The Housewife Assassin's Garden of Deadly Delights

by Josie Brown

  Or live to regret doing so.

  This morning, I’ve added steak to the eggs for breakfast. It’s not just Mary who needs stamina for a long day ahead.

  Evan clomps down the stairs with Jeff on his heels and Trisha on his shoulders. She carries a three-ring binder holding her plant samples, each one pressed between two pieces of wax paper.

  A big brother is just what Jeff and Trisha need in their lives right now. And considering what Evan has been through, no doubt having their adoration gives him something as well—say, self-respect after a year of living shamefully. Humanity rails against the sins of the father, but Evan is living proof that the sins of the mother can ruin a life too—but only if it kills all love.

  With all the love surrounding him now, he’ll weather this emotional tsunami.

  Still, he must deal with his mother’s request one way or another. I’ll break the news to him on the way to school.

  “—and this is dill…and this is clover…and this is wild athparagus!” Trisha’s pronunciation of her plant collection is garbled between mouthfuls of buttered toast.

  While the kids roar with laughter, I break the news to Jack that we’re swapping carpool duty.

  He almost chokes on a piece of steak. When he recovers, he grumbles, “Are you crazy? But—but Mary and Evan were looking forward to me driving them to school in the i8!”

  I raise a brow. “What you mean to say is that you were looking forward to wowing them and all their friends with your new ride. Well, too bad. What I have to do is much more important than you reliving your glory days as big man on campus.”

  “I just don’t know if I can take the Terrible Two this early in the morning.” He’s referring to Jeff’s carpool buddies, the always-clueless Morton Smith, and the ever-conniving Cheever Bing. “On second thought, maybe it’s best that we’re switching cars. Between the two of them, they’d kill that wonderful new car smell before we got to school.”

  “I’ll gladly trade you for what I have to do instead: break the news to Evan that his mother has requested that he see her on her birthday. She was the call that came in at five this morning.”

  Jack snorts. “That’s Catherine for you, always considerate.” With a shrug he adds, “Evan is almost seventeen. It’s his decision to make.”

  “I told her that, in no uncertain words. However,”—I hesitate because I don’t feel comfortable with what I know Jack should hear—“Catherine dangled a carrot. If not for Evan, for Acme, anyway.”

  “Oh yeah? What is it?”

  “She claims she’s got something on the Quorum that will put it out of business for good.”

  Jack puts down his fork. By the look on his face, he’s lost his appetite. “Do you believe her?”

  “Well…there was a desperation in Catherine’s voice that I’ve never heard before. Whether it was there for Evan or because she fears for her life is hard to say. But we both know that what I think doesn’t matter. Ryan will also have to weigh in on this.”

  “That’s a no-brainer. Like us, he’d like the Quorum dead and buried once and for all.”

  I nod. “Okay, then. I’ll use her enticement as a last ditch effort. Hopefully, it won’t come to that.”

  Wishful thinking. We both know it.

  I straighten his tie. He leans in for a kiss.

  All talk amongst the children freezes, as if a bomb just went off. Trisha and Jeff are awed. Mary and Evan are mortified.

  They’ll grow out of it. Random acts of love and adoration should never embarrass us. Life is much too short for that.

  Finally, I pronounce, “Show’s over! Grab your gear and let’s get moving.”

  The kids grumble—not because they’re still enthralled, but because they’ll arrive earlier than usual, by about twenty minutes. I’ve planned this on purpose, so that I have enough time with Evan to break the news to him.

  Hopefully, I won’t be breaking his heart again too.

  My first drop-off is Trisha. When we pull up to Hilldale Elementary, four other members of her Daisy Scouts troop are there to greet her. As they run off giggling, their troop leader, Lori Sloan, waves and strolls my way. Like her daughter, she is rail thin, with hair the color of copper, and a spray of freckles across her heart-shaped face. “Donna, so glad I caught you! I just want to remind you that this is the last day of the troop’s cookie sales.”

  “True me, Trisha is on it. She’s already sold fifty boxes. She’s hit up the neighbors so many times that they now cower behind their curtains when their doorbells ring.”

