The Housewife Assassin's Garden of Deadly Delights

by Josie Brown

  Jack has already helped hitch up the truck bed to the funnel at the bottom of the silo—the hopper. Abu and Jack are already wearing facemasks and eye goggles, and gloves. There are some in the truck for me as well. After we’re done loading the corn, we’ll meet FDA agents at a truck stop off I-5 to hand off the truck, and go home from there.

  All’s well that ends well.

  Or not.

  One of the husks of corn falls through the hopper only to bounce off the mound of corn in the almost-filled truck bed. When it falls to the ground I run over to retrieve it.

  Something is wrong. The color—it isn’t right.

  I wave my hands to get Jack and Abu’s attention. “This isn’t the right corn! Look at the color!”

  They stare down at me, then back down at the almost-filled truck bed. Jack slams the hopper with his fist. “Damn it, you’re right! Why, that son of a bitch!”

  He jumps off the truck and runs toward Barnaby’s office. “The son of a bitch is gone!”

  I’m on the phone to Ryan. “Barnaby must be in on it. He gave us the wrong corn, and ran off, but he couldn’t have gotten too far.”

  “Emma will text you his home address, his car’s make and license, and any surveillance video we find on him during the past hour.”

  It doesn’t take long before Emma calls back. “We lucked out! He’s down at the bank branch where we wired the money. Go south on 99, until you get to Taft Highway, then make a right. You’ll see it on the right side—the National Bank of Bakersfield.”

  “What’s he driving?” Jack asks.

  “A brand spanking new Ford F150 XLT. It still has the dealer’s plates.”

  “Thanks, Emma,” I say. “We’re on it.”

  I shouldn’t let Jack drive when he’s so pissed. Suddenly, I feel sorry for Barnaby.

  You should always look in the back seat of your car before you get in. You never know who’ll be there, waiting for you, perhaps with a gun.

  In Barnaby’s case, it’s Jack.

  He waits until Barnaby tosses a briefcase filled with cash into the passenger seat and heaves himself into the driver’s seat of his brand new Ford F150 XLT before sticking the barrel of his gun on the back of Barnaby’s neck.

  I open the passenger door, grab the briefcase, and hop in beside Barnaby. “I suppose you wanted to get this money so you could hand over our refund. Let’s not play games, where’s the corn?”

  Barnaby is white around the gills, but he’s still able to mutter, “It’s…it’s gone.”

  “Where?” Jack asks.

  When Barnaby doesn’t answer, he nudges the gun deeper into the base of his skull.

  “Okay, okay! Just—don’t shoot!” He takes a deep breath. “I have to look it up in my records.”

  “Slide over. She’ll drive.”

  He doesn’t argue, but he groans when I gun the engine before sliding his truck in front of a fast-moving van.

  “Don’t shit your pants, or there goes your new car smell,” I warn him.

  As it turns out, Barnaby waits until we’re back at his office before he expels via a few choice bodily functions. I’m pretty sure that his pistol-whipping from Jack has something to do with it.

  “Let’s be clear. You say some of the corn went to the Farris Ranch feed lot, and to something called TasTee Cereals in Pasadena? And that the balance went to Disneyland, for the corn-on-the-cob booth in Frontierland?”

  It’s hard to talk when your mouth is stuffed with your own socks, but Barnaby was whimpering so loudly that it was a necessary evil.

  The way he’s hogtied, he’s lucky Jack didn’t cram a corncob into it, or any other orifice, for that matter.

  It’ll take the FDA agents another hour to get here. In the meantime, Abu stands guard while I’ve been rummaging through Barnaby’s file cabinet for the paperwork that verifies his claims. “Is there anything you’re leaving out?” I ask.

  He shakes his head emphatically.

  “Think hard,” Jack warns him.

  “Mmmm!” Barnaby exclaims. “FIWZ!”

  I look over. “It sounds as if he said ‘Fiwz.’’’

  Jack shrugs. “Maybe he likes the taste of his own socks.”

  Barnaby shakes his head again, but even harder this time. “Naaah! Fiwz Cowa—”

  “Jack, he’s choking. Do something.”

  Jack sighs, but pulls out the sock anyway.

