The Housewife Assassin's Garden of Deadly Delights (18 page)

Unbeknownst to Bunky, we’ve replaced our fake Smith & Wesson six-shooters with our Sigs. If the last forty-eight hours has taught us anything, it’s to never presume that the rest of this mission will be a mop-up-and-done kind of job.

“Okay, so, there’s really not much to running the chuck wagon,” Bunky assures us. “You boil the corn”—he points to the stove with two industrial-sized burners, where the water in two humongous vats is already percolating—“then you grab them with these tongs”—he lifts a pair that are at least two feet long—“and then you roll it in whatever crap they want”—he points to pans holding various toppings: jalapeño powder, butterscotch, fruit chutney, mayo-chili-cheese, guacamole, nutty curry, and plain old melted butter—“and on the plate it goes.” He looks at his watch. “The delivery van should be here any moment now, with today’s shipment of fresh corn. I’d help you unload, but I’ve got to skedaddle. We’ve got a couple of new employees in the Hamburger Hut. Believe it or not, they’re even older than you!”

“Imagine that,” Jack mutters wryly.

“Only they’re part-timers. Otherwise, they may lose their Social Security checks. I guess that would be a bummer.”

You betcha. I resist the urge to point out to him that an even bigger bummer is being sixty-five and having to work the same part-time job you had at eighteen.

“Oops! You’ve already got a line-up. Better get serving!” He heads off toward another land where quote-unquote dreams come true.

The line is made up of four mothers, accompanied by six children, whose ages vary from about eight to twelve.
 

Just then, a van pulls up to the chuck wagon. The driver and another man jump out.
 

I nudge Jack. “Help them unload, while I take care of these customers.”

He nods and hops out of the wagon while I turn to answer one of the mother’s questions as to whether the jalapeño flavoring is too spicy for her ten-year-old daughter. “Um…I’d play it safe and pass.” I point to the photo on the awning of a butter pat melting on a sun-bright yellow ear of corn.

“Okay, then the butterscotch topping for her.”

I pull a steaming cob out of the vat, put it on a plate, slather it with the goop, and hand it to her. “Anything else?”

“I think I’d like another one for me, but make it buttered.” She purses her lips in thought. “Wait—is it real butter, or a butter substitute?”
 

“Lady, this is Disneyland. Nothing here is real,” I remind her.

“Oh yeah, right.” She wrinkles her brow. “How much saturated fat does it contain?”

I look at the now half-mile-long line forming behind her and mutter, “Enough that you should pass.”

She angles her head so that she can get a good look at my backside and winces. “I see what you mean. I’ll take it plain.”

Grrrr
.
 

I plop another boiling corncob onto a plate for her. I hope it burns her tongue.

The next Mom bemoans the fact that her son wants the nutty chutney. “But he’s got so many food allergies. What kind of nuts is used?”

“Um…peanuts.”

“How about the chili? Does it have MSG?”

Hell if I know. “Yes,” I answer emphatically.

She sighs. “Well, then that just won’t do! Okay, let me have two, buttered.”

I place two steaming cobs on plates, and slather them with the butter sauce. But just as I’m about to hand them off to the woman, from behind me Jack proclaims, “I’ve got it! Twenty bags of Exodus corn, all accounted for!”

To prove it, he raises a cob of the killer corn from the neck of one of the bags.

The woman cranes her neck to see what all the commotion is about. “Oh! If that’s fresher, we’ll wait for it instead.”

Yowch. “Quite frankly, it’s all the same.”

“But that corn is still in its husks. It’s got to be fresher!” She folds her arms over her chest. “I’d prefer to wait,” she says in a very loud voice.

“I would too,” the mother behind her declares. She turns to the rest of the crowd and shouts, “They’ve just had a delivery of fresher corn. Wouldn’t you prefer to wait for it?”

Her proclamation garners nods all up and down the line, along with chants of “Fresh-
ER!
Fresh-
ER!
Fresh-
ER!
”

“What do you think we should do?” Jack mutters in my ear.

“Get the hell out of Dodge,” I hiss back. I nod toward the wagon’s coach seat, where the reins to the mule team are tied.

I don’t have to ask him twice.
 

In no time at all, the mules are hoofing it toward Main Street, USA.

The crowd parts for us. The toothy grins of enthralled children turn our way. Clasped to the bosoms of their parents, they wave to us as our braying steeds clip-clop right through the cast members’ gate of “the happiest place on Earth.”

“Good job seizing those assets,” Ryan says. “But did you have to leave the damn mules in the Disneyland employee parking lot?” He points to the conference room monitor, where a newsman is reporting on what he describes as “an unusual incident.”
 

Jack rolls his eyes. “I guess we could have brought them here.”

“No! No, that’s not what I meant,” Ryan bats the suggestion away. “Okay, maybe I’m being a bit picky. But our mandate has been to keep this mission under the radar.”

“We’re doing the best we can, under the circumstances,” I point out as I plop down in the chair beside him. “Only two more seizures—at Fizz Cola and TasTee Cereals—and we’re home free.”

“When’s the next shipment due to arrive?” he asks.

