Page 13 of The Botanist's Assistant
“Come work for me,” he told Margaret. “I need someone who will speak her mind.”
Which Margaret had done for the past ten years.
She owes him everything. It’s why she’s stayed so long.
The fluorescent lights hum and Margaret’s fingers twitch.
Which is more important—science or justice?
She closes her eyes, counts to ten and makes her decision.
Quickly, she rehangs her purse, double-gloves and opens the supply closet door.
For the next forty-five minutes she cleans carbon 14 residue from the refrigerator door handle, the analytic scale, the shelf of beakers, the sink faucet and the bench where Calvin and Zhang worked. She leaves behind the most crucial evidence: the remains on the locked cabinet door and on Zhang’s coffee cup. For good measure, she mops the lab floor with hot, soapy water.
A sense of calm descends.
She has done her duty to both.
She turns off the lights and walks out the door.
10
A Parker’s Dilemma
The next morning, a blackLexus SUV is parked in Dr. Deaver’s space, but what makes it even more of an affront is that the vehicle is so far over the white line, Margaret can’t fit her little truck into her assigned spot without intruding into the next parker’s domain, which, if others followed the same path, would create a domino effect of misaligned vehicles down the entire row. The thought of all that disorder makes her shudder. What would happen if everyone just parked wherever they wanted?
She leaves her truck in one of the remote lots instead and hurries to the lab, arriving slightly windblown but on time.
Such disrespect, she thinks of the renegade parker. She will make sure the offender is tossed out.
In the lab, she retrieves a dozen leaves from several plants in the grow room—silver cockscomb and Japanese kerria specifically—which have properties similar to those of the stinging bush’s leaves but are easier to work with. She puts them in the freezer and readies the TissueLyser, which they will use to grind the specimens and prepare them for extractions.
Calvin hasn’t arrived.
When it’s time for her break, she heads for Purdy’s desk. The woman is dressed all in black as if she were Mary Todd Lincoln mourning the death of her poor assassinated husband. Margaret herself is wearing her dragonfly blouse. No need to broadcast your grief to the whole world.
Margaret explains the problem and hands Purdy a slip of paper with the offending car’s license plate number. Purdy blows out a small breath and consults her computer.
She has done nothing to declutter her desk.
“The car belongs to Dr. Blackstone,” she says after a few minutes of searching.
Dr. Levi Blackstone is what Dr. Deaver called a “one-hit wonder,” a biochemistry professor with a single discovery to his name, and a middling one at that. Blackstone seemed to think he and Dr. Deaver were equals, although to Margaret’s mind, that was like equating a rare Egyptian vase with a kindergartener’s Play-Doh bowl.
Margaret heads back to the lab. Calvin, Zhang and Emily are all MIA. Is there some meeting she has not been informed about? At noon, she calls Officer Bianchi and leaves a message asking him to call her, then eats a quick lunch and gets to work. Margaret has already begun the extractions when a disheveled-looking Calvin arrives at one fifteen p.m. He hasn’t shaved, one side of his hair is flattened while the other flares out from his head and his T-shirt is ripped. He looks as if he’s been in a cage fight with a bobcat. Margaret tells him he might as well go home.
He says he can’t afford to miss work, so she sends him off to water specimens in the grow room.
Two minutes after four p.m., which is when Blackstone’s office hours begin, Margaret taps on his door.
Blackstone is behind his desk, wearing a navy-blue turtleneck and rimless glasses. His cheeks are sunken, his nose prominent and he sports a goatee that, unfortunately, only heightens the gaunt look.
“Ms. Finch,” he says. “I’m glad you came. I wanted to tell you personally how sorry I am for your loss.”
Margaret might have accepted the condolences, except the sympathy doesn’t seem to reach Blackstone’s eyes. Instead, Margaret spots in them a hint of cunning and self-satisfaction, which is reinforced by the too-obvious placement of a chessboard in a corner of his office, a bust of the Stoic philosopher Seneca on his bookshelf, and a framed diploma from Yale on the wall.
“Please sit,” he says.
