Page 44 of The Botanist's Assistant
She wipes her lips with her napkin, folds it up along with her lunch sack and decides that so many people wander into the breakroom, it would require many days of waiting for diet-soda-drinking suspects to appear, and even then you couldn’t be sure you wouldn’t miss someone who brought a bottle or can from home.
She rinses out her thermos and heads for Blackstone’s office.
He is seated at his desk and staring intently at hiscomputerscreen. His hunched shoulders remind her of a vulture perched on a branch, waiting for something below it to die.
“You wanted to see me?” Margaret says.
He turns. “Oh yes, come in and please close the door behind you.”
Nothing good ever happens following an order to close a door but Margaret does it anyway.
Blackstone rests his elbows on his desk and steeples his fingers.
“Yes, well, ah, I got your data on Friday.”
“As requested.”
“And I, um, would like you to clarify a few points for me.”
Of course he didn’t understand how the bush’s toxic compound resembles venom found in some spiders, a possible case of convergent evolution, or how its structure seems to target mammalian pain receptors. Or how, as Dr. Deaver discovered, the plant’s chemical compound binds to a cell’s cytoskeleton and stops it from dividing. These were all the provenance of a botanist, their skills honed over years of studying plants and how each defended itself. A biochemist couldn’t just walk in and take over a botanist’s lab, the same way a carpenter couldn’t just walk in and do orthopedic surgery, although both a carpenter and an orthopedic surgeon used saws and hammers in their work.
Margaret lets out an inner sigh. Why do some people think that knowing one thing automatically makes them know everything? And why does that condition affect mostly men? Something to do with testosterone? Maybe someone should devise a study about know-it-all-ness to see when and how it develops.
“What exactly do you want me to clarify, Dr. Blackstone?” she asks instead, guessing she will probably be here for at least an hour explaining the basics of the research to him.
“Let me just call up my notes,” he says, and turns back to his computer, which allows Margaret’s gaze to travel the room, first to the bronze bust of Seneca (the philosopher looks like he’s having stomach pains) then to the chessboard (dusty, which proves the board is mostly for show) and to the floor, where there are stacks of books, a scattering of science journals and magazines, various cardboard boxes and a partially assembled bookcase. No wonder he can’t get good work done. Who could think in this disorder? But what catches her eye and holds her attention is a partially open cardboard box that pokes out from under the bookcase pieces.
Margaret glances over. Blackstone is frowning at his computer. If she leans slightly forward and to her right, she can see the box. From what she can observe, the container is small and appears to have nine divided slots, although she can see only the first two rows of three, and inside each slot is a small vial of some kind of liquid. Two of the slots are empty. But what sets her mind running is the partially torn shipping label.Windsor Com…, it reads. She doesn’t need more letters to know the box came from the Windsor Compounding Pharmacy, which not only supplies hard-to-get or unusual drugs to individuals but is popular with scientists for its quick turnaround and reasonable prices.
What is in those vials and why are they in his office instead of his lab?
“Yes, ahem, here we are,” Blackstone says, and Margaret spends the next thirty minutes explaining details andprocessesof the research that’s been done. To her surprise, Blackstone’s questions are not all elementary. Still, it’s clear Blackstone doesn’t have the creativity or intellect that Dr. Deaver had, which is crucial for the next steps in the lab’s research. You could give a monkey a canvas and a paintbrush but what came out of that would not necessarily be a work of art.
“Very good, Ms. Finch,” Blackstone says when she’s finished answering his questions. “Thanks for your help.”
“You’re welcome,” she says. How can she get a look at what’s in that box?
“As you may know, Dr. Blackstone,” she says, “one of my jobs as research assistant and lab manager is to make sure the lab runs smoothly and efficiently to reduce the chance of errors.”
Blackstone nods but he looks wary.
“One of the things that Dr. Deaver insisted upon was cleanliness and order, which he said made for clear thought and less chance of error. Since I’m to work for you now”—the admission seems to stick in her throat, but she pushes on—“I’d be happy to apply the same order to your office. Take those books piled on the floor over there. I can organize them by subject or author, whichever you prefer, and file them in your new bookcase, which I can also assemble because I built the very same bookcase for Dr. Deaver and I know it came with no directions, which forced me to track down the manufacturer to get the link to the online manual, but I’m perfectly capable of doing it without instruction now. Also, I can take those supplies to your lab.” She points to the Windsor Compounding box. “And dust your chessboard, which I see hasbeen set with the French Defense. A plant would also be anice touch. Especially now that you’re in charge of a botany lab. Perhaps Dr. Deaver’s ficus. And since those journals are all online I can change your subscription to digital and save paper.”
She folds her hands in her lap and tries to put a cooperative look on her face. Did she hide the abduction of the box of vials deep enough in the list of chores?
Perhaps not, because Blackstone gets a look on his face as if he’s just smelled a rotten egg.
“My office is fine as it is, and my mind is very clear. Clear enough to assemble my own bookcase. You may go now, Ms. Finch.”
25
A Hunter at Work
“What do you mean you can’tsend me more specimens?” Margaret asks the email on her screen, even as she knows there will be no answer and that the question is better suited to a phone conversation. Since the guide who supplies the stinging leaves, however, lives in a rainforest in the Amazon and doesn’t own a phone and only goes into town twice a month to get supplies and yesterday was his resupply day, when he also uses a friend’s computer, that is impossible.
So much for cats bringing you luck, she thinks.
What the cat actually brought this morning was a dead mouse, which he proudly displayed on the kitchen floor when she’d come to make her coffee. Part of her was glad that the feline had nabbed the rodent, which she’d suspected of being the source of the small bits of foam she’d found under her couch on Saturday. A mouse in a house can be destructive, chewing holes in oatmeal containers and nibbling loaves of bread, which makes her glad the rodent resident is no more. The other part worried, however, that if she allowed the determined hunter to stay, she couldn’t stop the wanton killing ofsmall animals and, possibly, birds, which this animal seemed inclined to do. She would not be the one to upset the balance of nature in her tiny corner of the planet.
