The Housewife Assassin's Garden of Deadly Delights (2 page)

Heck, I wouldn’t try it myself. But he’s got no choice. Once again, he takes off—

And so does Buddha. It slips out of his pocket and clatters as it rolls down the roof’s tiles, toward the street.

Realizing this, the courier brakes. He whips around.

This time, my bullet pierces him right between the eyes.
 

His head jerks back, but he’s still holding on tight as his bike flies off the roof. The engine’s roar can be heard echoing off the old walls of the alley below.
 

I spring from my Ducati and lunge for the Buddha. I grasp the figurine just as it falls off the roof—

But my balance is no better than Buddha’s. I need one hand to hold him. The other holds tight to the building’s gutter.

I’m dangling four stories over Grant Street, but at least I’m still alive.

For the moment, anyway. One by one, the rusty hinges that hold the copper gutter against the ancient Victorian groan as they give way.
 

I have only a few seconds to assess my situation. On the floor below me, a line of wash—several pairs of granny panties, diapers, and a sheet or two—is strung from one window to another. Two floors below it, an awning hangs over the entry of a street-level shop. It must be a bakery because the people streaming in and out are munching on sweet buns, petit fours, and almond cookies.

Ah, good times.
 

“Let go,” Jack murmurs in my ear bud. Sometimes I resent the omnipotence of Acme’s surveillance capabilities. I’ve got to admit, I appreciate it this very second.

“Only if you catch me,” I grumble.
 
As if.

“Let’s give it a shot.”

“Are you crazy? You can’t see me through the awning! At the same time, I’ll need the awning to break my fall!”

“I’ve got Arnie’s eyes on you too, remember?”

“This will be fun!” Arnie pipes up. “We’ll be like firemen catching a baby falling from a burning building.”

Somewhere up in the heavens Arnie watches as I shake my head adamantly. “This isn’t a game! It’s my life!”

“Don’t you trust me?” Jack teases me with his low chuckle.
 

Another hinge springs from the wall and drops onto the awning.
 

“Jump at the count of three,” Jack suggests.
 

The gutter squeals as it swings away from the ledge. “Yeah, okay,” I agree reluctantly.

“One,” Jack says, “two—”

Too late.
 

I scream, “Three!” as I plummet four stories, tearing down the wash line as I go.
 

“A little to your left, Jack,” Arnie says. “No…no I meant
my
left! Um—your right!”

Talk about the blind leading the blind.

The awning sags when I hit it, but thank goodness it’s Sunbrella and I’m flung back into the air.
 

“Change of course! Change of course!” Arnie yells in my ear.

“I think I’ll wing this,” Jack assures him, if not me.

This time when I drop, I tear through the awning, but I’m able to seize a large swath of it and cling to it.

Jack holds tight too, as I land in his arms.

He cradles me until I’m ready to be set down.
 

There is a crowd around us. At first they stare, but soon they’re cheering.
 

Especially when he kisses me. “Donna Stone, will you marry me?”
 

“Really?” I pout. “Jack Craig, which one of your five brain cells told you this is the time or the place?”

“Romantic San Francisco, a cheering crowd—” He sighs when he sees my frown. “Okay, you’re right. I want a do-over.”

“Just one,” I warn him. “So make it count.”

Noting the Buddha in my hand, one of the women working the bakery counter exclaims in Mandarin, “You see? Buddha brings good luck!”
 

I hope she’s right. But something tells me that what he holds portends doom and gloom.

That doesn’t mean I’ll pass on the cookie she hands me.

Call it comfort food. Besides, I’ve worked off a few calories. I deserve it.

Chapter 2

Family

The term “family” is the classification for plants that consist of similar genera. In most cases, plant families have similar needs for light, soil, and water. Shovels, hoes, and rakes are the tools that allow you to keep them healthy. Sprinkle liberally with organic fertilizer.

For humans, the term “family,” is much the same—our siblings and we spring from the fertile loins of a mother and father, who in turn sprang from the fertile loins of their parents.
 

Usually, human families have similar likenesses and dispositions. However, they are usually prone to petty squabbles, sibling rivalries and long-term jealousies, all the more reason to keep the hoes, rakes, and shovels out of reach when tempers flare.
 

Instead, nurture your family with kind words, and wonderful treats—none of which should be sprinkled with fertilizer, organic or other.

I knock quickly before opening Jeff’s bedroom door. “You’ve been on your computer for two hours straight,” I warn my twelve-year-old son. “Are you still working on homework?”

Before I can look at his computer, Jeff slams it shut.
 

Hmmm.
 

When a child looks guilty, a mother’s mind is like a Quantum supercomputer, calculating all the possible variables as to why. Has he done, or said, anything that will bring shame on him or his family? If not, then what can she do, or say, to stop him before it’s too late?
 

To his credit, Jeff doesn’t have a devious bone in his body. Nor has he given me any reason to acquisition a full Interpol surveillance operation on him (whereas his older sister, Mary, has come close several times).
 

But a couple of months ago, he had the misfortune of walking into a terrorist situation at the hotel in which his school was holding its prom. Not only was he taken hostage, he was almost beheaded.
 

All the more reason to cut him some slack. Nothing changes a person’s perspective quicker than a close call with death.

