Rotten to the Core (24 page)

Still, she knew the printout would not hold the answer to her other pressing question: why here? Even if Jason had been out of his head, it seemed unlikely that he would have gotten into his car and driven here, then climbed the hill and sat down and waited to die. He would have needed help—but who?

With a sigh she logged off and shut down her computer, closing the lid with a click—no need to clog it up with sawdust. She would get up early tomorrow and buy the materials she needed, and she would start the long process of finishing her floor. And try to put the image of a writhing, vomiting Jason out of her head.

“Come on, Lolly—bedtime.” The cat raced past her as Meg made her way slowly up the stairs.

Meg had just entered the home improvement store yet again when the ringing of her cell phone stopped her.

It was Christopher. “Ah, my dear, I’m so glad I caught you. I know this is short notice, but there’s to be a press announcement of sorts late this afternoon about the new building, followed by a small reception. I thought you might like to join us.”

“That was fast!” Meg ticked off the items on her to-do list: buy floor-finishing products, finish floor, avoid walking on floor for the next twenty-four hours. She could do all that and still make it to the function at the university, and in fact she was curious to hear what the spin would be. All she had to do was manage to apply one coat of polyurethane to her naked floor before heading over to the university. That couldn’t take too long, could it? “Sure, I’d be delighted. What time?”

“Four o’clock. I believe they hope for some local television coverage. And then cocktails to follow. As DeBroCo is footing the bill, I daresay the food will prove superior to the usual university offerings. I’ll look forward to seeing you then.” He rang off quickly.

Meg had loaded a shopping cart with tools and buckets of polyurethane, and was trying to maneuver the cart toward the checkout line when her cell phone rang yet again. She retrieved it from her pocket: Rachel.

“Hi, Rachel. What’s up?”

“Seth tells me that you’re refinishing your kitchen floor and need a place to stay.”

Did Seth really think she was so helpless? “I think he’s exaggerating a bit. Yes, I’m doing the floor, but I told him I was fine. After all, I have my trusty microwave, so I don’t really need the kitchen.”

“Oh.” Rachel sounded disappointed. “Well, why not come anyway? Noah’s away at a conference, and I don’t have anyone booked for the B and B. We can have a girls’ night, at least after I’ve put the kids to bed. Please?”

Meg recalled that she was going to be in Amherst anyway for the reception, and she had a class there the next morning. Why not? “Okay. But I’ve got this thing over on campus, and I’m not sure when that’ll let out.”

“You’re going to the press conference?”

“Yes, Christopher asked me. How do you know about it?”

“I have my sources. Come on over whenever you break loose. I’ll feed the kids early to free us up.”

“Okay, sounds good.” One more thing to add to her list: pack overnight stuff. Meg sighed.

Back at the house after her errands, she read the instructions on the polyurethane container dubiously. The manufacturers made it all sound easy, but she knew from experience that things were seldom as simple as they first appeared. Still, worst case: she could just strip off whatever she laid down and start all over again.

Lolly trotted down the stairs and wound around her ankles, and Meg reached down to scratch her head. “You can’t be hungry again, can you?” But Meg realized that before she plunged into the project, she needed to remove some things from the kitchen—starting with the microwave and cat food. And something to drink out of and eat off of. And something to clean up after her inevitable spills. And if she didn’t get started soon, there was no way she would be finished in time to clean herself up and make it to the reception in Amherst.

Two hours later she stood on the kitchen threshold admiring her efforts. The floor gleamed, in part because it was still wet, but also because the finish had brought out the rich golden tones of the old wood and the new gloss intensified them. Applying the polyurethane had in fact been as easy as its can claimed, once Meg had learned to be patient and take her time spreading it around, to avoid bubbles. Maybe for once something would work right the first time. She felt ridiculously proud of herself.

She was checking her watch when she noticed Lolly approaching cautiously, evidently put off by the strong odor but curious nonetheless. Meg stepped in front of her to block her and quickly closed the door behind her. “Sorry, cat—I don’t want little paw prints all over my nice shiny floor.” Leaving the cat sniffing the crack beneath the door in fascination, she hurried upstairs to pack, shower, and change clothes.

Standing in front of her cramped closet, contemplating her meager wardrobe, Meg wondered what she was supposed to wear to a press conference. Would there in fact be press there? That suggested something a cut above blue jeans. But why should she care? Christopher had invited her as a courtesy, and she was merely an interested observer. In the end she pulled out a pair of dark pants and a sweater—it was still cold, whatever the calendar said, and the IPM Department was not generous with heating their building. She threw a nightgown, toiletries, and some clothes for the next day into a bag, shrugged on a jacket, and went back downstairs to set out a full dish of food for Lolly.

She arrived at the university in time to find a parking space vacated by a departing day student, and made her way to the Life Sciences Building. A hastily scribbled sign tacked on the bulletin board near the entrance directed her to the largest lecture hall on the ground floor, where she found several camera crews already set up. Apparently DeBroCo Pharmaceuticals had a very effective public relations team to get the word out so quickly and to garner press attention. And maybe the abruptness of the event had forestalled the appearance of any GreenGrow protesters. At the moment the members of the press outnumbered spectators, but that wouldn’t show on camera. Meg found a seat a few rows from the front and settled in to watch the action.

