent with the slower pace of life here. Live oaks were common to the Tallahassee area.

Following the sidewalk lined with
monkey grass, the calming effect suddenly was disrupted when a feisty mocking bird swooped down at him repeatedly while protecting her nest somewhere in the live oak. The Florida state bird was known for such behavior as well as for singing different songs and emitting various patterns, including mimicking other birds. Her aerial maneuvers were adroit, producing the desired effect, making Carter quickly move away.

Ducking and r
ushing to the front stoop, Carter stopped at the double wooden doors and quickly rang the doorbell.

             
After a moment, the door swung open and an attractive, rather tall blonde, middle-aged, long-legged woman, dressed to the nines, greeted him. With her disarming smile, Carter was momentarily dumbfounded.

“Are you
Detective Carter?” she drawled in a slow, seductive southern accent.

             
“Yes…yes, ma’am,” he stammered, as her low-cut black cocktail dress and black stockings overwhelmed his eyes. She also wore an eggshell-white necklace and matching earrings. An odd way to dress in the middle of the day, he thought, not that he minded the view. Maybe she was heading out to a social function after meeting with him.

             
“I’m Priscilla Bolton.” She held out her hand. Carter reached but only received her fingers, not the whole hand. It was a very weak feminine handshake.

“Won’t you come in, D
etective? I was expecting you.” She opened the door wider to let him pass. There was a soft beep as she closed the door behind him.

“I thought
we could sit in my Florida room if that’s okay with you?” she asked nervously. “I thought we’d be more comfortable there.”

“That’
s fine, ma’am.”

             
He followed her into a bright sitting room where he felt like he was in a tropical forest. So many exotic plants assaulted his vision; he didn’t know where to look first.

             
Noticing his reaction, she asked softly glowing with pride, “What do you think of my garden, Detective?”

Before he could answer, she added
, “I’ve spent many hours working on each one. They’re my passion, my babies.” She lowered her eyes. “Sam and I have never had children so they’re my focus.”

             
Too much information, thought Carter. “They’re…very unique, Mrs. Bolton,” was all he could manage to say.

             
“Oh, please, just call me Priscilla. Won’t you have a seat?” She motioned to a large, boldly patterned floral couch while she sat on a matching chair across from him with a coffee table in between.

             
As she bent over, the top portion of her dress fell away slightly from her body. Carter’s eyes were drawn to her ample bosom, which he could see was held firmly in place by a black lace bra.

             
She noticed his stare and asked, “Oh, Detective, do you like my necklace?”

             
He repositioned his eyes quickly to the necklace. “Uh…why…yes I do, Mrs. Bolton; I mean Priscilla.” He tried to be nonchalant. “It’s quite lovely. Uh…what’s it made of?”

             
She held the necklace up in her right hand, looking down at it. “Why, the necklace and earrings are made of rare white amber found in Poland along the Baltic Sea. They were a wedding gift from my husband.”

She paused as if reminiscing, and then added, “Geologists are intrigued by such things.”

              Lowering the amber, she asked somewhat hesitantly, “Would you like some coffee and cookies?”

On
the rattan coffee table separating them was a tray containing a coffee pot, milk and sugar, and a plate of cookies. Looking in their direction, she added, “The coffee is fresh and the butter cookies are homemade. Just out of the oven as a matter of fact.”

             
“A cup of coffee sounds great, black please, but I’ll pass on the cookies.” He was trying to shed a few pounds and had given up sweets, his weakness. But as he looked at them, he could feel his resolve waning.

             
“Are you sure about the cookies?” She sounded disappointed. “I made them myself.”

             
“In that case, I’ll have to try one.” He smiled. After all, he didn’t want to hurt her feelings.

             
She poured the coffee and set a small dish in front of him containing three cookies. He smiled thinking that this interview was not proceeding quite the way he had envisioned. He ate one cookie, washing it down with the coffee. Priscilla watched and waited. Did she want a compliment? he thought.

