by Josie Brown
Next up for the Stone shuttle service: Dropping Trisha at Lion’s Lair, Hilldale’s most palatial estate, which the fourth estate has dubbed, “the Western White House.” I guess I shouldn’t complain, since that distinction by the media has doubled home prices in Hilldale.
“You remember what we’ll be doing this weekend, right?” Trisha asks.
I hate to tell her that I may be visiting a killer in a minimum-security prison. Instead, I say, “Working on your plant project?”
“Yes, but what else?” she prods gently.
“Okay, I give up.”
Trisha sighs heavily at my memory loss. “Deliver Daisy Scout cookies!” At the thought, she hops up and down in her seat. “I’ve already made up a list of all our friends and family who ordered some. And Aunt Phyllis has already promised that if we have any boxes left over, she’ll take me with her to Bingo one night next week, so that we can buttonhole all the people there.” She frowns. “Mommy, what does ‘buttonhole’ mean?”
“It means to ask, hopefully as politely as possible.”
“Oh!” Trisha nods as this sinks in. “So, it’s not the same thing as ‘strong-arm’?”
It’s my turn to sigh. “That depends on who’s doing it. If it’s your Aunt Phyllis, more than likely, it’s the same thing. However, if it’s you or me”—I tweak her nose—“it’s better that we buttonhole, because strong-arming really means forcing someone to do something that they may not want to do.”
“In other words, it’s not nice.” She gives me the high sign. “Don’t worry, Mommy. I’ll always ask politely.”
A moment later, we pull up at Lion’s Lair. The estate has always had an impressive gate. Since Lee became president, a guardhouse has been added. I pull out my driver’s license. A uniformed officer checks a manifest and waves us through.
We drive to the front rotunda to find Janie waiting outside to greet us—
With Lee.
Be careful what you wish for…
Janie runs to the passenger side of the car, where Trisha sits, but Lee is sauntering my way.
Trisha smacks a kiss on my cheek before grabbing her overnight bag and flying out the door. The girls hug each other so hard that it almost brings tears to my eyes, so I glance away.
When I look back over, Trisha catches my eye and waves. She watches curiously as Lee leans down so that we’re eye level.
“A pleasure to see you again, Mrs. Stone,” he says.
“And you, Mr. President. So glad you and the family have made it home for a few days.”
“This time around, it’s just Janie and me. Babette chose to stay in D.C. She’s hosting a few Middle Eastern dignitaries.”
“Sorry to have missed her.” Not.
As if reading my mind, he laughs raucously. Curious, Trisha looks over, at us. I wave to her, as if saying, Everything is fine.
Not.
Janie, who is describing the new dress she’ll be wearing to an upcoming state dinner, is oblivious to the look in her stepfather’s eye when he smiles down at me. Trisha sees it, however. It puts a frown on her face.
“Do you have a few minutes for a chat?” Lee asks.
“I wish I could but I was in the middle of putting dinner on the table.”
“I’m sure Jack won’t mind if you take a few moments to update me on what you’ve been up to lately. Isn’t that why you called me? I insist you stay for dinner too.”
He’s got me there. I purse my lips to keep from frowning. “Um…sure. I’ll have to text Aunt Phyllis to remind her to pull out the lasagna, and to serve dinner without me. I turn off the car engine. I’d hoped to deliver the bad news about the Exodus seeds by phone instead. Oh well.
I know I should call Jack too, but I’d rather just explain when I get home.
Yes, okay, I’ll admit it: I’m a coward.
“No problem,” Lee says. “Take your time.”
He watches as I tap out the message, then he opens the car door for me and takes my hand to help me out.
He keeps his hand on the small of my back as we move toward the home’s grand entrance.
His move is noticed by Trisha. I can tell she doesn't like what she sees because she scowls.
When we’re inside the grand foyer, he turns to Janie. “You girls can go and play. Mrs. Stone and I will be in the library until dinner is served.”
Trisha tugs my hand. I bend down so that she can whisper in my ear: “Mommy, don’t let him strong-arm you.”