So that he’ll presume I’m off the scent, I walk over to his bed on the pretense of straightening his comforter. Ever watchful, he swivels his desk chair. He attempts a faint smile, but it cannot mask the sadness in his eyes. As I ease down onto his bed, I ask, “What are you working on?”

“Finishing a project. Current Events.” He shrugs. “Mr. Karman says it counts as half our grade, and it’s due tomorrow.”

I prop a pillow behind my back. “What did you choose as your topic?”

Jeff purses his lips. “Terrorism.” He winces as he waits for my reaction.

I nod nonchalantly. “Timely topic.”

He seems relieved that it hasn’t upset me.
 

Actually, it has, but he doesn’t need to know this. To cover this up, I force a smile on my face. “How is your paper coming?”

“There’s so much information on it that it’s practically writing itself.” He opens his laptop. When the screen comes up, he beckons me forward. I stand over him as he pulls up several PowerPoint pages. “Look here! When mapping terrorism over the past fifty years, we see growth in the number of attacks, which now top out at over seven thousand per year around the world”—he points to a bar graph that calls out each year from 1974 to now—“whereas each year is substantially greater than the last three columns spike almost sky high. Also, the predominance of acts have shifted from South America to Middle-Eastern countries.”
 

He taps another chart, which lists the countries affected over the past three years. “Over the past few years, threats have increased by over fifty percent, and the number of actual jihadists has doubled.”

“Look here.” I point to one statistic. “The attacks occurring in the United States relate to hacker attacks.” Does he notice the relief in my voice?

“Except for Oklahoma City, which was homegrown, and the Boston Marathon attack. And of course 9/11. But yes, for now, most attacks are computer related. But look at this chart on threat levels,” he warns me. “Many of those joining up hold United States passports. And they’ll be fighting with weapons our army has left in their countries.”
 

He scowls at the screen, as if he could wish away this nightmare scenario.

He can’t. None of us can. All we can do is prepare for the worst. It looks like he’s figured this out too.
 

“Your research is impeccable.”

“Mr. Karman showed us a few tricks on how to best utilize the Internet for research. He can find anything. He also teaches Computer Science. I whizzed through Java and C++. Right now, I’m learning Ruby on Rails.”

“Wow, Jeff, that’s pretty heady stuff!”
 

“So far, I’m the only one that gets it.” Jeff ducks his head, proud and embarrassed at the same time.

Just then, Trisha runs into the room and collapses on the floor. “Mommy, it’s time—remember?”

I shake my head. “Remind me again, crazy little one?”

She slaps her hands on her cheeks. “How could you forget? You’re going to help me with my Daisy Scout project!”

I glance at my watch. “But I have to pick up Mary from school.” Suddenly an idea comes to me. I squeeze Jeff’s shoulder. “Jeff, what do you say to helping Trisha awhile, just until I get back?”

He frowns first at Trisha, then at me. “Well…okay. As long as it’s not too girly. What do I have to do?”

“Frankly, it’s a wonderful lesson in wilderness survival. Your sister needs to identify edible plants, and create a sample box of them. She has a book that describes every plant on the list. Several of them can be found in my herb garden, out back. All you have to do is to hang with Trisha as she finds the right ones, then watch her as she snips off a leaf or two. Make sure she doesn’t eat them until I get home, so that I can confirm she’s on the right track. This weekend, we’ll take a walk in the woods behind Hilldale Park, where we should be able to find the rest of them.”

He nods. “Okay, sure.”
 

Trisha squeals as she gives her big brother a hug. Jeff flinches. I know him well enough to realize that his first instinct is to swat her away, but then his face softens and he gives Trisha a swift kiss. Jeff has learned the hard way that we must cherish those who love and adore us.

To justify his change of heart, he shrugs, adding, “Besides, knowing that stuff will come in handy for me too.”

“Why do you say that?” I ask.

He taps the computer screen with a finger. “Based on these statistics, so long fast food. I’m staying away from malls.”

I tussle his hair. “Why is that, my love?”

He shrugs. “I never want to be in the wrong place at the wrong time again in my life.”
 

I’m glad he turns back to the computer before he sees me wince. It pains me to think that he’ll never feel totally safe again.

I have to get my family to focus on living life to the fullest.

The sooner, the better.

I’m arriving late enough at Hilldale High School that the lacrosse team’s practice should be over by now. If so, our semi-permanent houseguest, Evan Martin, can also catch a ride home with Mary and me.
 

I park my SUV in the lot closest to the school’s gym. Mary will be inside, where the girl’s junior varsity basketball team is practicing before the varsity team takes its place.

I’m about to walk in when I see Evan on the field adjacent to the gym, where the lacrosse team is practicing. I walk over to the practically empty bleachers and take a seat on the first row, so that I can watch the last few moments of the scrimmage. My timing couldn’t be more perfect. Just at that moment Evan spins off a defender, catches a pass on the run, and sticks it in the net.

The only other people on the bleachers are three girls who are bunched together on the top row. Evan’s maneuver elicits ear-piercing squeals from this ad hoc cheering squad who then lapse into a cacophony of giggles.
 

“Oh, my God! He’s
sooooo
awesome!” one of the girls exclaims with a trill of high-pitched giggles.