The Housewife Assassin's Garden of Deadly Delights (20 page)

“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.

Cookie 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?”