If only she knew.
Lee and I are not alone after all.
In fact, we’re on a conference call. Lee begins, “Donna Stone, I’d like to introduce you to Secretary of Agriculture Harkness.”
“A pleasure,” a gruff voice mutters via Lee’s speakerphone. Lee must also note the obvious tension in the man’s voice, because he grimaces.
“And, of course, your superior, Ryan Clancy, is also on the line.”
“Donna, good of you to join us.” I note the surprise in Ryan’s voice.
“And Ryan tells me your mission leader, Jack Craig, is there in the office with him.” Lee winks at me, as if to say, Gotcha. “Good evening, Jack.”
“Hello, Mr. President,” Jack’s voice is civil. After a pause, he adds, “And Donna.”
Not so civil.
Oh, well. As far as Jack is concerned, I don’t have hope for the rest of the conversation, let alone the rest of the night.
Lee motions me to the couch. I presumed he’d take one of the wingback chairs flanking it, but I’m wrong. He waits until I lower myself onto it before sitting beside me.
When he reaches over to reposition the speakerphone, our knees touch. He doesn’t pull away.
“I read Ryan’s report on the containment of the Exodus seeds to date,” Lee begins. “From what I understand from Secretary Harkness, both the SeedPlenish supply, and the Clements’ fields, have been razed and tilled, and all silos have been emptied of their earlage.”
“Another bit of good news,” Ryan says. “One of our operatives, Dominic Fleming has retrieved the funds placed in Wellborne’s Cayman Islands bank account. Our tech team is now tracing the funds’ sender. We should know more about that in a couple of days.”
“Oh?” Lee frowns. “I thought Acme already had intel in its possession that shows MSS’s role in activating Exodus.”
“It does,” Jack says evenly. “But further verification, through a funds trace, gives your administration a major bargaining chip, should—God forbid—the press ever get ahold of this story. This should also be the irrefutable proof the Secretary of State may need to show his Chinese counterpart, in light of concessions that will need to be made.”
“Frankly, I think the trace is a waste of Acme’s time,” Harkness growls.
“Let me be the judge of that,” Lee barks back. He thinks for a moment. Finally, he adds, “Sure, do it. Ryan, report back to me with your results.”
“Jack is running with it, Mr. President. He’ll be happy to follow up—”
Lee interrupts, “That’s okay. I’m sure Donna can keep me abreast, since she’s doing so already.”
Awkward silence.
Lee winks at me.
If he’s expecting a smile for getting me in Dutch with Jack, he’s whistling Dixie in a Nor’easter.
“FDA investigators are interrogating SeedPlenish’s executive staff in regard to both data and containment,” Harkness pipes up. “Any word of this getting out will send SeedPlenish’s stock plummeting, so it’s in everyone’s interest to cooperate.”
“I know SeedPlenish’s chairman personally,” Lee says. “I’d be shocked if it went any higher than Wellborne.”
“Yes, I’m sure it would be nice to clear one of your largest campaign contributors of any wrongdoing,” Jack says dryly. “All the more reason to do a back-end investigation through SeedPlenish’s financials, sales receipts or other connections they have with Chinese companies,” Jack assures him. “If something comes up, you’ll be the first to kno
w.”
“As for the Clements, not only was their livestock cremated, but—well, to be honest, they were too,” Harkness continues.
Scary. But then again, so is the alternative. What if they had lived, and gotten away with this act of terrorism?
Still, I have to ask: “How will it be explained to their next-of-kin?”
Harkness’ guffaw resonates through the room. “We’re lucky that they had none. As for their farm, a third party is purchasing the property at auction. The ground will be dug up five feet deep, eliminating the chance for heirloom seeds to take root.”
“And what about Barnaby Phillips?” Jack asks.
“Mr. Phillips is singing like a catbird,” Harkness assures him. “He confirms that he was approached by Dr. Wellborne to work as the broker for the good doctor’s test farm, and that he was paid a very generous bonus above his commission to do so.”