At precisely four o’clock, Christopher, his face beaming, approached the podium and tapped the microphone. “Friends and colleagues, I am delighted to see you here on this auspicious occasion. I have the great pleasure of announcing a new collaborative venture for the university and this department . . .” His enthusiasm was evident, and Meg was happy for him. From her online snooping she recognized Anson Kurtz, vice president for public relations for DeBroCo, immaculate in his well-tailored gray suit, standing behind Christopher. After a few more remarks, Christopher turned the microphone over to Kurtz.

Meg’s mind wandered as Kurtz worked his way through the standard corporate boilerplate. Chemical giant, friend of the farmer. He certainly did not raise the specter of his products’ demonstrated toxicity and the resultant lawsuits, but why would he? This was a feel-good moment that would polish DeBroCo’s public image in exchange for a relatively small capital outlay. And that was how business was done. A year earlier Meg would have paid little attention, but now, with an orchard to run, it mattered to her. Was this an alliance with the devil?

When Christopher wrapped up the formal presentation and the news folk began packing up their equipment, she stood up and hesitated. Christopher noticed from where he stood, and nodded toward the side door. Meg guessed that he was directing her toward the reception, so she nodded in reply and made her way through the door and down the hall, following the sound of clinking glasses and the good smells emanating from a smaller lecture hall farther along the corridor.

She was happily surprised when she arrived at the room. DeBroCo had laid out a pretty penny for this spread. No shabby potluck, this. Why? Meg wondered idly as she filled a plate with smoked salmon and some tasty-looking puff-pastry hors d’oeuvres. Why would it be important to the company to woo the lowly assistant professors, lab techs, and graduate students? She wasn’t going to pass up the treats, but something about the whole package made her uncomfortable. It was all too slick, and too calculated.

As she juggled canapés and a glass of white wine, she considered what had been said—and not said. The company stood to gain a high-profile, respectable partner in the university and could point to its efforts to be a good friend to the farmers. There was nothing wrong with that as a corporate strategy—it happened all the time. DeBroCo recognized that it needed to repair its public image, so this was a reasonable expense. Did that mean the cooperative effort with the university was a bad idea? Not necessarily, and the company would make sure that it was successful—at least for a while.

Meg smiled at Christopher on the other side of the room. He raised a hand without interrupting a spirited conversation with his colleagues, so she headed for the door. As she passed through the long and now-quiet corridor, one small question nagged at her: had GreenGrow known about this project, and publicly opposed it? If they had, would their opposition have had any noticeable impact? She shook herself. Time to go to Rachel’s and have some cheerful conversation with a friendly human being—one with no hidden agendas.

Rachel’s Victorian home—and bed and breakfast—beckoned through the gathering dusk. Meg parked at the side of the house, pausing to admire its frilly gingerbread and warmly glowing windows, and went around to the kitchen door, which was unlocked. Rachel wouldn’t have heard anything as quiet as a knock, immersed as she was with marshaling her two children to clean up the kitchen table so that they could start their homework. She looked up when Meg walked in.

“Hi! That was fast.”

Meg dropped her overnight bag by the door. “The bigwigs were still busy patting each other on the back, and I’d tried all the hors d’oeuvres, so I figured it was time to leave.”

“You can tell me all about it as soon as I get these two sorted out. Chloe, please put that plate in the sink. Matthew, you get a sponge and wipe off the table. No, now! And say hello to Meg.”

“Hi, Meg,” the kids mumbled dutifully in unison.

“There’s a humongous casserole in the oven, and there’s bread and salad on the dining room table. You want something to drink? Wine?”

“Whatever you’re having is fine.”

While Rachel bustled around, putting some things away and removing other things from the refrigerator and cupboards, Meg studied the kitchen, wondering what elements she could use in her own. Not much, apparently—Rachel’s house boasted high ceilings and large windows, which left little room for cupboards. But the adjacent walk-in pantry more than compensated. Rachel’s floor was covered with a modern, neutrally patterned vinyl, designed to hide dirt. Meg thought briefly of her shining floor and felt absurdly pleased.

Rachel opened the oven door and pulled out the bubbling casserole, setting it on the stove top. “There. Let’s see, is that everything? Meg, can you grab the, uh, plates, napkins, and wine bottle? Then we can clear out and let these two get down to work. You hear me?”

“Yeah, Mom.”

Meg picked up the requested items and followed Rachel into the darker, quieter dining room. Rachel deposited the casserole dish on a trivet on the table and dropped into a chair with a sigh of relief. “There, done. Help yourself—we aren’t formal around here. And then you can tell me all about the big press conference.”

Meg took a plate and dished up casserole—a yummysmelling concoction involving chicken and mushrooms—added salad, and sat down gratefully.

Rachel leaned forward and filled her own plate. “So, give me all the dirt. Shiny new building on campus, big boost to the agricultural programs. What’s the real story?”

“Good PR, for a start. They had all the major local networks there. But I wouldn’t expect less from a big company like DeBroCo. You want what they said, or what they didn’t say?”