The Devil Wears Tank Tops

by Destiny Ford

  Considering his job, that made sense. “Good dealings, or bad?”

  “Depends on the issue.”

  Great.

  I went through all the information and found out the Brigham Smith Group was a lobbyist organization that routinely campaigned for what they viewed as moral, conservative causes. They invested in companies with similar beliefs as well. I had no idea what their involvement was, but I was pretty sure getting everyone in Utah high on pot cookies wasn’t on their mission statement. The only thing I could think of was that maybe someone was trying to discredit Isaac Handler or the Brigham Smith Group by spiking their cookies with pot.

  I was taking notes on the information when my phone rang with Neil’s song, “Glory Road.”

  “Hi, honey.”

  “Hey, Dad. How’s it going?”

  “Well, your mother hasn’t sunk any of our cars lately, so I guess I should be thankful for that.”

  Clearly, he was still stinging over the mouse-tie, mustang-boat excursion. I would be too.

  “I’d put that one in the win column. It’s the little victories, Dad.”

  He sighed. “When I have a heart attack, you can tell her it’s her fault.”

  “She’d make you cookies to say she’s sorry. She’d probably even invent a no sugar and no butter recipe for you.”

  “Well, that wouldn’t be much of an apology then, would it. She recently switched our milk from whole to skim with no warning at all. Said it was a simple change to make us healthier and live longer. Her disasters have a far worse effect on my health than whole milk. Skim milk is like drinking colored water. If living longer means drinking that, I want no part of it. I’ve been sneaking out to get my milk fix.”

  “And no one’s told on you yet?” Sheesh! My whereabouts were constantly reported on Facebook and Twitter. How had he managed to stay under the radar?

  “The convenience store manager owes me a favor.”

  I doodled a flower on my notes while I talked, “You better hope Mom never finds out. You’ll get the evil eye.” My mom had this look she got when she was really mad about something where her eyes almost rolled completely back in her head and you could only see the whites, no iris. Eyes weren’t made to move that way unless demons were behind them. I was sure she was stretching something that absolutely shouldn’t be stretched.

  “If she finds out, I’ll remind her about the Mustang and all of her other adventures, and tell her the least she could do would be to allow me the simple pleasure of decent milk.”

  I laughed.

  “Speaking of your mom, that’s why I called.”

  “What’s up?”

  “After her situation with the Mustang and the mouse, I took her in for a doctor appointment. They ran some tests, and there was an interesting result.”

  I wasn’t sure whether to be intrigued, or scared. “What was it?”

  “They did blood work to see if there was something strange in her system, and there was. THC.”

  Now my eyes were doing things they weren’t made to do. I gasped, “Mom too?” I should have put two and two together earlier, but my mom’s antics this past week were pretty normal for her, so her level of crazy wasn’t a good baseline measurement. I’d only taken notice of the crazy things that were unusual for most Branson residents. Now that I thought about it, though, her hallucinations being induced by the Saints and Sinners Cookies made perfect sense. She’d eaten bags of them in a very short time period, trying to figure out the secret ingredients.

  There was a pause on the other end, then, “There are others with similar test results?”

  My mind was racing. Hallucinations were a side effect for some pot users, and it seemed my mom was one of them. “So far, only one other person, but I haven’t checked for other patients with the same issue, yet.” It was on my list of things to do today.

  “What do you think is causing it? The doctors had no idea.”

  I brushed some hair back, away from eyes. “Well, THC comes from people who smoke pot. But since mom and the other person who had it in their system aren’t pot smokers, I think they’ve been ingesting it.”

  I’d done some research on ingestible pot this morning to see if the symptoms matched what had happened to Opie. People who ingested pot got high thirty to sixty minutes after eating, and their high typically lasted four to six hours—longer if the pot was high strength. The high also lasted longer than someone who’d smoked the pot. In Opie’s case, if he’d been eating the cookies all day, he would have stayed high all day. It surprised me no one else had noticed the change in his behavior. Also, if the cookies were spiked with pot, it would be easy to eat too much and not know it…which is what probably happened to my mom. She was determined to replicate the ingredients.

  “Where in the world would she have eaten pot?” My dad sounded completely perplexed—which was new for him since he’d stopped trying to figure out the whys and hows of my mom’s life a long time ago.

  “I think it’s in the new Saints and Sinners Cookies. Don’t let her have any more of those!”

  My dad muttered something about cookies under his breath. I caught the hint of a swear—and not an imitation one.

  “I’m still doing some research, but as soon as I have proof, we’ll publish the story about it, and the cookies probably won’t be available much longer.”

  “Good. Until then, I’ll make sure your mom doesn’t get any more. She went crazy trying to figure out their recipe.”

  “I know. Don’t let her keep trying. She doesn’t have the proper ingredients, and the last thing we need is her trying to track down a drug dealer to get pot for her baking.”

  I could practically feel my dad’s blood pressure rising at the thought. Lord only knows what she’d get herself into if she tried. I didn’t think drug dealers would be too interested in her charms, or her attempts to get out of trouble by offering treats.

  “I’ll take care of it,” he said. “Be careful investigating, sweetie.”