“Which brings us to Farris Ranch,” says Jack. “Our associate, Abu Nagashahi, confirms that the corn only arrived the night before the stampede. Since our arrival for containment, the FDA has confiscated all the corn on the premises, as well as all the cattle carcasses in the slaughterhouse. Abu also witnessed the extermination of all of the cattle in the feed lot.” He sighs. “However, records at Farris Ranch show that two carcasses—calves, which fed on the corn—were purchased the same day of the stampede, by a private butcher based in Beverly Hills. Donna, you and I are checking into that situation tonight.”
Ironically, I now have my excuse to pass on dinner with Lee.
“And there’s still the corn heading to Fizz Cola in Santa Ana, as well as TasTee Cereals, in Pasadena—not to mention Disneyland,” Jack continues.
“This is turning into a nightmare,” Lee murmurs, just loud enough for me to hear him. He closes his eyes. His head falls back against the couch.
Suddenly, I feel sorry for him. If Acme can’t contain it, the whole world will blame him for what has transpired.
Truly, in all things political, the buck stops with Lee Chiffray.
I should resist the urge to pat his hand, but I don’t.
He takes my hand in his, and squeezes it.
A shiver runs through me. He must feel it too, because he opens his eyes. His attempt at a smile is weak.
And yet, he doesn’t let go.
“Gentlemen—and Mrs. Stone—thank you for your time and insights on this matter. Secretary Harkness, I appreciate your oversight. Ryan, as always, you’ve put together a stellar team. And Jack”—he hesitates—“this is one task in which I don’t envy you.”
This truly is leaving a lot unsaid: In what way does he envy Jack?
I’m not sticking around to find out.
I take my hand out from under his, and stand up.
He stands up too.
But before I can say anything, let alone walk to the door, he kisses me—
On the cheek.
His lips linger, but only for a second. Finally he says, “Stay safe. And by the way, you have a rain check—for tomorrow night. Jack can tag along, if he can stomach eating across from me.”
I nod silently, then hurry out the door. I’m too shocked to say anything.
I come home to find Jeff, Evan, and Aunt Phyllis watching an episode of House of Cards. They chortle at the Macbethian antics of Frank Underwood and his wife, Claire.
I’m sure Jack will be back any time now. I should go upstairs and prepare for whatever awaits us. Instead, I stand at the doorway, watching them enjoy social commentary as dark farce.
Or is it?
Sometimes, I wonder if I’m a pawn in the real game of politics.
Finally, they notice me standing behind them. “All homework done?” I ask half-heartedly.
I only ask them because I know it’s expected of me. Really, I want to shout, Don’t trust anyone! Take cover! Run for the hills! Hide!
But seriously, what good will that do?
It won’t. No one would believe what I have to say. It’s like all those posts we see on activist blogs spouting conspiracy theories. The Kardashians are all anyone cares about.
Forget your troubles. Come on, get happy…
As if.
The boys give grudging waves followed by annoyed nods. Not that I blame them. They are good boys. They know it, and I know it too.
I’m truly blessed in so many ways.
“I have to go out.” My pronouncement doesn’t even earn me a raised eyebrow. “Brush your teeth before bedtime,” I say, again, because it’s expected of me.
And then, it strikes me that I haven’t given Jeff a chance to shine and at the same time make myself happy—or to at least bring a little normalcy into my life. “Jeff, I forgot to ask: how did you do with your Social Studies paper?”
He purses his lips. Finally, he says, "He hasn't graded them yet. We get them back next week some time."
My son is lying to me.
And that, dear reader, is the icing on the cake of my day.
I can’t deal with it now, so I run upstairs to get ready for Jack’s inevitable call to arms.
Chapter 10
Leaching
Leaching is the process in which excess salts or nutrients are removed from your garden’s soil.
Sometimes, this is a good thing. For example, should you determine that your plants have been over-fertilized, you can use large quantities of fresh water to “wash” the soil.
