Chapter 24 Felis Silvestris Catus
Felis Silvestris Catus
The cat watches from his spot in front of the fireplace as the old/new coffeemaker burbles and Margaret prepares her breakfast. Do cats eat oatmeal? Should she make a little extra? She decides she will ply the small hunter with more tuna, then figure out what to do next.
The rational part of her says a cat is both an expense and a responsibility she doesn’t need.
If the cat stayed, wouldn’t she be required to install a litter box in her cottage?
The thought of the box with its little clumps of droppings and its grit scattered all over the floor makes her cringe.
And what about all the cat hair she’ll have to sweep up and the special food she’ll have to buy?
What if the creature gets sick and requires surgery?
She opens a tuna fish tin and forks half of it into a bowl for the cat.
The coffeemaker gurgles out its last drip of coffee, reminding Margaret of the little animal’s purr.
Ancient Egyptians believed that cats were magical beings and that they brought good luck when they were let into a person’s life.
Margaret doesn’t believe a domestic cat would bring you luck, but there is something about the little scrapper she admires.
Like her, he is unattractive and scarred by life and seems to want the same things she seeks: food on his plate, a warm place to lay his head and a purpose. Hadn’t the gopher he’d left for her proved that?
She decides she will give the feline four days, then they will decide whether this experiment in mutual dependency will work. If not, each will move on.
She eats her oatmeal, fills her thermos with coffee, does her dishes and asks the cat, “In or out?”
The cat stops its after-breakfast grooming and walks toward the front door.
“The radio said there’s a 45 percent chance of showers today,” Margaret warns.
The little feline, however, just stands at the door as if waiting for an elevator to arrive.
“All right. Suit yourself but don’t blame me if you get soaked,” Margaret says and opens the door to a freshly laundered world.
Raindrops shimmer on pine branches, the air is alive with the brown-sugar scent of rich, wet soil.
The cat steps outside and sits on the edge of the porch as if it too is enjoying the refreshed start to the day.
“I’ll leave some water out for you,” Margaret tells it.
The cat’s tail twitches against the wood as if to say, “Do whatever you want, I’ll be fine,” a hardy attitude, which Margaret also admires. She herself will bring an umbrella to work.
As it usually is, the lab is empty when Margaret arrives.
She hangs her purse and sweater on the hook by the door and leans her umbrella in the corner, then gets to work.
She is beginning to rewrite the grant application with Dr. Blackstone’s information—it leaves a sour taste in her mouth—when Calvin walks in.
He wears the same Fall Out Boy T-shirt as if he slept in his clothes.
“Morning,” Calvin mumbles and gets right to work without a word of complaint or a single sigh.
Had he been out drinking last night? Been PTSD’d by some dog this morning?
Margaret would ask except his betrayal sits heavy along with what she learned about Dr. Deaver yesterday.
Such a tangle of thoughts. It’s why she prefers science, which is more clear-cut.
An experiment either works or it doesn’t, and, sometimes, even if it doesn’t, it can still prove something.
She has just re-sent an email asking their Brazilian guide if he can supply more leaves for the next phase of work (maybe he hadn’t seen her earlier request) when Blackstone appears at the lab door.
“May I speak with you, Margaret?”
“If it will take only five minutes, then yes. Otherwise, it’s eleven fifty-five and since I always leave for lunch at noon, a longer meeting won’t work.”
“Very well,” he says with a barely controlled sigh. “Can you be in my office at one?”
“It will take me three minutes to walk from the breakroom to your office so it will be one oh three.”
“Of course,” he says. “One oh three, then.”
Did he just roll his eyes?
“What was that about?” asks Calvin after Blackstone leaves.
It’s the first full sentence he’s spoken since he came in.
“How should I know? Maybe you can tell me.”
The reply isn’t what people would call polite, but Margaret thinks that betrayal is not polite either.
Lunch is quiet and satisfying. Margaret found a sharp Irish cheddar on sale at the market, which she decides is delicious with apple slices, and her after-lunch coffee rounds out the meal nicely.
Rachel Sterling comes in just as Margaret is preparing to leave.
She carries another cup of ramen noodles, which she opens and fills with water, then puts in the microwave.
Margaret notices the condition of the appliance, which is so splattered inside with food it looks like some kind of gastronomic abstract painting, and she decides to clean it the next time she comes to care for the coffeemaker.
She watches as the woman goes to the soda vending machine and studies the selections.
Her fingers seem to hover over the Diet Coke button, then finally come to rest on a sparkling lemonade instead.
It gives Margaret an idea. Maybe she should park herself in the breakroom one afternoon around three when energy was known to flag and see which person came in and selected Diet Coke, which might be a clue to who had been in the office with Dr. Deaver before he died.
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 his computer screen. 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 and processes of 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 has been set with the French Defense. A plant would also be a nice 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.”