The Housewife Assassin's Garden of Deadly Delights

by Josie Brown

  Homework…now?

  I start to object, but what’s the use?

  I head to the parking lot.

  By the time we get home, Mary is up in her room with the door closed.

  “She’s sleeping,” Jack tells us.

  “I’m glad.” I plop down in the kitchen banquette beside Jeff. He’s still on his laptop. He hasn’t looked up from it since we left the gym.

  “After the game, I wanted to take everyone out for pizza,” Jack says. “But since Mary isn’t in the mood to celebrate, I asked Aunt Phyllis and Trisha went to pick up Chinese food instead.”

  “Great idea.” I sigh. “Although, I don’t think anyone has much of an appetite.”

  Evan holds up Mary’s gym bag. “Should I take this up to her room?”

  “Leave it with me.” I hold out my hand. “I’ll throw her gym clothes in with the wash.”

  When I open it, I’m met with the sweet and sour smells of sweaty clothes, socks, and sneakers. I pull them out, but leave her deodorant, liquid soap, shampoo, hair conditioner, comb, brush and moisturizer in the bag. Her water bottle is also in the bag. It’s only half-full, so I take it to the sink to empty it. I’ve unscrewed the twist top and I’m just about to pour it out when Jeff yells, “Mom—don’t!”

  I freeze, then turn to him. “What’s the matter?”

  “We may want to keep it as evidence.” He motions me over to his computer screen.

  I come closer to find myself looking at a row of gym lockers. The banner hanging on the wall proclaims GO HILLDALE WILDCATS!

  “What is this?” I ask.

  “The security footage by Mary’s locker.”

  I stare down at him. “Jeff, how did you get this?”

  “I hacked into the school’s database. I’ve watched Emma do it a few times—you know, when she worked out of the bonus room over the garage. Look, I know it’s illegal unless you’ve got a permit, but this is important, right? Mary shouldn’t be kicked off the team because she was drugged!”

  He points to the screen.

  Darned if he’s not right.

  The time stamp is one-thirty, which would make it prior to the game.

  Sara, Cara and Tara walk up to the lockers. While the other girls stand guard, Sara works the combination until it opens. She then unzips Mary’s gym bag and pulls out Mary’s baby blue water canister. She takes off the screw top, and pours something out of a tiny envelope into the bottle. She screws the top on, shakes it, puts the canister back in the gym bag, and closes the locker, twirling the lock in place. The girls run off, giggling.

  After a ten minute time lapse, Mary can be seen at the locker, taking out her bag. She’s yet to put on her basketball team uniform.

  The first thing she does is to take a swig from the bottle before hurrying off.

  “Was Mary dumb enough to give them her combination number?”

  “I doubt it,” Evan insists. Suddenly, his face goes white. “When she called me about her library book, she was with Sara and the others. I could hear them in the background. Maybe they overheard her.”

  “My guess is that you’re right.” I stick my nose into the bottle and take a sniff. “I can’t smell anything, but that doesn’t mean anything.”

  “If it’s a roofie, it wouldn’t have an odor, anyway,” Evan points out.

  “Even if it turned the water blue, since her canister is that color anyway, Mary would not have noticed,” I add.

  “After dinner, we’ll take this to Acme. Ryan can run a chemical analysis. We can leave for TasTee from there,” Jack suggests.

  “Mom, you’re not mad at me, are you?” Jeff asks.

  I shake my head, but say, “No—but don’t do it again.”

  “Until you grow up and work for Acme,” Jack mutters.

  I smack his arm and hiss, “Bite your tongue.”

  “This is my fault!” Evan exclaims. “All I had to do was go out with Sara, and she would have left Mary alone. Sara humiliated her to get even with me.”

  I squeeze his hand. “Sara is one sick puppy. Kowtowing to her would not have affected how she feels about Mary. Just knowing how close you are would have been reason enough to hurt her. Her vindictiveness comes out of her insecurity and jealousies.”

  “Just like my mother,” he mutters. “Maybe that’s why I’ve tried to stay clear of her.”

  I almost say, Then you have good sense.

  Instead, I hold my tongue.

