Page 28 of The Botanist's Assistant
“And I will have no trouble finding someone else to dine with. Goodbye,” he says.
Margaret locates her notebook:
March 19, 9:20 a.m. Zhang eliminated as suspect after announcing new business venture (cannabinoid chocolates). Possible new suspect, Veronica Ann Deaver after JMD filed divorce petition. Chemistry background? Key to his office? No funeral planned.
March 19,5:40 p.m. Biochemistry prof. Dr. Rachel Sterling seen leaving grief counselor. Appeared upset.
March 19, 6:10 p.m. Joe/custodian offers help in investigation. Real name Joe Torres. Former journalist.
March 19, 8:21 p.m. Canceled future dinners with Keith Wilson. Relieved.
It’s been an eventful day.
18
Coffee Trouble
On top of everything goingon, this morning is when her coffeemaker decides it’s had enough. Margaret measured the grounds, poured in the water and pushed the little switch. There was a half-hearted hiss, then what sounded like a sigh. Then nothing. No coffee. Not even hot water.
She unplugged the squat machine, then plugged it back in, even though she knew rebooting was only for computers. It was worth a try. Now she’ll have to make a trip to the thrift store to see if someone has decided to abandon a perfectly good machine for one of those fancy coffeemakers with little cups and showy flavors. Give her a Mr. Coffee and her trusty Folgers and she’s good.
She is planning her schedule when she arrives at the college parking lot. (She’ll eat her lunch during her morning break, then go on a quick Mr. Coffee mission to the Goodwill near the campus at noon.) Dr. Deaver’s parking spot is empty, and she’s glad. Either Blackstone hasn’t arrived or he’s finally realized that he overstepped his bounds. She pulls her truck neatly into her spot.
The morning sun lights the campus’s hodgepodge of buildings in a way that makes the place seem more attractive than it actually is: the twin 1930s Spanish-style edifices where Science and Humanities live; the imposing 1950s concrete-and-glass building that houses Social Sciences and Psychology; the odd, four-story, white-stucco complex with its jutting angles and meandering courtyard that serves as a student dormitory and reminds her of an M.C. Escher lithograph, along with industrial-looking administration, gym, and cafeteria buildings. The university ebbs and flows at donors’ whims, which is why there is no coherent design to the campus. New philanthropists, maybe some of those ambitious young men and women in Silicon Valley, are needed. And yet, who knows what edifice they might conjure. She heard one possible donor wanted a building that looked like a spaceship.
Margaret strides up the path toward the lab. Two young women jog across a swath of green lawn in sweatshirts and tiny shorts. A giant oak (Quercus kelloggii) spreads its limbs.
At the science building’s front doors, she is greeted by a notice announcing a required safety meeting this morning at eight fifteen. How had she forgotten? Although what could some consultant tell her that she didn’t already know? In her ten years here, she’s prevented or stopped more than a few catastrophes, including discovering two undergrads who, wanting to get high, had snuck into the lab and were about to ingest a container full ofPsilocybe semilanceatamushrooms Dr. Deaver was testing for possible antimicrobial action. She had said she could either phone the young men’s parents or they could change their majors to psychology, to which their mind-bending ways might be better suited. They chose thelatter. It’s also why thereis now a locked cabinet in the lab with Dr. Deaver having the only key.
She is just passing the men’s room on her way to drop off her lunch when she hears a male voice, then a familiar cough. Calvin?
She would have kept going but the next words sound like “lying” and “Deaver,” although they are too muffled for her to be sure.
Margaret stops, glances up and down the hall and steps closer to the door. She recognizes the nasal quality of the other voice. It’s Blackstone. She hears “humiliate,” then something, something…“my turn.”
She considers the notion of privacy but decides a possible murderer doesn’t deserve that particular constitutional right. She puts a hand on the lavatory door and slowly pushes it open an inch, then two.
“Your Big Bird is pecking where she shouldn’t be pecking,” Blackstone is saying. “Somebody needs to clip her wings.”
“She’s harmless,” Calvin says. “Nobody listens to her.”
There’s the sound of a flush.
“She thinks Deaver was some saint, that he could do no wrong.” It’s Blackstone again. “But he messed with a lot of people’s lives, including mine. He was a liar and a cheat and a prima donna and he got what was coming to him. It’s good riddance to a bad apple, I say.”
Good riddance to bad rubbish, Margaret corrects in her mind.
“He screwed you too.” Blackstone is on a roll. “Now that it looks like I’m going to be in charge of the lab, I’ll take careof you. You scratch my back and I’ll scratch yours. I’ll help you get a real job. I won’t stand in your way like Deaver did.”
There’s a quaver in Calvin’s voice. “Wait, Dr. Deaver said I had talent that other people didn’t see. That all it would take was hard work and I’d find a job.”
“And you believed that?” The question comes out as a sneer. “Let me ask you: Did he ever take you to conferences, set you up for a presentation?”
“Well, no. I get nervous when I’m around too many people.”
“Doesn’t matter. He could have helped you, made a few introductions. He wanted you under his thumb so you and that Finch woman could do his grunt work, and he could keep polishing his reputation.”
That’s not true, Margaret thinks.
