The Poseidon Project, page 1
Table of Contents
The Poseidon Project
Copyright Notice
Dedication
Acknowledgements
Quote
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Epilogue
A word about the author…
Thank you for purchasing
The Poseidon Project
by
E. William Podojil
The Herb Society Mysteries,
Book One
Copyright Notice
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.
The Poseidon Project
COPYRIGHT © 2024 by E. William Podojil
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
Contact Information: info@thewildrosepress.com
Cover Art by The Wild Rose Press, Inc.
The Wild Rose Press, Inc.
PO Box 708
Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708
Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com
Publishing History
First Edition, 2024
Trade Paperback ISBN 978-1-5092-5684-6
Digital ISBN 978-1-5092-5685-3
The Herb Society Mysteries, Book One
Published in the United States of America
Dedication
To Maureen and Edward Podojil
Thanks for teaching me to dream big, work hard, and never give up.
Acknowledgements
My father taught me that in order to be successful, I had to surround myself with the best and smartest people.
The Poseidon Project was a coordinated effort with the most amazing team. I want to thank the professional team at Wild Rose Press for all its work in publishing this story. Thank you to Dianne Rich, Editor for believing in my story and making me a better writer and storyteller. Dianne led this process from my first query letter to publication and I can’t thank her enough. I hope to work with you on the next novel, Dianne! Finally, I want to thank my friends and family for following me on my journey to write another novel. Most especially, to my husband, Joe for the support, challenges and always being there for me, and to my sons, Nico, Miguel, Eddy and my furry son, Hurley for making me happy, proud and complete.
“Out of suffering have emerged the strongest souls; the most massive characters are seared with scars.”
Khalil Gibran
“Thousands have lived without love, not one without water.”
W. H. Auden
Chapter 1
Molly Halloran woke up alone, the pillow next to her still indented, a reminder left behind by her husband’s head. Daylight crept through the blinds and illuminated their bedroom enough that she could see the southwestern style furniture and artwork decorating their spacious bedroom.
John had left the house at three a.m. for an early flight to Newark that connected to a twelve-hour hop to the United Arab Emirates. He’d been working on this deal for over a year and finally came to an agreement, in principle, to create an investment and ownership structure with Phoenix Equities in the lead position. Molly often accompanied him on trips, but she wasn’t interested in flying from one desert halfway around the world to another one. The deal was highly confidential, and he only referred to it as Project Poseidon.
Poseidon was owned by a consortium of investors who had approached Phoenix Equities for financial backing. The negotiations were long and extremely complex. The company needed investment to scale up operations, and when successful, Poseidon technology would help millions of people around the world. John was unusually tight-lipped about this particular project, only mentioning that it was a game changer.
****
Retirement was not what Molly had expected. She and John had worked hard to build a business, raise a family, and live frugally so one day, they could build their dream home. Her eyes studied the expensive adobe-style plasterwork on the walls of her bedroom. It was an upgrade she had to have. Their architect specified it to add authenticity to their sprawling home, yet it was only a caricature of the real adobe, hand-crafted by natives for shelter against the burning sun. The home’s southwestern décor now felt contrived. Their home could grace a magazine cover and was a testament to their years of hard work. But it was sterile and told nothing about their lives or adventures. The patina of age, sweat, and authenticity was hidden beneath a façade of store-bought artwork and furniture.
She sat up in the bed and swung her feet to the floor, careful to check for scorpions that may have scurried into their air-conditioned sanctuary, frantic to escape the desert heat. Despite her athletic figure, her knees and hips cracked and groaned as she stood and walked to the bathroom. Molly pondered whether she should make coffee first or take a shower, laughing to herself at the insignificant magnitude of her decision. The last twelve months had been an adjustment, to put it mildly. Retirement had been the goal, and after a lifetime of working, she wished for unstructured time, no more stress, and the freedom to do whatever she wanted. That included building this house; replacing their old vacation home that used to stand on the property. Her husband inherited it from his parents, and he, Molly, and the kids enjoyed the quirky yet comfortable house where they built two decades of vacation memories. She needed a change, so they tore it down and replaced it with the showplace that now stood in its place.
Be careful what you wish for, made sense to her now. She strode into their palatial bathroom and dropped her robe. The scar where her left breast used to live reminded her of life’s fragility. For nearly two decades, she felt revulsion at her disfigurement and changed her clothes in the dark to avoid looking at herself. Now she saw it for what it was, a battle scar from a war in which she had prevailed, at least for now.