  “Thanks, Dad.”

  I hung up the phone and called Annie.

  “I need your help with something. It might get you in trouble.”

  She laughed. “Trouble is my middle name.”

  “Can you find out if anyone other than Opie has been admitted to the hospital recently with THC in their system?”

  “Sure. Is something going on that I should know about?”

  “Something might be going on that everyone should know about, but I need more information first.”

  “Okay,” she said. “Let me make some calls and I’ll get back to you.”

  I hung up with Annie, and immediately called Hawke.

  “I hope you’re calling to tell me you’re at my house and naked,” he said instead of ‘hello.’

  I smiled at the thought. “Unfortunately, no.”

  “That’s sad for both of us.”

  Yes, it really was. “I have some information I thought you might be interested in. My dad took my mom to the hospital after she tried to sink his Mustang. They just got the test results back, and she had THC in her blood. The closest she’s ever come to marijuana is when she watches Locked up Abroad. Thanks to that dumb show, she won’t travel anywhere.”

  “Well,” Hawke said with a smile in his voice, “people are probably safer if she stays confined to Branson.”

  “That’s the truth.”

  “She’d be fine as long as she didn’t try to smuggle anything on her trip.”

  “This is my mother we’re talking about. If it can go wrong it will. It’s best to use whatever scare tactics we have available to keep her chaos-causing to a minimum. She wouldn’t do well in jail.”

  “I’d save her.”

  Hawke and my mom had developed an interesting friendship in the last couple of months. Maybe it had to do with their mutual interest in me, but I wasn’t entirely sure. I think my mom liked having Hawke around because she liked his danger factor. I couldn’t blame her. I found that rather appealing as we
ll—for a different reason than my mom…I hoped. And I had no doubt about Hawke’s abilities to do any saving needed. He’d probably fly his plane into the prison yard and rescue her himself.

  “Don’t tell her that. She’ll be even more reckless than usual if she knows she’s got you as a trump card.”

  He laughed.

  I moved the subject back to the cookies. “I think other people who had the cookies will have the same blood results as my mom.”

  “Do you have someone helping you get that information?”

  I tapped my pen on my desk, dotting my notebook with little specks of ink. “Yeah, for the hospital results. How long do you think it will be before you hear back from your lab about the cookies?”

  “Not long. I’ll call you as soon as I know.”

  “Thanks, Hawke.” I hung up.

  I was typing up notes from my conversations when Annie called me back.

  “I have some info for you,” she said.

  “Hit me.”

  “I couldn’t get names for the results, or even all of the results—I don’t have those kinds of favors to call in—but I was able to confirm that in the last three weeks, several people in Branson have had blood work done where THC was found in their systems.”

  I knew it! “How many is several?”

  “I don’t have exact numbers, but more than twenty.”

  Surprise crossed my face as I scribbled down notes. “That’s a lot.” And those were just the people who sought out medical help. That would be good information to use in the story, though I’d have to cite Annie as a secret informant. I didn’t want her to get in trouble for helping me.

  “I also have another interesting bit of info.”

  “I’d love to hear it.”

  “The ER has been overrun with sick people, and it started about three weeks ago. The EMT shifts too. The hospital has called extra staff in, and all of the employees are working overtime.” I remembered Bobby had said the same thing about the emergency responders. “Everyone seems to have similar symptoms: sweating, increased heart rate, vomiting, fatigue, hallucinations. Those symptoms can be indicative of a lot of problems, but specifically heart attacks, food poisoning, and the flu. We’ve been seeing the same symptoms on a lot of our EMT calls as well.”

  Based on the research I’d done this morning, they were all also symptoms of ingesting too much pot. People in Branson really liked their cookies. “That is very interesting. I can’t thank you enough, Annie. That helps me out a lot.”

  “No problem. Anything else I can do?”

  “Not right now, but I might have some questions later. And I owe you dinner for your help.”

  She snorted. “I think you just asked me out on a date.”

  “I did. Wait until the Ladies hear about that. Prepare yourself, because you’re about to become a lesbian.”

  “You’d be my first choice if I switched teams.”

  I smiled. “I’m flattered.”

  She laughed. “Call me if you need an orgasm.”

  I was still laughing as I clicked off.

  At this point, I was one-hundred percent certain the cookies were spiked with pot. I didn’t have the final test from Hawke yet, but I was excited about what I knew so far, and I wanted to be able to run with the story as soon as possible. A current of energy ran through me; it was almost as good as mainlining espresso. I loved the feeling of an investigation finally falling into place, and getting to write the story about it.

  I got out my notes, and wrote the article as if I had the test results, and would just need to make a few changes when Hawke gave me the information. I cited anonymous sources in the article to protect my sources, and left another message at Makhai, LLC. Our private investigator had given me Isaac Handler’s phone number, and I tried to reach him as well, but only got a voice mail. They really needed to hire someone to answer their phones, or at least to return calls. I left a message, and hoped Isaac Handler would call me back before news about the pot was revealed and his cookie company became enemy number one.

