Chapter 32 For Want of a Leaf
For Want of a Leaf
Tom is not one of those picky eaters, as it turns out. He devours his morning meal—half a can of the chopped all-natural chicken—sits by the bowl and looks up at Margaret in an accusatory way. As if she has denied him what is rightfully his: the entirety of the can.
“Too much food isn’t good for you,” Margaret says. “I read up on feline nutrition and the importance of not overfeeding was stressed multiple times.”
Tom gets up and comes over to where she sits at the kitchen table with her oatmeal and rubs the length of his small body against her leg, then turns and does it twice more. He sits and looks coyly up at her.
Suddenly, Margaret understands why some people might spoil their children. She, however, stiffens her resolve. “You will thank me later when your kidneys and heart continue to function well as you grow older,” she tells the cat.
In answer, Tom gets up and heads for the front door. He seems to be saying he will do what cats do and hunt for his breakfast if this human insists on denying him food. His tail twitches with what…? Disdain? Determination?
Margaret imagines the innocent vireo warblers, the black phoebes and lesser goldfinches feeding happily on insects in the woods only to be pounced upon by the small but mighty hunter.
“All right. You win, Tom.” Margaret pushes herself up from the table and begins to spoon the rest of the canned food into the cat’s bowl. “But we will talk about this later.”
Is that triumph on the feline’s face?
As Margaret climbs into the pickup to head for work, however, a single word pops into her head: bell. A belled cat is a saved bird. She will stop at the pet store on her way home and get one for the hungry and determined hunter. He will just have to learn to live with his new adornment.
At the lab, Margaret reviews the results of their latest tests.
They confirm what Dr. Deaver had found about the compound they are studying but also that other, more common plants, which are less dangerous and easier to grow, contain a much smaller, almost unworkable, amount of the substance.
They will need more leaves from the stinging bush to continue their work.
How to do this? All the ideas that come to her have their own problems.
Return to Veronica Ann and beg? Dr. Deaver’s widow doesn’t seem like a soft touch.
Forge an email to Neville? Margaret has no idea how to do something like that.
Find another person to wander into the rainforest and risk months of pain for very little money?
Who would do that without some personal reason like Neville had?
For want of a nail, Margaret thinks. Although, in this case, it’s for want of a leaf.
How she wishes she could grow the exotic bush in the new greenhouse, which makes her think of Joe and then of Rachel Sterling, who may have been right that Margaret is living in a state of denial and anger instead of accepting the truth.
She lets out a sigh, which causes Calvin to look up from his samples.
“I’m fine,” she says before he can ask. “Just a little discouraged. I’d hoped for more from our samples.”
And from myself, she adds in her mind.
“I think I might take a walk. It’s almost lunchtime.” Unlike the cat’s, Margaret’s appetite seems to have disappeared.
“I hate to tell you this, Margaret, but walks might not be as helpful as you think. I went for one after work yesterday like you suggested and, somehow, there I was in front of Dominico’s Pizza and, well, I thought I’d stop in for a quick soda, but they were pushing these craft beers and then somehow there was a large pepperoni pizza in front of me and I had to Uber home and you know the worst part? ”
Margaret shakes her head.
“All I wanted afterward was a cigarette.”
“Don’t worry,” Margaret assures him. “I’m in no danger of stumbling across a pizza restaurant where I’m going.”
Sunlight bears down on Margaret’s shoulders as she treks through the oak woodland, past the cattail pond and onto a narrow road that leads into the rich farmland for which this area is famous.
Rows of lettuce—iceberg and romaine—march into the distance.
Farther on, men and women harvest a field of strawberries, the dark, hunched shape of their backs resembling ships gliding through a sea of green.
She thinks of Jeanne Baret, a Frenchwoman who, in the late 1700s, disguised herself as a man and sailed around the world with her ailing naturalist-lover doing the hard and often dangerous work of collecting plant specimens from around the globe, and of Alice Eastwood, who rushed to save some twelve hundred plant reference specimens as the post-earthquake fires of San Francisco bore down on her.
Once thought of as an avocation suited for women—those delicate of body and mind—botany is anything but. These women did what needed to be done. Margaret makes up her mind.
