Page 74 of The Botanist's Assistant
Purdy looks down. “There’s no button there.”
Margaret reaches into her skirt pocket and pulls out the navy-blue fastener. “Exactly. That’s because we found it under the couch in Dr. Deaver’s office after he died.”
Joe takes his cue. “You made some excuse to go to his office. He was drinking a glass of scotch like you knew he would be, and you sat down to watch him die.”
“I told him I heard he had some good news and wanted to congratulate him. I knew he liked to celebrate his successes. At first, he tried to hustle me out of there. Said there wasnothing for us to talk about. Then I told him I also wanted to apologize for causing problems with him and Veronica Ann. I said I understood that sometimes things don’t work out and he said he was glad. He even thanked me for my apology. Men are so gullible. I reminded him how good we were in bed but then he goes and says that didn’t make it right and that he regretted what he did. By then, he was starting to sweat and get red in the face. I told him to just open the windows. It wasfun to watch the poison work and him trying to figure out what was wrong.
“I told him how his rejection hurt because of the way my first husband left me, which gave me trust issues and blah blah blah. He said he was sorry but what happened was still a mistake, which is a terrible thing to tell somebody he’d treated like a piece of trash. Then he started saying how thirsty and hot he was. I gave him my Diet Coke to drink. He unbuttoned his shirt. He looked a little green around the gills and said he felt terrible. I told him he should feel terrible for what he’d done to me. Then he starts going on about how I needed to leave him alone and that he’s starting a new life and he’s glad because he’ll never have to see me again and that he’s feeling really sick and maybe needs to go to the doctor. That’s when I tell him what I’d done and that no doctor could save him. You should have seen the look on his face.”
Purdy’s description of Dr. Deaver’s suffering makes Margaret feel sick.
“Then, all of a sudden, he’s lunging across the desk and grabbing me like some kind of wild animal, and he looks like he wants to kill me. I manage to get away but then he starts staggering around and crashing into things and shouting forhelp, and I look out the window and there’s this FedEx truck pulling up just outside, and it was like a bad movie, you know: him moaning and shouting. I thought atropine worked faster.”
“It depends on the dose and the person’s size,” Margaret says, wondering why she’s educating a poisoner about atropine’s toxicity levels.
“He starts to come for me again and I know I’m in trouble,but, suddenly, he just grabs his chest and keels over. Then, there’s blood and I hear a door slam from the FedEx truck and I think someone might be coming so I grab the glass and get out of there. I go to my car because I’m a little panicked and there’s one of those parking cops checking license plates, so I drive off.”
“You didn’t come back to get rid of the scotch bottle?” Joe asks.
Purdy looks at Joe like his burn scars extend into his brain. “They can track your cell phone, you know. I figured it was better to stay away and let people think it was his heart. Besides, even if they found the scotch bottle, the suicide thing would throw people off.” She stabs a finger toward Margaret. “Then, this one here starts poking around and raising a fuss and asking about who had keys and such. I knew I had to keep her close so I could counter whatever she found out.”
“Which is why you’re putting back the cabinet key,” Margaret says.
“I’m not some ditzy blond airhead like everybody thinks I am.”
“Yes, but you just told us everything,” Margaret says.
“Who’s going to believe you? Some burned-up janitor anda crazy lady who runs around saying people were poisoned? A weirdo who accused the dean of lying to get a grant?” Purdy says. “The cops thought you were a wack job before. Why would they believe you now? I’ll just deny I said anything and since there’s no evidence besides your stupid button—which is pretty pathetic—it’s your word against mine.”
Margaret’s heart sinks. Purdy is right.
“Well, not exactly. It’s your word against your own words,”Joe says and pulls his phone from his jeans pocket. “I recorded our whole conversation.”
“You can’t record someone without their consent,” Purdy sneers. “That’s illegal. The cops can’t use it in court, and I can always say you threatened me into saying what I did. Plus, there’s no evidence. I took care of that, and his wife took care of the rest when she had Jon cremated. There’s no way to test for poison now.”
“Not true,” Jon says. “I’ve covered a few trials in my day, and I believe the medical examiner always draws blood during an autopsy. It would be easy for the police to ask to have it tested. They just need a reason, which they didn’t have before because nobody listened to Margaret, but now, they do.”
“They still can’t prove it wasn’t suicide,” Purdy says. “His initials are on the sign-out sheet, and he was under a lot of stress with the divorce and the grant and stuff. There won’t be any prints to point to me. Like I said, I’m not dumb.”
“But you’re messy,” Margaret says.
“So what?” Purdy says.
“So, I’ll bet if they check your car, they’ll find the cocktail glass with your prints on it, which puts you at the scene, and Veronica Ann will show them the photo of you and Dr.Deaver in bed and testify how he broke it off with you, which would give you motive and opportunity. Who knows, they might even find the scotch bottle in your car, which could still have traces of atropine.”
Purdy glares at her. “You old witch. You should have eaten the cupcake.”
For a moment, Margaret is confused.
Then: “Calvin!” she shouts, and runs from the room.
35
The Early Girls Are Late
They are just settling themselvesat a wooden table in Margaret’s garden when she emerges from the cottage bearing a large platter of spaghetti, even though it is not her normal spaghetti night. Tom the tabby walks in front of her, his jangling bell announcing Margaret’s approach as if he were a small herald declaring the arrival of a queen. Calvin and Joe both look up.
It’s mid-September and there’s a crispness in the air that signals the beginning of nature’s slide into quietness, the soft turning of leaves. The blooms on the roses are blowsy. The dahlias are giving their last show. Margaret is wearing her dragonfly blouse and her newish old jeans. She sets the platter carefully in front of the men.