  Evan still hasn’t given us his decision regarding the trip to see his mother. We still have a few days before he tells me one way or another, but based on what he just said, my guess is that he’ll pass.

  Suddenly, I’ve lost my appetite.

  The hot pink cottage that houses TasTee Cereals is in a tidy little neighborhood on the outskirts of East Pasadena.

  A sign on the front door reads: ALL DELIVERIES ARE MADE VIA ALLEY IN BACK.

  We set up there: Jack and I pull up just beyond the driveway in front of the house, while Abu, in an unmarked van, sits at the mouth of the dead-end alley. After the truck pulls in, Abu will block the alley. He’s got a dashboard camera ready to record the delivery and the driver’s arrest. We can hear each other through our earbuds, as can Emma back at Acme headquarters.

  The intel Emma pulled up on it shows the company’s revenues to be under five million dollars, all earned through small independent grocery chains, as well as health food stores. The press on the product is more than decent. Photos of Glory Buchanan show a woman in her fifties who wears flowing muumuus printed in a psychedelic swirl of colors, her long, flowing hair is a deep brown, except at her widow’s peak, which is stark white. Her large eyes are soft brown in color.

  TasTee’s website is filled with ecstatic customer reviews. “It’s nothing like we’ve ever tasted,” proclaims Jen Tucker of Lafayette, Indiana. Francine LaSala of North Hills, New York exclaims, “You can taste the freshness in every bite!” These accolades go on for several pages.

  A banner at the top of the website announces: Coming Soon! Best. TasTee Flakes. Ever!

  Seeing this, I murmur to Jack, “I guess Barnaby did a real hard sell to get her to sign on to the Exodus corn. She must have known he only deals in GMO earlage.”

  Jack shrugs. “He’s a snake charmer. I wouldn’t put anything past him, especially if he followed Wellborne’s mandate: to slip it into the food chain in as many ways as possible.”

  I shudder at the thought.

  The waiting game begins.

  An hour goes by and still no truck.

  Finally, I say, “Why don’t we knock on the door and see what’s up?”

  Jack nods. “Good idea. Abu, let us know if the truck rolls up, and we’ll come right out.”

  “Will do.”

  The window through the back door is covered in a sheer curtain. There seems to be no activity inside.

  Our first knock goes unanswered.

  Our second elicits a moan from somewhere inside.

  “Did you hear that?” Jack asks.

  I nod. I try the doorknob, but it’s locked.

  Jack picks it. If need be, we’ll explain later.

  The whole house smells of burnt corn.

  We find Glory Buchanan lying face down on the floor of the kitchen.

  Jack and I kneel over her. “Glory? Glory, what’s wrong?”

  “Head…hurts,” she whispers.

  Jack lifts her gently in his arms, and walks her down the hall to a bedroom.

  “They’ve come and gone. Call FDA HazMat,” I order Emma.

  I look around. The space is set up like an industrial kitchen with a triple-sink wash station, an eight-burner range, and triple ovens.

  About twenty bags of earlage are stacked in one corner.

  One bag is open, and two-thirds empty. Cobs taken from it have already been husked, and kernels have been shaved.

  A large food processor sits on top of one of the food prep stations. A large bowl of kernels sits under it.

  C
ookie sheets are still in one of the ovens, their flakes burning to cinders.

  On another prep station, toasted flakes sit on a giant cookie sheet. An eighth of the flakes are gone.

  I find them in a bowl, soggy with milk.

  I turn off the ovens, but I touch nothing.

  I run to the bedroom where Glory is laid out. “She ate the corn,” I tell Jack.

  She’s mumbling deliriously.

  He slaps her face gently. “Glory…can you speak? When did you get the corn?”

  “Mor…morning.” Her eyes pop open. Incoherent phrases tumble out of her mouth, “paper…dirty fingers…corn…colors…bad?”

  I shake my head in awe. “Does this crap work that fast?”

  He shrugs. “You saw the cows.”

  Four minutes later, an FDA HazMat battalion—two vans and an ambulance—roll down the alley.

  We get out of the way.

  We’re pulling into Hilldale when we get a call from Ryan. “Despite numerous attempts of resuscitation, Glory Buchanan expired five minutes ago.”