  I spent the rest of the day writing and re-writing the story. I finished the article and leaned back in my chair, stretching. It would need Spence’s editing eye, and I’d have to make changes once I had Hawke’s results, but I was happy with it. I still didn’t know why the cookies had been spiked with drugs, or how, but I’d write follow-up stories once I knew more. Right now, the public needed to know what was going on. I had no problem with pot, or food infused with pot, but I knew a lot of people in Branson would, and would prefer to know if they were ingesting it. Plus, there were people like Opie who could have serious health repercussions from eating pot. They needed to know the ingredients as soon as possible so they could regulate the amounts. Also, getting the cookies off shelves would probably help decrease the crazy going on around town.

  I was packing up my stuff to leave for the night when I heard my computer bing with an email notification. I glanced at it as I put my notepad and camera in my bag. The address wasn’t one I recognized, but a lot of news tip emails came to the Tribune accounts from addresses I didn’t know. So while most people would have ignored messages from strange addresses and sent them to their junk folder, I actually had to open mine. The subject line made me think it was spam. It said:

  WARNING.

  I pushed my brows together and clicked to open the email. It was short, only a few lines. It said:

  Stop investigating Saints and Sinners Cookies. The next warning won’t be as friendly.

  My lips flattened into a line as I glared at the screen. A surefire way to make a reporter investigate a story with reckless abandon was to tell them they had to stop. We all harbored visions of cracking a huge story and winning a Pulitzer. I’d been threatened before—this wouldn’t be my first threat situation, or my last. Still, the email didn’t make me thrilled. I thought back to the people I’d talked to about the cookies and THC so far. All of the baked goods fair judges, Annie, Hawke, Spence, my dad…and they could have slipped and mentioned it to anyone. That didn’t help me narrow down the threat.

  Whoever was sending the message was keeping track of my investigation, and knew exactly what I was doing. I decided I should probably tell Spence.

  I called him over and explained the situation. He leaned his hands on my desk and read the email. Judging by the vein pulsing in his neck, and the tight muscles in his forearms, he wasn’t pleased. “Are you still taking self-defense lessons?” he asked.

  I’d had a rather memorable self-defense lesson with Hawke this past summer, but I was pretty sure the moves he taught me would be more beneficial in a someone-wants-to-kiss-my-clothes-off setting, and wouldn’t help me out much in a someone-wants-to-kill-me situation. Though I wasn’t averse to learning any of Hawke’s skills. Not at all. “I remember the basics.”

  “And you still have the alarm on your house?”

  “The one that Drake threatened to install without my permission?”

  He nodded.

  “No. I made the installer stop, then had an argument with Drake about it.” I didn’t like being managed. However, having people constantly going into my house without my knowledge made me regret my decision. I should probably call an alarm company and have them install one for me.

  “I don’t like this, Kate. I don’t want any of my employees in danger, and since you came back to Branson, you’ve already been in danger once. It’s happening again.”

  I shrugged as I picked up the slinky on my desk and started moving it from one hand to the other. “And it will probably continue to happen. I tend to piss people off. If you didn’t want me in danger, then you probably should have hired another editor, because there aren’t many things I’m afraid of.”

  “I know. That’s what worries me.”

  “It’s fine. I’ll be okay.”

  He breathed out a sigh. “Just be careful,” he said, “and if anything ever seems fishy, call me—or someone—to come and be your backup.”

  I nodded
. That, at least, was something I could agree to.

  “Hey,” I said, changing the subject from my possible impending death. I liked living in denial. “Where’s Ella lately?” I hadn’t seen her for a couple of days, and hadn’t had any Facebook updates either. She only worked a few days a week, but she was often in the office a lot more than that because she liked the company.

  “She’s been sick. She said she’s feeling better now, though, and she’ll probably come in tomorrow.”

  “Oh.” I frowned, wondering if she was okay. I didn’t like the idea of our cute archivist being sick. “I didn’t know. I’m glad she’s feeling better.”

  “Me too. Ella sick, you being threatened, the whole town on drugs. It’s enough to give me an ulcer.”

  “At least your life isn’t boring.”

  “Is that the rationale you use for dealing with your mom?”

  I gave a surprised look. “How did you know?”

  “It rolled off your tongue like you’d said it before—frequently.”

  I laughed, and went home for the night.

  I looked through my fridge and cupboards for food. I barely even had pantry staples. It wasn’t just because of money—though that was definitely a factor. Small town newspaper editors make less than teachers. My lack of groceries was also because I could rarely find time to go to the grocery store. It seemed like I was always being called away on stories and would have to abandon my milk and ice cream. And the stupid store wasn’t open on Sunday, the one day of the week I usually had more free time because people were in church and didn’t cause as much news. I scrounged together some bread, butter, and cheese, and made myself a grilled cheese sandwich. Dinner of champions.

  I sat down to watch TV when I heard a knock. I opened my door and my lips lifted at the familiar, sculpted jawline and smile that stared back at me.

  “Can I come in?” Hawke asked.

  He was not someone I’d turn away. “Always.”

  He smiled, and stepped through the door. He settled on the couch, then patted the cushion next to him. “I have some information for you.”