Chapter 13 Window Staring
Window Staring
Margaret is already dreading the meeting 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.
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 led past 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, which opened a 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?”
“I’ve asked Professor Blackstone to review both and to familiarize himself more deeply with their content. We can’t be sending off a grant request with a dead man’s name on it, now, can we?”
Margaret is surprised at the crudity of the remark.
“The university needs that grant, Margaret, and Dr. Blackstone said he knew about your cancer plant and even talked with Dr. Deaver about it. He said he would be happy to put his name as the applicant so Dr. Deaver’s research could continue.
A grant like that would be a huge boost to the university.
Imagine the publicity we’ll get. We’ll be right up there with Stanford and UCLA. ”
The dean’s eyes gleam.
Margaret thinks he’s already imagining himself in a corner office in the administration building.
“Of course, we’ll keep Dr. Deaver as the principal investigator on the paper, but I’d like Dr. Blackstone’s name there, too, which is why I want him to review it. He doesn’t want any data errors sneaking through.”
The blood rushes to Margaret’s head and she warns herself to remain calm and in control.
“Respectfully, sir, Dr. Blackstone has no idea what we’re doing in the lab.”
“You’ve found a new cancer drug. He’s a biochemist. How hard is that to understand?”
“What we’ve found is a possible tumor suppressor, but we have much more work to do, as you will read in the grant application.
The leaves are extremely hard to get so we need to find a way to produce the compound in a more easily obtainable plant, like tobacco.
We’re on the right track and are looking to collaborate with a medical chemist or bioengineer to help us with that process, but we’re still a long way from a cancer drug. ”
The dean waves his hand. “I understand all that. But isn’t that why we need to hurry? Isn’t that why we should put Professor Blackstone in charge so the work can continue? This will put us on the map.”
At one point, Harold McDonald must have been a decent scientist, but his years as an administrator have turned him into the academic version of a carnival barker. His job is to lure money, students and prestige to Roosevelt University, preferably all three.
“Well, yes,” Margaret admits, “but I’m not sure this can be rushed, and I don’t know if Professor Blackstone is the right person.”
The dean frowns. “And why is that?”
How can she tell him that Levi Blackstone could possibly be a murderer?
“Well, sir. There may be complications surrounding Dr. Deaver’s death.”
Careful, Margaret warns herself.
The dean squints at her. “What kind of complications?”
“Sir, I believe there is the possibility that Dr. Deaver’s death was not caused by his heart but by the ingestion of Atropa belladonna. He may have been poisoned.”
The dean moves faster than Margaret has ever seen him move. He jumps from his chair and slams his office door closed.
“I’m going to give you exactly five minutes to explain.”
Margaret keeps her voice measured as she outlines the characteristics of Atropa belladonna poisoning, Dr. Deaver’s dark pupils, the jacket on the floor and the unbuttoned shirt, which could be a consequence of sudden overheating, the overturned photo, which could indicate hallucinations.
She outlines the missing cocktail glass and presence of a soda that Dr. Deaver never drank and how that could point to a visitor.
She explains the empty scotch bottle and the fact that there is a bottle of atropine in a locked cabinet in the lab.
The improbable is not the impossible, she says, roughly quoting Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.
No more going on about Venetian courtesans and witches.
She’d learned her lesson with Officer Bianchi.
By the time she finishes, the dean’s face has darkened.
“I’m surprised at you, Miss Finch. I thought of you as one of the more rational women I know, not one to fuss over her hair or how she looks. Steady, a workhorse.”
Was this supposed to be a compliment?
“But this…this is just wild and dangerous speculation. Dr. Deaver had a bad heart. That’s all that happened. I’m surprised you would not only imagine some crazy murder plot but actually bring it up to me.”
Margaret gathers herself. “It’s not wild speculation. It’s a possibility and, in science, possibilities should never be dismissed. Especially in something like this.”
The dean glowers. “What proof do you have beyond your so-called clues?”
Margaret can’t tell him about breaking into Dr. Deaver’s office to look for carbon 14 residue or stalking Zhang or that pumping Purdy for information led to the discovery of Blackstone possibly being the last person to see Dr. Deaver alive.
To confess would be to admit she’d overstepped several boundaries.
“There’s no proof yet, but I’ve notified Officer Bianchi of the campus police and requested a toxicology screen, which would show the presence of Atropa belladonna, atropine, in Dr. Deaver’s body.”
“I can’t believe…,” the dean starts. He draws his hands down the sides of his face, making him resemble a pudgy version of Edvard Munch’s painting The Scream. He drops his hands and stomps over to the window. “Damage control. Damage control,” he mutters.
Then: “OK. This is what we’ll do. I’m going to call Officer Bianchi and tell him this whole thing is a product of shock on your part and there’s no need for a toxicology screen.
You were overwrought, hysterical. You work with poisonous plants, so your mind went there.
” He snaps his fingers. “Maybe you were hormonal. Menopause and all.”
“Sir!” Margaret objects.
“Right. Right. Human Resources would never go for that. We’ll stick with shock. I’ll have the mess you mentioned in Deaver’s office cleaned up and what you’ll do is get rid of that atropine. I can’t have the provost thinking I let a lab get away with storing hazardous materials like that.”
Did he forget that science labs were full of things that could explode or burn or poison people?
Margaret starts to tell him she doesn’t have a key to the cabinet; however, he hushes her.
“You will speak no more of this, to anyone. Understand? Then you will give me what I asked for—the draft paper, the supporting data, the foundation grant application—and I will pretend this conversation never happened. I can’t have Provost Jackson thinking I’ve lost control of my own department.”
“Turning a blind eye to a possibility doesn’t make it go away, I’m afraid,” Margaret says.
“Did you not understand me, Miss Finch?” the dean snaps. “Frankly, I thought better of you. Perhaps you need some time off to calm this hysteria of yours.”
Margaret lifts her chin and gathers what dignity she can muster, although she feels sick inside. Another person threatening her with dismissal—this one even more capable of getting rid of her.
“I’m good, Dean McDonald. Besides, I have work to do if you want me to organize and send you the information you want.”
“Very well. Get back to your lab. And close the door behind you.”
As she walks past Beth Purdy’s desk, her pulse racing, the dean’s assistant beckons her over.
“Did I just hear you say Dr. Deaver was poisoned?”