“Tonight, at TasTee. We know this because Arnie has hacked the phone of the owner, Glory Buchanan,” Jack replies. “It’s a small operation. She sells exclusively to health food grocery stores. She makes her deliveries during the day. At night, her supposedly organically-grown cereals are made by hand.”

“How did it end up on Wellborne’s list?” I wonder out loud.

“Nothing in the distribution of the Exodus seeds happened by chance. If word of the killer corn had gotten out, organic food products made of corn would be flying off the shelves, with people assuming the organic products were safe. Can you imagine the panic if people thought that the killer corn had also been utilized in organic foods?”

“It would be pretty crazy! People wouldn’t know what food they could trust,” I murmur.

“Hey, was Arnie able to trace the source of the funds dropped into Wellborne’s Caymans account?” Jack asks.

“He’s still working on it, and so is Dominic—supposedly.” Ryan grimaces. “Or I should say, he’s working on the bank’s private accounts manager. Not that I can blame him for suggesting that he go at the issue from, as he put it, ‘a different angle’.”
 

Ryan’s screen shifts to a photo of a tall, gorgeous Native Islander in a string bikini. Dominic’s camera watch must have taken a picture just as she bent over to rub her legs with tanning lotion.

Jack chuckles. “Yes, I can imagine that angle is the most irresistible, from Dominic’s perspective.”
 

“I told him he’s got twenty-four hours to get something out of her,” Ryan growls.

“Really,
that
long?” I say rolling my eyes. “I’d give him, say twenty seconds, tops.”

My pun doesn’t sink in immediately. When finally it does, Jack laughs so hard that he tears up.

Ryan is only a second or two behind Jack. I’ve never seen him so red.
 

I guess that’s why he waves us out of the conference room with the command, “Find someone else to bother.”

Jack is picking up Trisha from school, while I grab Jeff. Then we’ll meet up at Hilldale High School to watch Mary’s first game playing for the girls’ varsity basketball team.

As I pull up to the front of Hilldale Middle School, I notice that there is a man standing with Jeff. He is tall and dark-skinned.
 

I pull over and park, then get out of the car. Jeff spots me and waves.

The man walks over with him. “I’d like to introduce myself,” he says. “I’m Mr. Karman.”

“Ah! Jeff’s Current Events teacher.” I hold out my hand for him to shake. “I’m Donna Stone. Is everything alright?”

“I hope so,” Mr. Karman says. “It seems that Jeff wants to transfer out of my class to a similar one taught by one of my colleagues. I’m perplexed at the request, considering his exemplary grades to date and his easy engagement in the topic, both with me and with his classmates.” He looks down at Jeff. Frustration lines Mr. Karman’s face.

I look down at my son. “Jeff, is there a particular reason as to why you’d like to make the move?”

“I feel…Well…” Embarrassed, he bows his head. “Mom, I just feel it’s the best move for me.”

I’m not as convinced, but obviously, it’s something Jeff does not want to discuss with Mr. Karman, or for that matter, in front of him.
 

I put my hands on his shoulders. “Mr. Karman, Jeff and I will discuss it tonight. He’ll give you his decision tomorrow.”

Mr. Karman nods sadly. I can see he’d hoped to enlist me immediately as his ally.

“Jeff, the car door is open,” I point out. “Go ahead and take a seat. I’d like a moment with Mr. Karman.”

He nods, grabs his backpack, and hurries to the car.

I wait until he shuts the door, then I turn to Mr. Karman. “I can imagine you find this distressing. Believe me, it’s a total surprise to me as well. I was under the impression that he enjoyed your class tremendously.” I hesitate then add, “Frankly, he’s been able to work out some personal issues he has with world affairs through his research of topics that most trouble him.”

“Yes, the whole school was saddened by his personal experience with terrorism.” He looks me in the eye. “I want you to know it was Jeff’s idea to choose terrorism as his paper’s topic. I was surprised. Still, I’d hoped the adage, ‘knowledge is power,’ would be a soothing balm for his emotional wounds. But now…” He shakes his head sadly. “As it turns out, he’s not the only student to request a transfer.”

I can guess whom: Cheever and Morton.

“Until recently, I’ve met with little bigotry in Hilldale.” He sighs. “Should it continue, I may give up teaching.” He lifts his head proudly. “The loss will be the children’s as well as mine. The more they interact with people from other parts of the world, the more they understand how big our world really is—and how lucky they are to live here, in the United States.”

“I cannot agree more,” I assure him. “I’ll do my best with Jeff to have him see your perspective, both as a teacher and a mentor.”

“I’d appreciate that, Mrs. Stone.” He bows slightly then takes his leave.

“I don’t hate him,” Jeff says.

Other than that one comment, our first mile in the car together was silent. In truth, I didn’t know what to say to my son. Now I’m glad I let him speak first.

“You seemed to enjoy his class. You’re getting wonderful grades in it. And I presume you’ve learned a lot. So, why make a transfer out?”

“Because he may be a terrorist.” Jeff’s voice trembles.
 

I glance over at him. “Jeff, what makes you say that?”

“He…he takes calls in private. Also, that thing that Cheever said—you know, about seeing him pray during lunch hour.”