Page 36 of The Botanist's Assistant
As she leaves, the man calls after her. “What kind of doctor is your grandson anyway? I’ve got this foot problem that nobody seems to be able to fix.”
“He’s a nephrologist,” Margaret blurts.
A childless gay kidney doctor whose grandmother is named Forsythia and whose spouse shares a name with a cooking herb? Improvisation is not her strong suit.
The next two homeowners offer nothing except that they don’t appreciate the construction noise but the neighborhood is usually pretty peaceful.
“One dog per household, two cats maximum, no parties larger than twenty-five people without a permit, quiet time is eleven p.m. to nine a.m., which is when the gardeners and housecleaners arrive,” says one. “Did you say your grandson was a doctor?”
Heaven help a physician who moves into this neighborhood. He’d never have a moment’s peace.
Margaret’s feet ache and her brain is mush from so much lying. She plops herself on a rock wall two houses from Blackstone’s semi-demolished home. She will rest a few moments before starting the walk back to her truck. She pulls off her boot and begins to massage her left foot. There’s probably some HOA rule against removing your shoes outdoors but,right now, she doesn’t care. Let them write her a ticket or give her a scolding. Whatever these people do.
As she rubs, she considers what she learned: Blackstone definitely had money problems and his wife had claimed anupcoming and lucrative invention, which would support Margaret’s hypothesis that he had killed Dr. Deaver to usurp research that he believed was stolen from him. It was even more important now that she get hold of Dr. Deaver’s research books to prove the discovery’s origin. Then she would confront Blackstone with the evidence, lay out the facts of his financial difficulties and that he was probably the last person to see Dr. Deaver alive, and force him to confess. But how to stop the planned cremation of Dr. Deaver’s body so there could be a toxicology screen? Maybe she will contact Joe Torres and see if he has ideas.
It’s as she’s thinking these thoughts that she sees lights go on inside the Blackstone household, revealing a kitchen that is a disaster zone of remodeling: plywood floor, gaping holes where appliances once rested and a backsplash of dark tiles that are being either installed or taken out. Margaret isn’t sure. She leans forward to see better.
Amy Blackstone is at a folding table setting out paper cups and a carton of milk. Three children, two girls and a boy, swarm around her. They are all dark-haired and under the age of eight or nine. The youngest, the boy, looks about three. He wears tiny blue eyeglasses.
Margaret knew Blackstone had children, but she didn’t know they were so young. There were no photographs of family in his office. Only that bust of Seneca. As she watches, Blackstone comes through a back door bearing a platter ofwhat looks like hamburgers. The kids jump up and down. The two girls wrap their arms around his legs. Blackstone laughs and ruffles the hair of one of them. For a moment, Margaretdoubts herself. How could a man whose children appear to adore him commit a horrible murder? Is she chasing after another innocent?
Margaret lets out a long sigh and zips her foot back into her boot.
21
And Then a Howl
Margaret climbs into bed afterhaving soaked her feet in Epsom salts and completed her nightly chores: her face washed, her teeth brushed, stove burners checked twice, lights turned off. She reaches for her data book.
March 21, 6:15 p.m. Scouted Blackstone neighborhood. House at 6034 Wilton Crest Drive reported late HOA fees, sudden payment, B.’s wife claims upcoming invention. House undergoing big remodel. Need JMD research books to disprove B.’s claim of ownership.
She sets the book on her bedside table and is about to turn out the lights when it comes to her that she has another thing to record. It has to do with the visit by the white van.
On her way to work this morning she’d seen no abandoned appliance, stained mattress or tossed trash bags by the side of her driveway. Lost campers, she’d decided.
The truth, however, arrived forty-five minutes ago as she was putting away her mystery book. A sandpapery yowl haderupted near the cottage’s front door. Margaret frowned. Critters regularly visited her home—raccoon, possum, skunk and coyote—but none of them made a sound like that. She waited. When the howl came again, she went to the front door, flipped on the porch light and looked out the window. A creature looked back at her.
It was small, covered in matted gray-and-black striped fur. One pointy ear appeared to have been bitten half off and its left eye was sealed shut. Burrs dotted its belly and long tail. You could see its ribs.
A tomcat.
The feline let out another raspy howl and Margaret opened the door. The animal looked even more ragged up close and, yet, there seemed to be a haughty toughness about him. An “I’m walkin’ here” vibe.
“Where did you come from?” Margaret asked, although she did not expect an answer.
The cat, however, seemed to understand. He went over to the porch’s edge and stared into the darkness.
The van, Margaret thought.
She knew people dumped unwanted animals—dogs in the country, goldfish in the pond at the park, turtles at the beach—all the time. It seemed so cruel to expect a domesticated creature to fend for itself in the wild and, yet, Margaret was not about to encourage the animal. She does not want or need a cat.
“I’m not going to feed you, you know,” she told the animal.
The feline turned and came back to sit in front of Margaret. He let out another yowl.
“I’m not going to let you in either,” Margaret assured him.
The cat’s tail twitched into a question mark. His one eye seemed to challenge her.
