Page 19 of The Botanist's Assistant
“Hey, what’s that?” a voice asks, and, suddenly, Margaret is scrambling out from the cypress, nearly tumbling to the ground as her size-eleven boot catches on an ivy strand. Shemanages to right herself and rushes down the walkway, taking a quick left turn and then a right. Toward her truck, she hopes.
Her fifty-four-year-old lungs burn, her heartbeat rises into the red zone and her knees protest.
Finally, she spots her trusty blue Toyota, throws herself into the driver’s seat and races toward home.
Now Margaret is in bed with the lamp on. Her daily data book is in her lap.
March 17, 5:33 p.m. Blackstone headed toward JMD office around 4:15–4:30 per B. Purdy. Suspect No. 2?
March 17, 6:25 p.m. JMD office accessed (with assistance).No need to involve Joe the custodian. How does she not know his last name?No carbon 14 link to Zhang inside. Scotch and Diet Coke bottle gone, along with cabinet key. Navy-blue button located. No sign of cocktail glass. JMD left birthday card.
March 17, 8:15 p.m. Zhang motive? Mother insists he becomes a professor or she will cut him off from family riches.
13
Window Staring
Margaret is already dreading themeeting with the dean when she arrives at the college to find not only has Blackstone parked in Dr. Deaver’s spot again but, once more, his car is poking into Margaret’s space.
What is he doing here so early, and is his parking a small power play to show Margaret who’s boss or simply a product of poor spatial awareness? She’s afraid it’s the former.
Once more, she parks in Remote Lot 3 and, once again, arrives at the lab out of breath but on time. Sunlight pours through the lab windows, illuminating the wooden benches and making the glassware shine. She feels a pang of impending loss at the sight. This place might be shabby and underequipped but it’s where she belongs. She never considered how easily it could be yanked away.
She hangs her purse on the hook by the door—Dr. Deaver’s card is still inside—and heads to the breakroom to deposit her lunch. Her mind churns with the thought that Zhang might have recognized her fleeing frame last night. Is there a way to explain it? An evening jog that somehow ledpast his apartment? An intended visit with a friend in the area interrupted by the sudden memory of a pot left on the stove? No wonder criminals get convicted all the time. Effective lying takes more skill than one would expect.
It’s as she’s passing Blackstone’s own lab that she hears the faint sound of shouting and peers through the narrow window in the room’s door. Blackstone is pacing with a phone pressed to his ear. She can’t understand what he’s saying but he’s waving an arm and looking angry.
She ducks away before he can spot her. Whatever is going on, it can’t be good.
Neither, as it turns out, is her meeting with the dean.
Purdy makes Margaret wait five minutes before nodding toward the dean’s door. When Margaret enters, the dean is leaning back in his chair and staring out the window. Does he require five minutes of window staring every day at ten a.m. or was this just Purdy flexing her scheduling muscle? So much pettiness for an institution dedicated to higher thought.
The dean swivels away from the window. “Ah, Margaret. Thanks for coming. Please, have a seat.”
He’s balding and slope shouldered with a bowling-ball paunch. Today, he wears a starched white shirt with a bright-green-and-gold tie patterned with Roosevelt’s mascot: the buckeye. The cartoonish-looking nuts resemble an array of eyeballs, which makes the tie appear to be staring at you in a very disturbing way. Who thought Roosevelt’s alumni would clamor to wear such a thing?
Margaret sits. She’s not one for gossip but she’s heard that the dean is angling to land the vice-provost spot, whichopeneda few months earlier. The dean leans back in his big leather chair.
“We’re all devastated by the loss of Professor Deaver, as you must be, Margaret. As you know, however, science must march on.”
Margaret nods.
“Where are we on the cancer plant paper?”
The stinging bush is not a cancer plant, but Margaret decides not to fight that particular battle.
“The paper is in rough draft form. We’re doing some confirmational experiments.”
“Good. Good. And the Cameron Foundation grant?”
The Cameron Foundation grant is one of academia’s most prestigious and generous science awards. The last lab to receive it walked away with five million dollars.
“It’s almost done,” Margaret says.
“Splendid.” The dean leans back in his chair and steeples his fingers. “I’m sure you understand how important both are to the university, and so to that end, I’d like you to send me the grant application plus the rough draft of the cancer paper and its supporting data.”
“Sir?”