  It takes a moment for Barnaby to catch his breath. “Fizz All-Natural Cola! Santa Ana!”

  “What does a cola company need with corn?” Jack wonders out loud.

  Barnaby shrugs. “Fizz makes its own corn syrup from scratch. That way, it can claim it only uses all natural ingredients. ”

  “There’s nothing ‘all natural’ about GMOs,” Jack snorts. “Why wouldn’t it use cane sugar instead?”

  “Sucrose is sucrose,” I point out. “And corn syrup is certainly cheaper than cane sugar.” I move to the next file drawer and rummage through it. “Found it.” I wave the contract triumphantly.

  Jack kneels down, so that he’s face-to-face with Barnaby. “How much did Wellborne pay you to distribute the corn?”

  “A…mill—above my broker’s fee, of course.”

  Jack nods. “Well, sure, of course.”

  He crams the sock back into Barnaby’s mouth.

  Barnaby moans deliriously as we walk out the door.

  Farris Ranch is the largest feedlot in the West. Last year, Jeff did a report on it for his California history class. “Did you know over one-hundred and fifty million pounds of beef moves through Farris Ranch in a single year?” Jeff proclaimed to the family. “Over one-hundred-thousand head of cattle live on a thousand acres. They harvest hundreds of them each day.”

  “They don’t ‘live’ there. They die there,” Mary pointed out. “When you say, ‘move through’ and ‘harvest,’ you do know those terms mean ‘slaughter,’ don’t you?”

  “They kill cows at the stinky place?” Trisha asked. We’ve driven by it enough times that its signature scent—manure and urine—is indelibly embedded in her young mind. She looked down at the burger on her dinner plate. The tears fell fast and furious as she ran from the table.

  She vowed never to eat hamburgers, ever again.

  That lasted about a month. How soon we forget.

  By helicopter, Farris Ranch is only a half-hour south, down I-5. As always, there is a constant flow of traffic heading to and from the state’s largest metropolitan areas, Los Angeles and San Francisco, Oakland, and San Jose.

  Until we’re a mile from the ranch.

  Below us, cars are skidding to avoid a fourteen-car pile-up, and the cause of it: a stampede of cattle that has crossed the northbound expressway lanes. As they rampage through the center median and into southbound traffic, a Land Rover veers right to avoid the herd, only to collide with a tractor-trailer truck. The force sends the smaller vehicle flying—

  Into the oncoming cattle.

  It takes out the lead steers. The big rig rolls forward into the rest.

  The whole herd disappears behind a curtain of dust.

  From our height and with the thumping of the helicopter blades, I can only imagine the sound of screeching tires and crunched metal, not to mention the cries coming from the wreckage.

  Eight cars skid into the mess, like bumper cars at a county fair.

  The only good news: none of the herd survives.

  George lands the copter in a meadow near the feedlot. Jack and I run through the hole in the fence and through flattened manure created by the stampede, toward the long, endless rows of feed bunks.

  Those cattle that haven’t stampeded are chomping on the tainted corn.

  Others angrily rampage through the lot, slamming into other cows.

  That is, the ones still standing.

  “It’s like mad cow disease,” Jack shouts at me. “Donna, we have to cover these feed bunks.”

  I follow his lead, shutting the gates that allow the cows to access t
he feed bunks. When the cows realize our game plan, they get huffy. One butts Jack’s back with his head. Another rams the gate beside me. I leap out of the way just in time.

  That’s when we see the men—three of them, face down in the sludge.

  From the looks of things, they were killed in the stampede. We kneel beside each one, placing two fingers on their necks hoping to find a pulse and not surprised when we don’t.

  We look around us. What we see is scary. It’s as if the whole herd is watching our every move.

  “It’s like that Hitchcock movie, The Birds, only it’s—cows,” I murmur.

  Especially when the whole herd begins to move in our direction at once.

  Over the snorts of angry cows headed our way, I can barely hear Jack shout, “Let’s get out of here!”

  We don’t have much of a head start. Worse yet, the faster we run, the more cattle fall in behind the lead steer.