             
Wiping his mouth with a napkin and feeling slightly uncomfortable by her stare, he said, “Mm mm…your cookies are delicious, and this coffee is much better than what I normally drink at work. Thank you.”

She beamed at his
praise. ”You’re so welcome, Detective. Sam hates my cooking; he’s so particular. I think I cook well, but it’s nice to have confirmation from someone else.”

He wasn’t simply being polite; he really did like her cooki
es. To prove it, he ate another, adding, “Your husband must be a poor judge of cooking.”

“Thank you. That mean
s a great deal to me.” She glowed at him. “You’re not from around here, are you?”

“No ma
’am, I’m originally from New York City.”

“From what I’ve heard about the restaurants in New York, you must be disappointed with what we have here in Tallahassee.”

“I’m Italian and I do miss good Italian food. There’s not one restaurant here that makes it properly.”

“
’Carter’ doesn’t sound Italian.”

“My mother was Italian and I grew up eating her cooking.”

Talking about food seemed to put Priscilla more at ease, thought Carter. Ready to get to work, he pulled out his small notebook from the inside pocket of his coat. Time to get down to business, he thought. “So, as you know, Priscilla, I’m here to investigate the attempted murder of Dr. Mark Malloy. I’d like to ask you a few questions. Are you okay with that? Do you mind if I take some notes while we talk?”

             
“Why sure. Of course, Detective. I want to help in any way I can.” She set her cup down and watched Carter intently with her bright blue eyes.

             
Suddenly, he felt even more uncomfortable. Clearing his throat, he continued with difficulty. “Uh, on the evening of the attempted murder, Thursday, May twenty-first, your husband claims he was home in bed. Can you verify that he was indeed home that night?”

             
Priscilla hesitated. “Detective Carter, do you mind if I call you Matt?” He had given her his full name when introducing himself on the phone. “When I talk about such personal things, I want to feel like I’m talking to a person, a real person, not just some kind of an official. I know it’s silly.” She laughed hollowly.

             
“Whatever makes you feel more comfortable.” As an afterthought, he added, “Priscilla.”

             
She leaned toward him and spoke softly in a conspiratorial manner. “Well, Matt, I’ll be very honest with you.” She looked away for a long moment with a sad expression in her eyes. “My husband and I have not been that close for some time now. We have a marriage in name only.”

Carter noticed her hands trembling as she put down her coffee cup
, though she was obviously trying to keep her composure. “It’s worse than that,” she whispered, as if admitting something for the first time. “He actually seems to have a profound disrespect for me.”

She looked down at her wedding ring
, which she absentmindedly twisted around her finger with her right hand. Taking a deep breath, she continued, “I don’t know if I should be saying this. Early in our marriage, we were very happy, but Sam seems to have lost interest.”

With
deep sorrow in her voice, she continued, “He doesn’t appear to want a real marriage between us, but he still controls what I can spend, whom I can see.”

Carter wondered where this conversation was going and how it pertained to his question. He decided to let her continue.

              She looked up at Carter slowly. “I’ve digressed, but thought it important that you understand our relationship.” Looking at him oddly, she repeated, “I really do want you to understand the arrangement between Sam and me.”

She stopped twisting her ring and straightened her back.
“More to the point and to answer your question, I can’t really verify where my husband was that night.”

Her face flushed slightly a
s she again looked away. She added softly, “We sleep in separate bedrooms. I wanted you to know why…that’s the reason for my rambling.”

             
Carter’s rule was to remain detached when conducting an investigation, but despite his best efforts to adhere to his rule, he felt very sorry for Priscilla. At a minimum, she was being emotionally abused, he thought.

He tried to disconnect from her on a personal level and get back to business,
asking “I understand this is difficult for you, but do you recall seeing your husband at all that evening?”

             
She took a moment to think. “No. I dined out with friends that evening, returning home around nine. At that time my husband wasn’t here. I retired to my bedroom to read. I remember the book was
The No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency
by Alexander McCall Smith. I like a good mystery, don’t you?”