It can also be a bad thing. In areas of extremely high rainfall, sometimes natural leaching takes place. In this case, in order for plants to thrive, an abundance of nutrients have to be introduced to the soil.
Leaching can take place in humans too. In Medieval times, it was presumed that leeches—used for the purpose of bloodsucking—could save one from a fatal illness by freeing your body of tainted blood.
This particular theory has been disproven.
That being said, however, putting a few of those leeches to work on those annoying busybodies who (metaphorically speaking) suck the life out of you may provide you with exactly what you need: nutrient-rich corpses that can help your garden grow.
“How’s Lee?” Jack asks, oh so casually, while we’re on the 405, heading into Beverly Hills.
“As you might expect—worried that this whole thing might blow up in his face.”
He shrugs. “You’re just saying that to make me happy.”
“No, I’m not. I’m saying it because it’s true.” Okay, now to prove that the best defense is a good offense. “I told you before the mission started that I was happy to let you keep Lee up to speed. If you—or for that matter, Ryan—changed your mind, you could have at least told me.”
“Ryan set up the call to Lee, and told me about it just as I walked in. His next call was to be to you.” He shakes his head angrily. “But, apparently, you already knew about the call, or you wouldn’t have been there with Lee in the first place.”
“Wrong again,” I retort. “Janie invited Trisha for a sleepover. I was dropping my daughter off when the president came out to invite me in on the call.”
“Oh? I thought he invited you in for dinner. At least, according to Aunt Phyllis.” He turns toward me just in time to see my face go bright red.
“I…I couldn’t say no, how could I?” I look out my side window. “I mean, would you have said no?”
“Probably not,” he conceded. “But, then again, Lee has never asked me to dine with him.” He pulls up in front of the butcher shop and stops the car.
“You’re wrong,” I declare blithely. “We’re invited to dinner tomorrow night. Perhaps I should bow out, so that you two can come to some kind of understanding as to your roles in my life.”
“That’s for you to say,” Jack says quietly. “Not him—or me. That is, unless you say yes to my umpteenth proposal of marriage. So, what do you say?”
Oh, brother. “Really, Jack Craig? You’re asking me now?”
“I’m just trying to catch you between flirtations. Between missions, near-death experien
ces. Or between, quite literally, catching you.”
“Why don’t you try quote-unquote catching me when it’s just the two of us, enjoying each other’s company without a care in the world? Maybe you’ll get the answer you want!” I jump out of the car, slamming the door after me.
This guy better not give us any grief. Seriously, I’m not in the mood.
It’s after hours at the Beverly Hills Meat Market, but there’s a light on in the rear of the building.
We walk around to that side. Through the frosted transom of the back door, I can make out a shadow of someone swinging something: a cleaver. It’s a one-man operation and the owner’s name is Jimmy Pennypacker, so that must be him.
“I guess we got here just in time,” Jack murmurs. He raps on the door.
The figure’s arm is raised. He freezes when he hears the knock. For the longest time, he does nothing. Finally, the cleaver rattles onto the table as he shuffles toward the door, but he doesn’t open it. “Who the hell is it?” he growls.
“Federal agents, Mr. Pennypacker,” Jack responds. “May we come in?”
“Not until you show me some ID.” The man’s tone is belligerent.
Jack holds up his badge.
Eventually, the man unlocks the door, but he stands in the threshold, making it hard for us to look past him.
He’s big, brawny, and bucktoothed. The bib apron wrapped around his wide girth used to be white, but now it’s so coated with blood that it’s almost black.
“What’s this about?” he mutters.
“Mr. Pennypacker, you purchased some beef this morning, from Farris Ranch. Unfortunately, it’s tainted. We’ve come to retrieve it.”
“It hasn’t yet been distributed to customers, has it?” I ask.
For a second, Pennypacker’s mouth hardens into a snarl. But, just as quickly, it curls back into a bucktoothed grin.
He shrugs. “It’s on the table now, for a dinner tomorrow night. So, who’s going to reimburse me for it?”
Jack hands him a card of one of the FDA agents. “You can take it up with him.”