  Lori laughs. “The girls are so excited. Last year, the Hilldale troop came in first place in the state for the number of boxes sold. They’re bound and determined to beat their own record.”

  “By the way, if you need help tallying the sales, feel free to give me a call.”

  My offer earns me an even wider smile. “Thanks, and yes, I’ll certainly take you up on that.” She rolls her eyes. “Some of the other moms think Daisy Scouts is a drop-off service. Frankly, they don’t understand how much fun they’re missing when they bow out of some of our wonderful projects and field trips. It’s all about making memories, isn’t it?”

  She waves as I drive off. She also has a daughter in the fourth grade, and twin fifth-grade boys. Both of her girls take ballet, and all four of her children are on the swim team. In other words, she practically lives at the school. I don’t know how she does it.

  Evan rock-scissors-papered his way into riding shotgun. Mary doesn’t mind. Now that Trisha is gone, she can spread out on the leather back seat, like a diva on the way to some glamorous red carpet. Soon, though, she sticks her head between the front seats in order to regale us with tidbits about her new team.

  “Did you know that they’ve never dropped below second place in our region, and that at least three players always make the county all-star team?”

  I turned just in time to catch Evan rolling his eyes. “Let me guess: Sara and her two foot soldiers, Tara and Cara.”

  Mary taps him on the head. “You act as if you don’t like them.”

  He shrinks in his seat. “The jury is still out. From what I can see, they can be pretty darn nasty.”

  “Oh yeah?” she asks. “In what way?”

  “To the other girls. I see it all the time.” He hesitates. “And for that matter, to guys too.”

  I keep my mouth shut. It’s much better for Evan to make my point.

  Mary leans back. She doesn’t know what to make of his warning. Frankly, I hope she takes it to heart. But by the way in which she leaps out of the car as I screech to a stop, it’s obvious that it’s the last thing she cares to hear. “Jack is doing pick-up!” I shout after her.

  Evan is about to hop out too, when I pull him back. “By the way, your mother’s birthday is next Friday.”

  He frowns. “What of it?”

  “She called. She’d love to see you.”

  “I can’t. Our lacrosse team is in the semi-finals.”

  “Evan, I know it’s hard for you to forgive her. But still—”

  He shakes his head adamantly. “I can’t. It’s…it’s too soon.”

  “Prison is not a pretty place. For all you know, it may be the last time.”

  He takes a deep breath. “I can barely remember the last time I was with my dad. All I remember is that he looked so sad, and that he was determined to talk to my mother alone—really, to have it out with her. He must have asked her a billion times, but there were always so many people swarming around—Mother’s campaign entourage. The truth was that she was afraid to be alone with him—afraid to look him in the eye. Now I know why.”

  He stares out the car window. Waves of students pass us—chattering, giggling, and whispering, seemingly without a care in the world. They are unlike Evan, who must carry the weight of his mother’s misdeeds for the rest of his life.

  My words stick in my throat, but I must say them. “Evan, your mother claims to have some vital intel on the terrorists who were fin
ancing her campaign. But the only way she’ll come clean with it is if you go to see her on Friday.”

  His head twists in my direction. His eyes are shadowed by disbelief. “She told you that? She’s lying! She’s conning you!”

  “She may be, but we can’t take that chance. Please, just think about it.”

  He nods, but from the tilt of his chin, I can tell it’s a long shot.

  I don’t know what I’ll tell Ryan.

  The good news is that I don’t have to face him immediately. Right now, the most important task in the world is finding those bad seeds.

  If we fail at our mission, Evan’s decision may come too late anyway.

  Chapter 5

  Ridding Your Garden of Pests Organically

  Any insect or animal that invades your garden and eats, or worse yet, kills, your prized flowers and vegetables is a pest.

  Pests should be deterred at all costs, except for that of your plants’ lives, and your own. That being said, consider extermination methods that aren’t toxic to your garden, let alone those you love.