Molly reflected on her youth when her body was intact and supple, and the possibilities seemed unlimited. While she was grateful for her health, family, and abundance, something was missing. Her children were grown, and now she was a grandmother to little ones who lived too far away. She stepped into the shower and turned the spigot. Nothing. Soon, the wide showerhead sputtered, and water drizzled on top of her head. It was the desert; what did she expect? When the water finally rained down upon her, she lost herself in a slideshow of memories that played through her mind. Meeting John, Argonne, her adventures with the Herb Society, having her first baby and then two more, teaching, surviving breast cancer, losing her parents, and here she was. A succession of life events that suddenly came crashing to a screeching halt. Her work, her routines, her purpose, and everything that defined her stopped, as if she sprinted full-speed into a fake adobe wall.
She toweled off and got dressed in her cavernous walk-in closet. Why did her dream home feel more like a tomb, embalmed to last forever, but dead inside? Her current life felt like a purgatory between her uncertain future and mourning everything she had been. It was a feeling she would never reveal to anyone. Nobody wanted a sad Molly Halloran.
****
To combat monotony and attempt to stay healthy, Molly began walking, first just a lap around the block to today where she walked several miles each day. Both her parents lived well into their nineties, so she predicted her body and mind had to last at least another twenty years, give or take. Death didn’t scare her. Tedium, not having purpose and being irrelevant scared her. Her time outside strengthened her body and allowed for her mind to daydream and wander. Every day, she felt stronger, and she pushed herself a little further. Her body began to crave the movement, and her mind flourished with new opportunities and goals, rejuvenated by activity and fresh air.
Today, she ascended the steepest hill in Ocotillo Ridge, a feat that seemed impossible only a few months ago. Her arms pumped like pistons and sweat beaded her brow as she huffed to the summit. Here she stood proudly, surrounded by a crown of mountains, hundreds of millions of years old. Their craggy, imperfect cliffs still held their infinite beauty, despite their flaws and scars. She thought about her own scars as she inhaled the cool morning air through her nostrils. After counting to ten, she exhaled and wondered what all of this looked like eons ago when it was covered by an ancient sea. Mountains were born out of violence, conflict, and unplanned events that changed everything. Like hers, the mountain ranges were scars, too, changing the landscape forever into something ethereal and beautiful. It was all about perspective and attitude. As she descended the hill, she walked with an energy and enthusiasm she hadn’t felt f
She decided to un-retire.
Chapter 2
Their home was in a gated neighborhood named Ocotillo Ridge, designed for people aged fifty and older. Molly was seventy and enjoyed living with predictably nice weather, having lived most her life in northern climates. The rugged Santa Catalina mountains provided an ever-changing backdrop to their home and neighborhood and, depending upon the time of day, produced a kaleidoscope of desert colors that surprised them every day. Whether it was temperate or blazing hot, she practiced her daily yoga under a shaded ramada. In the evenings, when it was cooler, she and John relaxed in their hot tub or stared into the dancing flames of their outdoor fireplace. Dining al fresco under a cloudless blue sky or blanket of stars was one of her favorite things about living in Arizona. A small grove of citrus trees hung heavy with unripe fruit. Tomato and pepper plants, scraggly and brown from autumn’s shorter days, continued to flower, despite fatigue from a long growing season. The back yard was surrounded by an adobe wall, not so much for privacy, but to keep out the coyote and bobcats. Somehow, three non-venomous snakes found their way into the garden and created unseen property lines dividing their territories. Bees and hummingbirds buzzed around the abundant flowers that perfumed the desert air with their fragrance.
Snow already capped Mount Lemmon, the towering peak that crowned the Santa Catalina mountains, and created abundant fresh water during the spring melt, quenching the thirst of the desert plants and animals while partially refilling the human-drained aquifers that pooled beneath the foothills. Before moving to Arizona, Molly envisioned the desert as a barren landscape with sparse plant and animal life. But the desert thrived with life that had adapted over centuries and flourished by conserving and storing water. During the current droughts, water was scarce for humans and their pets. Aquifers emptied, arroyos went dry, and trees grew brittle under the unrelenting sun. Wildfires became more common. Some days, their home had little or no water flowing through the pipes, and their garden appeared parched. A brief rain shower could make everything instantly green and alive.
Molly stayed in touch with friends she had worked with during her Argonne days, and three of them were so impressed with her photos on Facebook, they decided to move to Ocotillo Ridge, as well. She was thrilled to be reacquainted with them, and their friendship picked up where they left off over forty years earlier.
The friends remained competitive with each other and battled for who would be the fastest, especially up and down hills. Breaking a sweat, they laughed about their days at Argonne together and told stories of their teaching careers after they left the labs. They shared many of the same activities they enjoyed as young women. Molly was the best rifle shot and always had been. Whether it was target shooting or skeet, she still knew how to handle a rifle and always hit her mark. Betty was the mountain climber and joked she was part goat, which was evident by the speed with which she scampered up a hill. Linda was the traveler, and Donna loved to walk, often recounting stories of surpassing the male Army recruits in both speed and endurance.