  “Thanks for the update.” I suddenly realize how stupid it sounds to thank someone for the news of an innocent victim’s death.

  When we enter the house, we see that Aunt Phyllis is watching the news. “Oh, my God! There’s a five-alarm fire in East Pasadena!” She points at the TV screen. “I hope it doesn’t blow over in the direction of my house.”

  The news reporter’s camera shows flames shooting out of the roof of Glory’s bungalow.

  Jack looks at me, but says nothing. I know what he’s thinking: the cleanup crew is taking care of one last bit of business.

  We head upstairs to catch a few hours of sleep.

  I rise at five.

  Jack is still lying beside me, but his eyes are open. He pulls me in close, for a kiss.

  We hit the shower together. In no time, a cocoon of steam envelops us.

  We stand there in each other’s arms. I could stay this way all day.

  But, no, there’s still work to do.

  We head downstairs to find Mary sitting at the kitchen table. Wanly, she waves at us.

  She doesn’t wave us away when we come to hug her. “Mom, what happened at the game yesterday?” she whispers. “Why don’t I remember anything?”

  Then, while Jack makes waffles, I tell her what really happened.

  Slowly, the rest of our brood makes their way downstairs. No one speaks through my monologue, but when I mention the role Jeff played, Mary gives her brother a kiss. When I tell her Evan’s supposition on how Sara got her locker combination, she squeezes his hand.

  In return, he does more than that: he kisses her forehead, but then backs away quickly.

  They are both embarrassed by his action.

  Not me. I cherish their friendship with each other.

  When I’m done, Mary says nothing, but shakes her head for a full minute. Finally, she gets up and angrily paces the room. I watch as a myriad of emotions play out in the muscles in her face: disbelief, realization, hurt, anger—only to settle into stoic resignation. She releases her tension with a long sigh. “Even with this evidence, we can’t snitch on them.”

  “Why not?” Jack, Jeff, Evan and I exclaim in unison.

  “Because if the three best players we have get suspended, it will demoralize the team—and…they’ll still hate me for it.”

  “That’s not your call to make. It belongs to your coach and your principal.” I look her straight in the eye. “Ethics aside, do you know what kind of liability these girls have imposed on the school? What if the drug had caused an adverse effect, like a coma—or your death?”

  Jack takes her hand. “And, Mary, in regard to the rest of the team, ask yourself: if you’d discovered that three teammates had done this to another, would you want to play with them?”

  Mary recoils. “No! Never!”

  “So, why would you think the others would feel differently?” Jack asks.

  “I guess you’re right.” She bites her bottom lip. “Okay, then, I guess we should talk to Coach Lonergan.”

  “You should take the day to rest,” I insist. “I’ll call the school and let the administration know you’re staying home today.”

  “I’ll look after our big girl,” Aunt Phyllis declares. “Chicken soup, hot cocoa—oh! And we’ll binge-watch the whole season of The Bachelor!”

  Mary smiles wanly.

  “Jack and I have to go out this morning, but I’ll be home before school lets out. By then, Acme’s lab will have screened the contents of your water bottle. If what we suspect is true, we’ll show it to Coach Lonergan.” I smooth her hair in order to have an excuse to touch my sweet girl. “Part of growing up is making hard decisions, even if they aren’t popular.”

  Mary’s grin fades, but she nods her head. She knows it won’t be an easy conversation, but she also realizes that it’s the best decision all the way around.

  Chapter 13

  Pinching Back

  To promote a bushier plant, try “pinching back”—that is, nipping off—the very tip of a branch, or a stem. You do this by clipping it between your thumb and forefinger.

  You can also pinch back a relationship that is less than desirable. However, it won’t be accomplished merely with a flick of your thumb and forefinger. Perhaps not even with the rise of your middle finger.

  Instead, start with some sort of paralysis drug that leaves the person in question—let’s call her Nosybody—limp and placid. Next, slam Nosybody’s head against a concrete floor—perhaps three times. This should leave Nosybody with severe fractures.

  At that point, if you want to saw off Nosybody’s head, go for it. But, frankly, it’s overkill.