  For example, bury an empty tuna can in dirt up to its rim, then fill with beer. Slugs get a hangover, fall asleep, and drown. (Yes, I can imagine it reminds you of your sorority days.) Also, to eradicate earwigs, leave newspaper scattered in the yard, to collect the morning dew. These bugs like to crawl under the damp pages, which you can just roll up and throw in the trash. Aphids hate citrus. Steep an orange or lemon rind in scalding water overnight, and by morning your citrus juice can be poured into a spray bottle. Squirt the tops and bottoms of leaves, and problem solved!

  Ridding your home of human pests in an environmentally safe way is just as easy. In that regard, your garden comes in quite handy, since it’s filled with all sorts of drugs or poisons. One prick with a rosary pea, and you’re assured that your nosy neighbor’s next sleep will be eternal. A sip of tea laced with oleander and those salesmen who ring your doorbell will soon be pushing up daisies.

  (Helpful hint: corpses make great fertilizer!)

  All of SeedPlenish’s new employees must sit through a human resources video that explains what the company does, and how it does it.

  The public version, anyway.

  There are sixty others in the auditorium with me, including Jack, Abu, and Arnie. Most of them stare at the wall-sized screen in front of us, where a thirty-something actress and actor—pretending to be farmers, but wearing jeans much too new, and blue oxford shirts much too creased—espouse SeedPlenish’s sales pitch: from-seed-to-store, the journey presents a well-fed world with folksy phrases that are sure to make us all drink the corn syrup-laced Kool-Aid.

  We are also told that genetically modified seeds aren’t just the future, but the present (check), and that “traited” (that is, GMO or biotechnically-altered) seeds are safe to use. (I hold myself back from shouting at the top of my lungs “Not true about at least one particular corn seed, so beware!”)

  Arnie’s eyes are elsewhere: specifically on the screen of his laptop. Now that he’s armed with an employee ID, he has easily hacked into SeedPlenish’s secure cloud. Right now, he’s busy downloading its sales and seed distribution files. He’s also forwarding the company’s files and correspondence between its banking and investment partners to Jack.

  As for me, he’s sent me the personnel file on my new boss, Dr. Wellborne. He has two undergraduate degrees, not to mention masters and doctoral degrees, all from Stanford, in various fields: Biology, Genetics, and Bioengineering.

  Ms. Conover, SeedPlenish’s quote-unquote “in-house corporate evangelist” (CorporateSpeak for Human Resources Director), roams between the aisles of chairs, like a nun on the hunt for students passing smutty notes. I’ve just finished reading Dr. Wellborne's bio when I realize she’s only a few feet away from me. I barely have time to swipe to a different screen on my iPad. Unfortunately, it’s one of a Jimmy Fallon’s now-classic late night video in which he’s in a lip-sync battle with Joseph Gordon Levitt and Stephen Merchant.

  Note to self: no more surfing the Web on Acme-issued devices.

  As Stephen twerks to Beyonce’s incomparable lyrics, “If you liked it then you should have put a ring on it—” Ms. Conover’s brow disappears in the thick recesses of her razor-straight bangs. “Excuse me, Ms. Stone, I have to ask: do you think that you’re giving me and your colleagues a full 110 percent right now?”

  “Um…Sorry! I just…it was a mistake.” I slam the iPad face down on the table in front of me. Finding the MUTE button would have been wiser, considering the snickers when Beyonce’s anthem crescendos into the chorus “All the single ladies—”

  Jack reaches over and does the honors. Neither he nor I miss the look on Ms. Conover’s face when he honors her with his dazzling smile.

  No surprise, she forgets she was scolding me, let alone that I’m even here.

  When she’s finally able to break his spell, she throws her arms wide, as if to embrace everyone in the room. “Ms. Stone, your co-workers are about to embark on a marvelous journey, up SeedPlenish’s strategic ladder. As they climb each glorious step, they’ll be met with promotions, raises, stock options…” She pauses at the thought. Then, as if she’s finally seen the light, she leans in and hisses, “So do yourself a favor—don’t get left behind.”

  As I look around, I’m met with anxious frowns.

  And one smirk—Jack’s, of course.

