Page 26 of The Botanist's Assistant
Margaret finds Joe inside thecustodian’s closet readying his cart for the night’s work. She’s impressed by his organization and preparedness. A broom for sweeping tucked next to a mop for spills; a vinegar solution stored near cotton rags for window cleaning; an assortment of cleansers and detergents to sanitize bathrooms; a range of sponges, brushes and scrapers in various pockets; a small Shop-Vac; a bucket for assorted chores; even an adjustable wrench and two types of screwdrivers—flathead and Phillips—tucked into their own pockets.
He’s refilling a spray bottle with cleaning solution and turns when he senses her at the door. “Hey, Margaret, what’s up? Come on in.”
The room is small and windowless. There’s a battered metal desk with a computer against one wall (she supposes the college bureaucracy requires him to log every sponge and drop of soap he uses) and, across the way, shelves full of supplies. Rolls of toilet paper and hand towels, solvents, degreasers. Margaret opens her mouth, then closes it. She crosses herarms over herchest, then lets them drop. She puts her hands on her hips. Not right either.
Why is this so hard?
Finally: “It seems I’ve made a terrible mistake, and I’ve come to rectify it.” She sounds like a fussy Victorian butler.
Joe frowns. “It can’t be that bad, can it?”
“I believe it is.”
“Would a cup of tea help?”
“It might.”
Usually, Margaret has no problem being direct. In fact, it’s one of the things people complain most about her. During the annual Fall Founders’ Tea, for instance, the provost’s wife asked if she was enjoying the nice autumn weather and Margaret replied that, actually, it was a worrisome seven degrees above the average temperature for October. (Apparently, you were supposed to agree, not argue that facts didn’t support a person’s statement.)
“Have a seat,” Joe says, and points to a rolling stool next to the desk.
Margaret does.
The fluorescent light in the ceiling hums and flickers. The custodian’s scar looks shiny and hard in the harsh brightness. He pours and hands her a mug of his tea, then turns a tall plastic bucket upside down. He plants himself on top of it.
“Whenever you’re ready.”
Margaret takes a gulp of tea, then another.
Just say it, she orders herself.
She begins by telling him about not finding any radioactive traces in Dr. Deaver’s office and going to Zhang’s house and overhearing what he’d said about his mother, then aboutthe marijuana chocolates. He nods as she talks and it’s as if a floodgate opens. She finds herself telling him about Blackstone and his threats, about the dean and the lie of collaboration, about Dr. Deaver’s divorce petition and the canceled funeral. She even tells him about the wolfsbane in the hallway.
“I thought it was some kind of warning at first, but now I think it’s probably just some student who made a mistake. Dr. Deaver inspired a lot of amateur botany, which can be dangerous in the wrong hands. Take poison hemlock, for instance, which is easy to mistake for wild carrot. You must look for small purple dots on the stem, which differentiate hemlock from the carrot. Some people call those dots the Blood of Socrates because it’s believed Socrates died from drinking a hemlock extract, although Plato’s account of his demise is not clinically accurate.”
Margaret knows she is going on. She’s been accused of that by others. Keith will often interrupt her, saying he doesn’t need all the detail she is providing, but aren’t details important in life? Don’t they lead to greater efficiency and fewer misunderstandings? Unlike Keith and other generalists, Joe sits quietly and absorbs every word.
“That’s it,” she concludes.
“I think you need to be careful, Margaret,” he says.
Her heart drops. Another person telling her to stop her sleuthing.
Instead, he says, “It sounds to me like your questions have touched a nerve. You’re making someone very anxious, anxious enough to threaten you. Not in a way that would be obvious to anyone else but is a clear warning to someone likeyou.” He pauses. “Have there been any notes, any threatening emails?”
Margaret shakes her head.
“Any unexpected visitors to the lab? Anything disturbed? Did you take a photo of the wolfsbane?”
Margaret finds herself flushing. “Nothing. When I saw the aconite, I ran to the basement and put it in the autoclave. It’s been destroyed. I wasn’t thinking straight, I guess.”
He waves a hand. “Those things happen. Once, I got so excited about an interview where this guy admitted to helping an Army colonel smuggle heroin out of Afghanistan in body bags, I accidentally erased the whole recording.”
“You were…?” Margaret asks.
“A journalist. The Associated Press, mostly. Some freelance magazine stuff here and there.”
“And now you work here?”