  (Hmmm, “overkill.” Really, is there such a thing in the case of Nosybodies?)

  Abu is trailing us to Santa Ana in an unmarked Acme van. Fizz Cola can be found in a warehouse district on the west side of town.

  We’re a half-hour from the town’s first highway exit when Ryan’s call comes through. He waits until Abu is patched in too before saying, “So that we can pinpoint the time of the TasTee delivery and the vehicle that made it, Arnie has been pulling yesterday morning’s archival data off the city of Pasadena’s street cams.”

  Arnie’s voice is the next one we hear on my cell phone’s speaker. “It’s taken me all night and up until ten minutes ago, but I think I’ve struck gold. A plain white large panel van is seen heading down the alley at about eight-seventeen, yesterday morning. It heads back out approximately twenty minutes later.”

  “Did you grab the plate number?” Abu asks.

  “Yes,” he replies. “I’ve just texted you a photo of it. But if this guy is smart enough to dump his burner phones after each text and to mask its GPS, I presume he’s got a closet full of stolen plates, too.”

  “And, don’t forget, the amount of corn needed at Fizz is at least ten times more than what TasTee ordered. In all likelihood, a different vehicle is being used.”

  “Duly noted,” Jack and Abu say in unison.

  “Speaking of security feeds,” I chime in, “Arnie, can you hack into Fizz’s webcam? If the driver made the TasTee delivery earlier than anticipated, he could he have done the same in the case of Fizz. Check for a delivery of corn being made within the last twenty-four hours.”

  “Damn it! I should have thought of that,” Arnie mutters. He mutes the phone for a moment. When he comes back to us, he exclaims, “Got it! I’ll split this up amongst the team, so that we can get back to you, pronto.” The next thing we hear is Arnie shouting, “Emma, rustle up a couple of techs to fast-forward through some B-roll with me!”

  By the time he calls back, we’re parked in front of the Fizz bottling plant. “The delivery was made at three this morning. It’s a black eighteen-wheeler with no markings. The plate was stolen off a Walmart truck.” He texts us the license plate number: 6JMB415.

  “Now that we’re here, what’s our Plan B?” I ask.

  “Wing it,” Jack says, hal
f-jokingly.

  “I’ve got a better idea,” Arnie says. “I’ve just hacked into Fizz’s security cam feed, and followed the trajectory of the corn. The plant has already processed it into syrup. The various flavoring oils have been added to it, as well as seltzer, sugar, and coloring elements. As we speak, it’s about to be bottled.” We hear him tapping out something on his computer. “I’ve just texted each of you an employee badge barcode that identifies you as three people who called in sick this morning.”

  “Got it,” I reply.

  Arnie has also sent us a schematic of the bottling machine. “Thank goodness this plant doesn’t also use cans, or you’d really be running around.”

  “You mean, we’re not already?” Jack smirks.

  I poke him. “Keep talking, Arnie.”

  “Well, ideally, you’ll be able to drain the syrup vat before it even hits the first bottle.”

  “And if we can’t?” Abu asks.

  “I guess that would be Plan C—that is, stop the plastic bottles, which are pressurized before they reach the filling room, from being infused with cola. The cola going in them is chilled to a temperature of thirty-six degrees Fahrenheit. Otherwise it would go flat. Now here’s the tricky part: the machine fills eight hundred bottles a minute. And to retain the pressure, the filled bottles are immediately capped, then labeled, and then lassoed into packaging. Usually a case-worth—that is twelve bottles—is wrapped in a plastic coat—”

  “Too much information, Arnie!” I exclaim impatiently.

  “No,” he says, miffed. “All of this is very important, in case you need a Plan D, E, F and G.”

  This time, Jack pokes me. “Okay then, Arnie, please continue.”

  “As I was saying, all of this is done on a conveyor system that is two miles long. Sometimes the bottles stop in a holding area on the conveyor system. That being said, if you’ve missed any of the other steps, you can still catch the cases there, after being capped, or shoved into a seven-layer pallet, which is wrapped in plastic. Of course, the very worst case scenario—that is, Plan Z—is that the cola has already been bottled and packaged, so you hijack the truck.”