  I scratch my forehead with my middle finger. Jack takes the hint.

  Smothering his grin, he asks, “Excuse me, Ms. Conover, is it lunch time?” The question sounds innocent enough—if you didn’t notice that it came with a wink.

  “Why…um, yes, it is.” She winks back, then claps her hands at the rest of us. “The company cafeteria is to the left and down the hall. You have one hour. Please take your campus maps and find your way to your department, where your superiors are waiting to brief you on your new duties, once you return.”

  Other than a free lunch, I hope he gets something out of her.

  Or maybe not. If anyone knows the best place to (in a full bastardization of CorporateSpeak) let him climb her strategic ladder in order to drill down 110-percent, it’s got to be the corporate evangelist.

  “So, you’re the new girl…woman…whatever.” Dr. Thomas Wellborne must like what he sees because he quits smacking his gum in order to give me the once-over. If he ever resembled the profile photo on the company website, it was at least fifteen years, forty pounds, and a full head of hair ago.

  “Donna will do,” I assure him.

  “Okay, Donna it is.” He shrugs as he leans in—a bit too close, if you ask me—in order to shake my hand.

  When I take a step back, he gets the message: Down, boy…man…whatever.

  “How good are you at burying paperwork?” He nods toward my new desk, which is located in a large filing room in the building housing the R&D department. There is a five-hundred-acre cornfield between it and the rest of the company’s corporate campus. Forget being as high as an elephant’s eye. The twenty-foot corn stalks beyond the room’s two-story window undulate under a gentle breeze like a bamboo forest.

  I look down at the mess. “Got a shovel?”

  Frankly, a wind not much stiffer than the one blowing outside the window is all it would take for the mountain of folders and binders to begin the inevitable avalanche.

  He shrugs. “Hey, don’t blame me. My past two assistants left a lot to be desired. One was out in six months. The last little lady did her one better: one week and out. Jesus, you’d think I was some sort of slave driver, or an abusive boyfriend or something!” Hoping to entice me, he raises his bushy brows twice, then licks his lips, as if I’m a pork chop.

  When I don’t take the hint, he reaches beyond me for a file. It grazes my breast as he opens it and scans the first sheet. “Just what I thought! She never even got around to last quarter’s results. Why don’t you start with this pile of folders? Each batch of seeds is numbered. My field researchers assess our la
test test seeds by notating the growth of each stalk.”

  “I’m surprised this wasn’t done by computer.”

  He chuckles. “Even iPad screens aren’t easy to read in bright sunlight. Which is where she came—and now, you come…in.” This lame pun is his lame excuse to give me a wink. “You’ll scan these sheets on that thing.” He slaps the desktop copier on the credenza. “That way, the data ends up where all pertinent divisions of SeedPlenish can access it: research, sales, marketing, even accounting.” He’s under the impression that leaning against the wall makes him look sexier.

  Losing his potbelly would be a better move. You’d think he’d figure this out when his gut knocks a couple of the folders onto the floor.

  “It’s a fairly big job. I better get to work.” I bend quickly to catch yet another falling folder.

  Bad move by me. The next thing I know, his hand is cupping my ass.

  Worse move by him, because the next thing he knows is that I’m twisting his nuts.

  He yelps, but gets the lay of the land and skedaddles back down to the first floor where the rest of the R&D staff are holed up, playing mad scientist with the genetic makeup of God’s bounty.

  Good riddance. I’m not here to bury dead files that no one will ever read, or to be a plaything to some horny clown in a lab coat. I’m here to learn whether the killer seeds are already out the door.

  I stare out the window. Twenty-eight silos are lined up on the north side of the field, identical aluminum sentries reflecting bright rays in full sunlight. I have to shield my eyes in order to look at them. They stand at least thirty feet tall, and ladders go up one side. They are elevated, and their bottoms are coned so that the bags of seeds held within can be funneled into SeedPlenish’s delivery trucks. Right now, bags are being dropped from Silo Number 18.

  Which one contains the killer seeds?

  By jove, I think I’ve found them—thanks to Jilly, whomever she is.