Margaret pulls open the door of the science building to see Purdy leaning over a file drawer in her desk. She slams it closed when she senses Margaret’s presence.
“Hello, Ms. Finch,” Purdy says formally.
Has something gone wrong or is it because Purdy doesn’t approve of the dark rings of perspiration under the armpits of Margaret’s blouse, which are the results of a walk on asphalt heated by a brilliant sun?
“May I talk with you?” Margaret asks.
“I’m sorry, but the dean is out to lunch,” Purdy says too loudly.
Margaret looks around. There is no one nearby.
“Meet me in the mailroom in five minutes,” Purdy whispers.
“Thank you for your help, Ms. Purdy,” Margaret says, also loudly.
What is this game?
The building’s mailroom is usually empty this time of day, its metal shelves filled with plastic tubs of envelopes and mailers, and towers of cardboard boxes that seem like they might topple at a single, hard sneeze.
It’s more evidence of the college’s skewed budget priorities, which allot only enough money for one employee.
The former mail services clerk lasted two weeks.
Margaret hopes the new hire is of hardier stock, although the job ahead of them is formidable.
A few minutes later, Purdy slips into the room.
“What’s going on? Is something wrong? Maybe you don’t realize what I’m risking here by having you talk to me.” Her face is flushed.
“It’s all right, Beth. Nothing is wrong. I appreciate everything you’ve done for me. It’s just that I need another favor.”
A little of the tension seems to slip from Purdy and her shoulders relax.
“Whew. For a moment, I thought maybe somebody found out about Blackstone’s missing invitation.
” Purdy smooths two hands down the front of her suit jacket.
The baby blue fabric resembles a knobby bedspread.
Margaret assumes that kind of thing is fashionable now.
“Does this have to do with Professor Sterling, then?”
How had the news traveled so fast?
As if reading her mind, Purdy says: “A student came in to complain about a ‘large crazy woman,’ as she described it, almost knocking her over in the hallway. Did Sterling tell you something?”
Margaret considers Purdy. How much to tell her? Enough so word might find its way to Blackstone and make him nervous enough to slip up and confess?
“Well, yes. Apparently, Dr. Deaver received threats before he was killed.”
Purdy gasps and puts a hand to her chest. “Oh, my heavens. What kind of threats?”
“I’m really not at liberty to say, but I need to find out who might have a master key to the building or access to Dr. Deaver’s office.”
“Why?”
Margaret supposes it won’t hurt to tell Purdy. After all, she’s told Officer Bianchi and the dean the same thing.
“Because whoever had the key could also have had access to the locked cabinet in our lab, which is where the belladonna extract, atropine, is stored and which I believe was used to poison Dr. Deaver.”
“My goodness,” Purdy exclaims. Then: “Did Dr. Deaver know who was threatening him?”
“He thought so, yes.”
“Oh, that’s so terrible—and scary. Have you told the police?”
“Not yet,” Margaret says. “I need more evidence, which is why I need the list of keyholders. Then I may try the police again.”
“Of course,” Purdy says. “I’ll get you the list as soon as I can, but it may take a while. Who else are you talking to?”
“I’m trying to figure that out.”
“How about Mrs. Deaver?”
“We’ve spoken.”
“Whatever she said, I don’t think you can trust her.”
Margaret studies the small woman in front of her. “Why is that?”
“Because she killed him, of course.”
“May I help you?” a voice interrupts.
Margaret and Purdy turn to see a young man with a military-style haircut and ruler-straight back appear behind the mail counter. The new clerk. How much has he heard?
“We were just saying that whoever got this job must want to kill the person who worked here before for leaving such a mess.” Purdy gestures at the disheveled room.
“I don’t blame you one bit. It’s a thankless job, isn’t it?
” She takes Margaret’s arm and tugs her toward the door.
“We’ll just get out of your hair. Good luck. ”
“That was close,” Purdy says when they’re in the hallway. “From now on, how about we communicate only with notes? We can leave them on each other’s cars, then destroy them afterward. I have a Mini Cooper, space 147, and, of course, I know what your truck looks like.”
“All right,” Margaret says.
Purdy squeezes Margaret’s hand. “I’ll get you that list as soon as I can. Oh, this is exciting.”