  Jack grabs my hand and starts running toward the slaughterhouse and ranch office. We crest the hill—

  To find a war zone in front of us. Fire leaps from the roof of the slaughterhouse. The sound of cattle mooing frantically fills the air. Trampled human bodies are all over the parking lot.

  But we can’t turn around. The stampeding herd is just fifty yards away.

  Jack slams into me. We fall to the ground.

  No, into a culvert.

  Just in time too. It’s deep enough that the cattle fly over, only to lose their balance and tumble down the hill. Some land hard, breaking their front legs. Those following fall on top of the lead steers.

  Jack is draped over me. I close my eyes, and cover my ears. I pull my shirt up to cover my nose and mouth hoping to save myself from the dust and dirt. I lose my sense of place with the thunderous pounding and grunting of these beasts rushing past me. I only know I’m somewhere deep within this haze of dust swirling above us.

  Suddenly, like a tornado, it vanishes as quickly as it appeared. I open my eyes to see that Jack’s are still closed. His face—all of him—is caked in dust. I’m sure I am too.

  At least we’re still alive.

  He rises slowly. Whatever he’s looking at has him shaking his head in wonder. Finally, he takes my hand and pulls me to my feet. “Ryan needs to know, so that this can be contained as soon as possible. Let’s get out of here. No sudden moves. If one comes after us, shoot to kill.”

  He doesn’t have to tell me twice.

  We make our way back through that same spot where the fence had been torn open, and return to our helicopter.

  Thankfully, George had already called Ryan with a heads-up on what was happening on the highway, so the call to Ryan is quick and dirty.

  “A HazMat battalion is on its way,” he barks. “Donna, POTUS needs to be briefed as soon as possible.”

  In other words, put in a call.

  Lee isn’t going to like what I have to tell him. I try his number.

  It immediately rolls over into voice mail. “We’ve had a development.”

  George starts the engine. He doesn’t ask questions. Even if he had, we’d have a hard time explaining what we just saw:

  Cowmageddon.

  Chapter 9

  Germination

  The process that transports the embryo within a seed into its next step—sprouting into a seedling—is called germination. Seed germination depends on both internal and external factors. Internally, all fully developed seeds contain embryos, as well as a place to store food reserves, usually wrapped in a seed coat. Externally, germination is affected by such factors as oxygen, water, light, and temperature.

  This is not the same as the process of human germination, which usually takes place when one comes in contact with something that makes one ill. However, there are ways to live germ-free. For example, you can:

  1: Carry a surgical mask. True, you’ll look silly and paranoid. To deflect pitying glances, wear surgical scrubs too. That way, you can claim, “The operation was a success.” Or:

  2: Carry hand sanitizer. Most come as scented gels, foams or liquids that can be applied right on the fingers and palms. Note of caution: whereas the base of most hand sanitizers is alcohol, resist the urge to guzzle the stuff. This type of alcohol—isopropyl—will do worse than give you a hangover. It’ll be the death of you.

  “What’s for dinner?” Jeff asks. Up until now, he’s been shooting hoops in the driveway with Morton and Cheever.

  “Eggplant lasagna,” I declare. As proof, I hold up the eggplant slices in my hands, which I’ve been scattering over layers of noodles and ricotta cheese.

  Jeff heads back out the kitchen door to yell, “It’s eggplant lasagna!”

  Even from where I’m standing, I hear Cheever gagging.

  I guess we won’t be having dinner guests. Fine by me.

  Trisha wrinkles her nose. “I’m glad I’m eating out.”

  I turn to my youngest. “Whoa, whoa! Says who?”

  “Janie’s in town. Aunt Phyllis said it was okay!”

  “Did…did Janie’s mother call to invite you?”

  “No. It was somebody called an aide.” Trisha wrinkles up her nose. “Mommy, what’s an aide?”

  Mary looks up from her Vogue magazine. “It’s a person whose job is to help someone more important.”

  “Janie isn’t important. Why would she have an aide?”

  “Maybe it’s her mother’s aide,” I explain. “Or…her father’s.” Is Lee in town too? That would be convenient—

  For him and Acme, if not for me.

