Page 34 of The Botanist's Assistant
She was just checking the stove and turning off the lights before bed when her phone alerted a text.
“Torres, Joe,” was the sender.
Call me when you can, it read.I have interesting information.
Who could sleep after a message like that?
It turned out there was lots of interesting information. Not only had one Levi P. Blackstone and his wife, Amy R. Blackstone, been delinquent on their latest property tax billfor the 2.3-million-dollar house they bought three years earlier, but Blackstone had recently sold off some of his assets.
“A sailboat for $25,000 two months ago, a motorcycle for $9,000 late last year plus the sale of a cabin in Idaho worth $275,000, which was once owned by his parents,” Joe said. “I’d say the guy has some serious money trouble.”
Margaret remembered the worn state of Blackstone’s shoes.
“Revenge and desperation are a pretty powerful mix,” Joe continued. “If he thought your Dr. Deaver had stolen his idea and was about to make a ton of money from it, it could have driven him to murder so he could claim the discovery.”
Margaret explained that the university and research sponsors also share in any profit from findings, although there was still money to be made. Lots of scientists start their own companies, including Dr. Deaver.
“Money was never at the top of Dr. Deaver’s mind. He could have gone to any university he wanted or worked for a drug company, but he chose Roosevelt, where he said he could do better work.”
Joe paused, then: “I might have to disagree with you about the money thing. If his divorce petition is any indication, your professor cared a lot about money.”
Margaret recalled the filing with a small wobble of her heart. Was Joe right? Had avarice infected Dr. Deaver after all?
“How did you find all this?”
“Public records pretty much. I could do more, but I only had an hour. Kind of a full plate.”
Margaret wondered what a custodian-journalist filled his plate with but didn’t ask for details.
“What’s next?” she asked.
“If it were me and I was chasing a story, I’d probably put some boots on the ground. Talk with neighbors, colleagues, the Realtor who sold the Idaho house. I’d want to find out what prompted the sell-off and the late taxes. Documents don’t tell the whole story.”
“OK,” Margaret said.
“OK what?”
“I’ll talk to his neighbors. I’ll call the real estate agent.”
“I don’t know, Margaret. It’s tricky business. You don’t want to arouse suspicion. You need to be discrete; walk a thin line between lying and the truth. Ask questions without being obvious. For instance, you might say you wanted to buy a house in the area or something.”
Margaret glanced down at her house clothes. They looked nothing like what a person who could buy a 2.3-million-dollar house might wear.
“I’m not so great at lying. Maybe I can just tell the truth, that I’m investigating a possible crime.”
“Not if you don’t want doors slammed in your face or that Blackstone fellow to find out. Don’t think of it as lying. Think of it as…as adapting to fit a situation, camouflaging yourself for the greater good.”
Margaret consideredBoquila trifoliolata, the Chilean vine that can shape-shift its leaves to mimic the plants next to it in order to conceal itself from its predators. Perhaps she should go to the secondhand shop and buy a new old outfit.
“I guess I could do that.”
“I’ll email you the documents after we hang up. Let me know how it turns out.”
“I will.”
“And remember. Be careful.”
The admonition made her insides feel warm, like a cup of hot cocoa.
