Gerrie Nelson - Lab Notes

Diane remained silent.

“Diane? Can you hear me?”

“Yes… yes I hear you fine.”

“Do those flight times give you clues to anything?”

“I’m not sure. But thanks for your trouble.”

“No trouble, partner. I was worried about you. I tried to reach you at the airport before you left. But your phone was already turned off. Amelia said that you were in danger and that you shouldn’t leave for the trip. But apparently your flight went okay. Amelia gets it wrong sometimes. She says it’s because of global warming; Gaia is out of phase with the universe… I’m so glad you’re safe.”

“Thanks for your concern. I’ll see you in a few weeks.”

“Have a great meeting. And bring back a lot of good plants from your jungle trek.”

Diane hung up the phone and stared out the window. Fifty feet from the house, white spumes of the Caribbean shot up like geysers just beyond the cliff’s edge. But all she saw before her was the headline: “Murder Suspected in American Scientist’s Fall.”

Harry Lee’s body was discovered in Hong Kong on December 7 th. Leonard Everly was in Asia at that time. A coincidence?

Olimpia reappeared wearing an apron over her khaki slacks. “Come, lunch is served.”

Unnerved by Maxine’s information, Diane followed Olimpia, vowing to put the BRI labyrinth out of her mind, and hopefully out of her life. Two weeks after her return to the states, she had a job interview scheduled on a leafy campus in Maine—a perfect spot for healing. She’d leave the cloak and dagger to the Lab Rats and their friends. They were better equipped to find Peruvase than she was anyway.

But… could she just walk away from them? When she was sworn in to the Lab Rat organization, she had vowed to share anything that might be helpful to their many causes.

She stopped in her tracks and shouted to Olimpia who had moved on: “I’m sorry; I just remembered I have one more phone call to make. I’ll be with you in a few minutes.” She went to her purse and dug out Sara Solomon’s business card.

Long after the dishes were cleared away, Diane and Olimpia remained outside discussing the changes in science during their twenty-six year acquaintance. When dusk set in, they agreed upon a light supper and an early bedtime to rest up for the conference that was to start the next day.

Lying in bed, glancing around the darkened room at the graceful shapes of antique furniture and listening to the rhythmic roar of the sea, Diane thought about her day.

Olimpia had picked her up at the airport in an open four-wheel-drive vehicle. Her jaw-length, windblown hair had grown more salt than pepper since their last meeting.

The view along the road to the house was hardly the palm-laden Caribbean paradise Diane had envisioned. Rather, she beheld a parched landscape covered with cacti, scrub foliage, boulders eroded into bizarre shapes by the trade winds and lots of spooky divi divi trees. She imagined off-road travel to be impossible except by camel or, better yet, a Mars rover.

Olimpia’s island home was about five thousand square feet of soaring ceilings, marble floors and massive furniture. It was constructed of stone, heavy wood and thick tinted glass to withstand the constant assault of the sun and winds.

There was no way Olimpia could afford all that on her university salary. It was probably left to her by a well-to-do relative. Diane had always sensed Olimpia’s family was wealthy, maybe because she once mentioned an uncle with a yacht. At any rate, the house was not the “cottage,” Olimpia had mentioned over the years.

Now, the conference had brought Diane here. And she was glad. But it occurred to her that for all the years she had known Professor Olimpia Garza professionally, she knew very little about who Olimpia actually was.

The three-day Ethnobotany Conference was held at the Radisson Aruba Resort and Casino on the protected side of the island. It was well-attended by researchers and pharmaceutical company representatives from all over the world.

Diane’s paper: Contracts with the Americas drew mixed reactions. A heated discussion ensued: Some scientists and pharmaceutical companies felt they should be free to tramp about the jungles of the world, harvesting possible curative plants without any formal agreements with the countries or indigenous tribes involved.

But the conference was declared a success on the last night with gambling, dancing and the imbibing of a fruity concoction that many swore would provide the cure for just about anything.

Midnight found Diane and Olimpia propped up on stools at Olimpia’s kitchen island, enjoying brownies and milk. Diane had been delivering an animated recap of the convention when she realized Olimpia wasn’t responding.

“What’s wrong?”

Olimpia was absently-mindedly peeling the tiny pedigree labels from green apples piled in a colorful pottery bowl. “I have a confession to make,” she said in a weary voice.

Attempting to lighten the mood, Diane looked at her brownie and said, “Don’t tell me there’s marijuana in these things—and I thought my elation came from being far away from Texas.”

Olimpia didn’t smile. “I was responsible for Bayside Research hiring you and Vincent… Gabriel Carrera found me at the university and tried to recruit me for BRI. The program he laid out sounded good, but I did not want to move to the States. So, I gave him your name.

Olimpia propped her elbows on the countertop and rested her forehead on her hands. “Since Vincent disappeared, I have been tormented… I meddled in your life. If you had not moved to Texas, your husband would still be alive.”

Diane slid off her stool and patted Olimpia’s shoulder consolingly. “You may have been the reason we got the job offers, but we made the decision to go there. And Vincent went sailing to fulfill a lifelong dream. You can’t blame yourself for our choices.”

“I wish it were that simple.” Olimpia muttered, then changed the subject. “What time are you being picked up tomorrow?”

Returning to her stool, Diane said, “I don’t think I should go.”

“Gabriel has helped you get into all the Amazon countries. You should go.”

“It doesn’t feel right.” Losing Vincent had made her emotionally vulnerable in every sense of the word. And she didn’t feel up to testing whether the attraction that erupted in Quito was caused by the Shaman’s potion alone.

Olimpia tried to reason with her: “They are powerful men. Such a slight would not go unnoticed.”

“Gabriel had mentioned dinner in an email; nothing definite. Then yesterday Carlos phoned and invited me to their island for the weekend. He was just being polite. I’ll phone him and tell him something came up.”

Diane thought she saw a wisp of fear pass Olimpia’s eyes but dismissed it. She shook her head. “Me, alone on Carrera island with two men?”

Olimpia laughed. “I think you will be far from alone. They have a staff the size of a small army out there. And at least half of them are female.”

Diane’s face brightened. “I’ll ask Carlos to invite you too. I’d feel more comfortable then.”

Olimpia stood up, walked around the granite-topped island and rearranged the salt and pepper shakers. Returning to her stool, she sat down heavily and looked Diane in the eye. Her voice was firm. “You will be perfectly safe out there. Do not seek an invitation on my behalf. I do not move around in the Carreras’ society.”

Diane opened her mouth to protest, but sensed there was no point in pressuring her. She held up her palms in submission. “Okay, okay. I’ll go alone.

The next morning Olimpia drove Diane to the Seaport Marina in Oranjestad where she was scheduled to meet the Carrera’s motor launch. Diane had fully charged her cell phone battery and they agreed she’d call the next day when she was approaching Aruba.