Gerrie Nelson - Lab Notes

Diane flipped quickly through the notebooks, stacking them one by one on the sofa table. In addition to Vincent’s bench notes on Peruvase and Chimeron, there seemed to be volumes devoted to his suspicions regarding BRI, Harry Lee, and on and on.

The more she saw, the more depressed she became. To her, the writings chronicled the decline into paranoia of a once great mind. She closed the piano and trudged upstairs to her solitary bed. Tomorrow she’d plan her trip to Pittsburgh for Vincent’s wake.

Outside, a classic wooden runabout motored slowly along the lakefront. The lone occupant watched the light go out in the upstairs room, then tied the boat up to an old dock and jumped ashore.

Diane ended her call, slipped her cell phone into her shirt pocket and stepped out onto the front deck. Through the trees, the lake shimmered in the late afternoon heat of the endless summer.

Three weeks earlier, she had been in Pittsburgh where evening temperatures dipped into the fifties, and the harbinger of fall, Queen Anne’s lace, decorated the roadsides.

The nostalgia of early autumn had sharpened the poignancy of Vincent’s memorial Mass. Cousins and friends were there for support, all the while pressuring her to return home. Her old colleagues persuaded her to look into positions at colleges and universities in the Northeast. Others—some of Vincent’s friends—were less than collegial; their pointed questions seemed to accuse her of carelessness in losing him in such an unsuitable way. Perplexed, she wondered if Vincent’s death would have been fine by them if only he had died in a lab explosion, or overexposure to radiation or acting as his own guinea pig.

Her friends had compiled a list of winter-term job openings, which now lay beside her computer in her home office. She’d begin the hunt soon.

Her cell phone rang. She knew who it was before she looked at the screen.

Maxine’s tone was somewhere between a plea and a demand. “But you have to come. You’re the guest of honor—that’s classified information by the way.”

Diane frowned. Obviously Maxine didn’t buy the “I have a headache” beg-off message she had left a few minutes earlier.

“To what do I owe the honor?”

“According to Raymond, you saved his life last month.”

Diane pictured Bellfort’s baseball bat and cringed. She should have let the chimps work him over a little longer. “But David’s the one who administered first aid.”

“You’re being modest. You need to come and accept your just rewards. Besides, it’s not good for you to sit home alone on a Saturday night. We’re concocting margaritas that’ll cure any headache.” Her voice softened. “And any heartache for that matter. So come on. You’ll enjoy it.”

Before they hung up, Maxine extracted a promise that Diane would show up at the Enterprise by 7 p.m.

Diane leaned on the deck railing and watched five mallards waddling along the bank below. With a start, she realized she envied the small family of ducks. It had been over four months since Vincent sailed off, several weeks since Woodwind washed ashore; she needed to get out among people.

She glanced at her watch. The party started in two hours, time enough to compose an email to Tung Chen. Apparently, after Vincent asked her about Tung Chen on the jogging trail that morning months ago, he had contacted Tung asking for information. This morning she had read his response.

Diane remembered Tung as a gentle soul who was fastidious about his work station in the lab, most unusual for that crop of grad students. In his email, he apologized to Vincent for taking so long to respond. He also offered regrets that his research had not been productive thus far.

Per Vincent’s request, Tung had some colleagues in Taiwan check pharmaceutical companies for any connection to Peruvase or BRI. So far, Tung’s spy network had come up empty handed, but they were not giving up their search.

Tung had been successful, however, in finding an archived Hong Kong newspaper article about the mugging death of a scientist named Harry Lee. He had emailed it sometime in July and asked if Vincent had received it.

Diane carefully worded her response to Tung. She knew he would be stunned by Vincent’s death. She gave him a brief account of Vincent’s disappearance at sea, avoiding the hit and run aspect.

She assured Tung that she was doing fine and thanked him for his efforts on Vincent’s behalf. She ended with: “I haven’t seen the newspaper article about Harry Lee. If it’s not too much trouble, could you please email me a copy?”

A three-man mariachi band strummed guitars and sang on the upper deck, creating a fiesta atmosphere.

In the main salon, a rainbow of frozen margaritas heightened the party spirit. Colorfully clad senoritas , senoras and senores feasted on a lavish buffet featuring chicken and beef fajitas .

The mariachis took a break, allowing conversations to resume. Diane and the Wentzels stood in the forward corner of the salon. Jerry and Connie Wentzel had been abroad on a month long vacation. They reined in the effects of the margaritas long enough to ask how Diane was getting on and to invite her to dinner the following weekend. Diane told them she was doing well and accepted their invitation.

A tray of fresh drinks came by, and Diane traded her empty pink glass for a full green one. The Wentzels followed suit.

The mariachis returned with more instruments and struck up the Mexican Hat Dance. Connie Wentzel implored Jerry to give it a try.

Looking apologetic, Jerry turned to follow his wife to the dance floor. Then a thought crossed Diane’s tequila-addled mind. She tugged at Jerry’s sleeve and leaned toward his ear. “Did Harry Lee ever mention that he was hard of hearing?”

Jerry looked puzzled. “As a kid he had a medication-induced deafness, but it was corrected later on. Why do you ask?”

Diane shrugged and laughed. “I don’t know.”

Jerry’s wife dragged him toward the music.

After dessert was served, the band switched to ballads. Maxine stepped behind the bar and called everyone to attention with a hand bell. “Time for the ‘Chimp Awards,’” she announced.

Amid cheers and laughter, Maxine presented awards recognizing the contributions of those who helped round up the chimpanzees the night of the break-in.

Raymond received the “Fearless Leader Badge” for single-handedly taking on two aggressive male chimpanzees.

Wilbur and Officer Conway good-naturedly bowed to hoots and jeers while accepting their “Bent Dart” awards. Officer Sabbatini received a “Purple Butt” ribbon.

King, Kong, See, Speak and Hear got special mention and a meal of ribs and fries delivered to the primate house.

Diane accepted David’s “Shirt Off His Back” award for him; he had phoned and said he’d be arriving at the party late. He received a gift certificate to replace the shirt he shredded to provide swabs and a tourniquet for Raymond’s bleeding wounds.

Diane took the grand prize: an air pistol engraved with her name and a wall rack to display it along with a gold-plated (painted) tranquilizer dart.

Raymond approached Diane as she took her bows. His cheeks were flushed, his eyes glazed. “Let me help you with those things.” He reached for the gun rack. “We’ll stow them in my office for now.”

He turned and swayed up the stairs toward his on-board office. Diane followed, carrying the gun and dart.

Raymond spoke over his shoulder. “I’ll have someone from maintenance hang it on your office wall. Or would you like it in the lab?”