Molly Halloran, Linda Eastman, Donna Rivero, and Betty Bao had a standing lunch date every Wednesday at the Ocotillo Room—the main restaurant inside the clubhouse that served Ocotillo Ridge. Molly arrived early one Wednesday several months ago and stared at the reservation list. For the noon time slot, someone had written the word HERB. A jolt of shock ran through Molly’s body as she stared at the page. How can this be possible? She casually asked the hostess why HERB was written under their reservation.
“Let me check. I’ll ask the manager,” the hostess responded. A few minutes later, she returned with an answer. “Halloran, Eastman, Rivero, Bao—first letter of your last names,” the hostess revealed. “He sees you every Wednesday and has a standing reservation for you, so he abbreviated it HERB since your meals go on your account. Guess it makes it easier for him. Dunno.” The hostess returned to welcoming guests and barking out orders to the kitchen staff.
When the others arrived for lunch, she told them what she had seen. Betty added, “Jesus, I would have been shocked, too. Glad you clarified it.”
Donna chimed in, “That was over forty years ago. I’m sure it’s just a coincidence.”
Betty added, “Nothing is a coincidence. I hope nobody here has found out anything.”
Linda laughed. “If they did, we can tell them Herb Society was about weed, like we were stoners in college, or something.”
“I tried weed once and threw up, so never again,” Betty offered.
“Guess I’m the group pothead.” Linda laughed. “I loved it.”
“We’ll need to keep an eye on the restaurant manager, just in case he’s in the know,” Betty conspired.
“We can always say it was a club we started when we were young, in case anyone asks.” Molly offered. “It’s basically true.”
“Yeah, true-ish,” Linda replied. “The truth would curl their toes.”
They had called themselves The Herb Society since they were in their twenties. It was an inside joke that nobody understood, and they kept it between the four of them. While the name sounded prestigious, in reality, it was a lunch club of four retired, very sarcastic ex-scientists, former teachers, and current best friends.
****
John Halloran traveled quite a bit as CEO of Phoenix Equities. Molly sat on the board and continued to advise them when consulted, which wasn’t often. Molly never revealed the depth of her knowledge of the company, nor the fact that she owned fifty percent of John’s majority shares, making her the company’s second-largest shareholder. It was easier to play the part of the CEO’s wife than an active board member. She feigned that she didn’t know or care what was happening in the company, but John knew differently, and they played that game to their benefit.
The Herb Society were already seated at a table, as Molly slalomed through the tables, most of which sat couples or singles. It was lunch, and the ambient noise of loud conversations, older adults often shouting and repeating their words, sounded like a boisterous high school cafeteria. Most of the time, Molly accepted the inevitable aging process with grace, while other days she fought it, reminding herself that she had plenty of miles left in her.
“How has the single life been since John’s been gone?’ Betty inquired as Molly situated herself in her seat. “Have you been staying up late watching dirty movies?”
Molly laughed. “Of course!” she responded. “I’ve become a completely unbridled porn addict in the eight hours since John left for Dubai.”
“When is John back?” Linda asked.
“About a week from today,” Molly answered.
The Herb Society always seemed to have multiple conversations going at any given time, punctuated by outbursts of laugher that often drew the ire of neighboring diners.
“God, that’s a long flight,” Donna continued. “What do you do for twelve hours? I’d go nuts just sitting there with nothing to do. I guess I’m kind of claustrophobic.”
“You used to love flying with us for work,” Molly added.
“That was different. I had work to do, and we could always keep each other company. Totally different animal.”
“I’m sure John gets to fly first class,” Linda added. “They have these marvelous little cabin things with a seat that turns into a bed. That, plus unlimited movies and cocktails, makes it nice. I’ll bet he gets some delicious privacy with no one interrupting him. Except the stewardess with more cocktails.”
“They’re called flight attendants now, Linda,” Molly corrected her.
“Roy and I always flew first class. We even took the Concorde once. JFK to Paris in less than four hours. Did I ever tell you that?” Collective eye rolls indicated she had, more than anyone cared to count.
“Will he call you when he gets in?” Linda asked.
“Probably,” Molly answered. “We don’t need to talk every day. He’s busy, and so am I. He’ll text me a sweet emoji so I know he’s thinking about me.”
“Thank God we didn’t have cell phones when we worked for Argonne, or Richard would have gone nuts. Not out of concern for me, mind you, but because he liked control,” Betty reflected. “He was afraid I would cheat on him. Guilty conscience probably.”
