The Housewife Assassin's Garden of Deadly Delights (21 page)

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, half-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.”

“We’re on it,” Jack says.

“Um…which part?” Ryan asks.

“All of it. You’ll just have to trust us.” He hits the off button on the speaker.

Too many people are floating around Fizz for anyone to question that we belong in the employee dressing room, let alone in the bottling warehouse.

Uniforms consist of full-body coveralls, hairnets, eye goggles, and booties that go over our shoes.

“Have I told you how fetching you look in a hairnet?” Jack asks.

I smile. “You truly know how to flatter a girl.”

“You kids are so adorable,” Arnie rhapsodizes.
 

“Cut the crap,” Ryan mutters. “Arnie, which vat holds the secret sauce?”

“Vat Number Fourteen. Like I said, we’re too late to stop the corn syrup from being mixed with the other ingredients into the cola, and it’s up next to be infused into the bottles.”

“How do we stop that from happening?” Jack asks.

“There’s a release at the bottom of the vat, in case the cola is contaminated in any way. It falls into a holding tank.”

“Okay, I’m on it,” I say.
 

“And I’ll secure the holding tank until the FDA agents come,” Abu assures us.

He runs off in one direction, and I stroll off in another—toward the vats. I climb Vat Fourteen’s ladder, as if I know what I’m doing.

“Donna, hurry!” Arnie warns me. The foreman is about to turn on the spigot that releases the syrup into the bottles!”

I double-time it up the stairs—

But even that isn’t quick enough. By the time I pull the release on the spigot, half the vat is already empty.

Standing high on a catwalk, the vat foreman spots me. He wags finger and shouts, “Hey—you! Who the hell are you?”

Instead of walking, I slide down the ladder rail. “Some of it got into bottles,” I gasp.
 

“I’ll meet you there,” Jack replies.

Before the foreman can get on the floor, I disappear behind the conveyor belt.

Jack’s way of stopping the cola from going into the bottles is a simple process of elimination: he takes a metal pole and bats a row of plastic bottles from beneath the filler nozzles.

Cola spews all over him. “Damn it, this crap is freezing!”

“Not quite freezing,” Arnie corrects him, “but yes, hella cold.”

As the bottles go flying, Ryan murmurs, “Home run!”
 

“You did it, Jack!” Arnie exclaims.

Jack grabs my hand. “Let’s get out of here. Sabotaging a bottling plant can kick up an appetite. What do you say to In-N-Out Burger?”
 

I nod. “Sure—but water, no cola.”
 

I’m staring outside the window of In-N-Out Burger when I see it: a black sixteen-wheeler with the California license plate number of 6JMB415, pulling out of the parking lot of the stripper club next door.

I point out the window, choking on my double-double.
 

Jack slaps me on the back. “Heimlich! Do you need the Heimlich?”

I point at the truck.

He gets it. He’s out the door.

I’m on his heels.