  “I’m eating out tonight too. Everyone was invited to sleep over at Sara’s. I cleared it with Aunt Phyllis.” Mary folds her arms at her waist, as if bracing for a fight.

  Yes, she’ll certainly get one from me. “By ‘everyone,’ I presume you mean Tara and Cara too?” I know trouble when I smell it. This stinks as badly as Farris Ranch. “Earth to Aunt Phyllis!” I shout loud enough for my aunt to hear me in the great room. She’s enthralled in a rerun of Antiques Roadshow.

  When she doesn’t respond, I walk over and click off the television with the remote.

  Phyllis practically leaps off the couch. “Why did you do that? Leigh Keno was going to tell that woman how much that piece of crap table of hers is worth!”

  “More importantly, why would you allow the girls to go to sleepovers? Have you forgotten that it’s a school night, and they have homework?”

  “No, I didn’t forget,” Aunt Phyllis sniffs. “Girls, who’s finished her homework?”

  Mary and Trisha raise their hands.

  Aunt Phyllis points to the girls. “Satisfied?”

  “No, not really.” I turn to Mary. “I’d like to speak with Sara’s mother, to make sure she’s onboard with this.”

  “Sure, okay,” Mary says uncertainly. She picks up her cell phone and punches just one digit. To my chagrin, Sara has earned an autodial.

  “Sara, hi! Um…listen, my mom wants to check with your mom, to see if sleeping over tonight is okay…Oh! Sure, I’ll put her on.” Mary thrusts the phone practically in my face.

  “Hello, this is Brenda Lowell. And you are?” Now I know where Sara gets her imperious manner.

  “I’m Mary’s mother, Donna. I want to confirm that my daughter sleeping over tonight will in no way inconvenience you.”

  “Not at all.” I shiver at the frost in her voice. “If you don’t mind, I have to ring off. I was making hamburger patties for the girls. The others are already here.”

  Yuck.

  I bite my lip before asking her where it came from. If what Ryan says is true—that for what we know, no beef left Farris Ranch—they’re in the clear. “I’ll drop her off in half an hour. Thanks ag—” She hangs up before I can finish my sentence.

  The nut doesn’t fall far from the other nut.

  I look down at my eggplant. So much for a healthy meal with the whole family.

  That’s okay. It should be ready by the time Jack gets home with Evan from lacrosse practice. Jack is at Acme, br
iefing Ryan on the Exodus situation.

  I turn to the girls. “Grab your overnight gear. I’ll take you as soon as I’ve put the lasagna in the oven. Aunt Phyllis, will you listen for the timer?”

  She waves from the couch. Leigh and his twin, Leslie, are one-upping each other on the historical significance of a Louis XIV side chair owned by a clueless retiree in Sarasota.

  Yeah, okay, we’ll see if she’s paying attention.

  I hope I don’t come home to a four-alarm fire.

  I pull up to Sara’s house first. She lives in the far end of Hilldale, in a three-story Mediterranean stucco, fronted by a velvety lawn dotted with birches, and edged by a box hedge. The driveway juts out to accommodate a half-court basketball hoop, where Sara, Cara, and Tara are taking turns doing jump shots.

  Before Mary hops out of the car, she turns to me, “Would you care to come in and meet Sara’s mom?”

  I force a smile on my lips as I consider her proposal. The advantage of saying yes is that I might get over my qualms that I’m leaving my daughter with a coven of bitches. On the other hand, I already don’t like the woman, and I’d hate for Mary to see the evidence of that on my face. I don’t need her being even more defensive of Sara. “No, it’s not necessary. Please thank her again for me.”

  “Mom”—Mary hesitates as she searches for her words—“I know Sara and the others can be a little…catty—even with me. But I’m part of the team now. We’ve all got to trust each other, both on and off the court.”

  I take hold of her hand. “No matter where you are in life, no matter who it is, trust has to be earned. Please, Mary, never forget that.”

  I’ve learned this lesson the hard way, and I’ll do anything to keep my children from making the same mistake.

  Mary frowns, but she nods nonetheless. She kisses me before bounding out of the car.

  The girls run up to her for a group hug.

  Sara catches my eye and waves goodbye.

  There is nothing I can do but wave back.