The Housewife Assassin's Garden of Deadly Delights (25 page)

My suggestion is met with silence.

“It’ll be fun, and a great experience in teamwork,” I insist. “Isn’t that what Daisy Scouts is all about?” Again, not a peep. But, no one’s hung a noose over the school’s flagpole either, so I push ahead. “Each of us has a favorite cookie recipe. Many are similar to our customers’ favorites. To top it off, nothing is better than a homemade cookie! Am I right?”

A murmur goes through the crowd. I strain my ears for the word “lynching,” and am relieved to hear, “possible” instead.

“Are we supposed to tie up our kitchens for the whole night?” asks one mother. “I can’t do that!”

“And what about the ingredients? Who pays for that?” another chimes in.

“The cost may chip away at our profit, but it’ll still be healthy enough to fund all of this year’s projects,” Lori assures the others.

“As for the kitchen, I’ve got a suggestion,” Miss Darling pronounces. “Why not use the school cafeteria’s kitchen? As for ingredients, as soon as you write down your recipes, Lori and Donna can coordinate a list and send a couple of runners with vans over to Costco.”

“We’ll coordinate an assembly line of mixers, bakers, and packagers,” Lori adds. “For packaging, instead of bags, we can use cellophane tied with ribbon.”

“We can even tag the orders with notes. I’m a lousy baker, but I’m a professional calligrapher, so I’ll offer to write them.”

I grin. “You’re hired.”

A mother shrugs. “I’ve got a killer chocolate mint cookie recipe. It’s better than the Daisy version, if I do say so myself.”

I pull a notebook from the van. “Write it down here. I’ve got something I call a Donna Doodle. It’s similar to a snickerdoodle, but a different combination of spices. It tastes something like pumpkin pie.”

“Yum,” murmurs a mother. “I’d buy that.”

“Great idea! Why don’t we can put together a cookie recipe book, and sell it online?” Lori suggests.

Soon, everyone has bought into my Plan B.
 

Twenty minutes later, we’ve matched recipes to our orders.
 

It’ll be a long night, but from the look of excitement on our daughters’ faces, I know it will be memorable too.

By midnight, the last cookie is wrapped, and ready to go.

Like the rest of the scouts, Trisha nodded off around ten. The girls slept on workout mats in a corner of the cafeteria, while their parents boxed their own orders. Then after checking it twice, they loaded their cookies and sleepy children into their cars and went home.

Miss Darling walks Lori and me to the door. “I’ll supervise the moms who’ve offered to stay behind for cleanup. Go home and get some sleep.”

Lori pulls us into a group hug. “I can’t believe how generous everyone was with their time!”

Miss Darling pats her hand. “Sometimes, it takes a crisis for others to realize what is at stake, and to chip in. If it’s your child’s happiness, you’ll do what you can to be her hero.”

From the proud smiles on every parents’ face tonight, I’d say this troop has a new annual tradition.

The next morning, I text Trisha’s customers that their orders are ready for pick-up or delivery, along with rave reviews by last night’s samplers: the girls themselves.

When Arnie reads that his cookie order is homemade, he’s too excited to wait for me to drop it off at Acme later this afternoon. In order to take the whole order in one trip, he shows up at the house with Abu’s ice cream truck. Abu has tagged along, to help him load it up.
 

Jeff and Evan sit side by side at the kitchen table, teaching Trisha how to reconcile sales and the deliveries being made later by Jack and Aunt Phyllis. Scanning their spreadsheets, Abu whistles softly. “Wow! These sales numbers are phenomenal—not to mention the reviews!”
 

He can’t help himself. He picks one of the Donna Doodles off a plate in the center of the table and takes a bite.
 

“I can see why they get such raves,” he declares. Suddenly, there’s a gleam in his eye. “Donna, I’ve been thinking about the pie shop. Why don’t we add cookies as a different product line?”

“Sure, okay. But, Abu, if we’re successful, are you going to quit Acme and become a franchise mogul?”

His laugh comes out as a snort. For a fleeting moment, his eyes widen at the thought of what could be his final endgame. But then, he sobers up. “As tempting as that is, you and I both know we’d be bored working behind a bakery counter.”

I laugh. “Who said anything about me? I’ve already made my choice.”

“I guess I have too,” Abu says softly.

I give him a hug. “Good, because I would have missed you.”

He shrugs. “Once in the game, always in the game.” He waves as he goes out the back door. The tinkling melody of
The Farmer in the Dell
can be heard as his ice cream truck makes its way down the block.

Evan stops his tallying and clears his throat. “Donna, I’ve made a decision, too—about my mom.”
 

“Okay.” I brace myself for the worst.

“I know how badly you want me to say yes, and I wish in my heart that I could forgive her. At this point in my life, I can’t.” Tears glaze his eyes. “Still, I know that it’s not just my feelings that have to be considered. She has something Acme needs, so I will agree to go, if only for that. But—well, don’t expect me to like it.”

“I don’t, Evan. On Acme’s behalf, I want to thank you for your decision.” In the hope of making our visit seem less formidable, I add, “Jack is joining us. Arnie may, too.” It is Ryan’s idea—not necessarily to intimidate Catherine, but in case accessing her intel needs onsite technical support, or for that matter, more muscle.

Evan shrugs at this news. For him, nothing will turn this into a joyride.
 

As for Catherine, if she’s expecting a happy birthday, she’ll be sadly disappointed.

Learning how badly your child hates you is the worst gift ever.

Chapter 15

Forcing

The process for hastening a plant’s growth to maturity or bloom is called forcing.
 

Can a person also be forced to grow beyond their years? All too often, fate provides a catalyst. Dealing with starvation, living in a war zone, or witnessing the death of a loved one are all examples of this.

Whereas forcing a flower into bloom may make for a beautiful garden, should life step in to propel a child beyond his innocence, you can only pray it will make him stronger.

There are enough fucked up people in the world as it is.

The Federal Prison Camp in Alderson, West Virginia has a gate, but no guard station. It hugs the banks of the Greenbrier River in a verdant valley surrounded by low rolling hills that slope up to a thick-leafed national forest. There is no fence surrounding its one-hundred and fifty-nine acres, just an intermittent red-tip hedge. The classic Georgian buildings scattered throughout leave the impression that one is on the campus of an elite private college.
 

Evan must think so too, because he doesn’t realize we’re within spitting distance of his mother’s current home until I warn him, “We’re here.”

I watch through the rear-view mirror as he slumps down even further in the back seat. He says nothing. His face reflects no concern for his mother’s circumstances, just unfathomable sadness.

Arnie has come with us after all. I’m glad, if only because his constant chatter about Star Wars trivia, online gaming tricks, and his hacking exploits kept the flight—not to mention the short trip from the airport—from being silent. The few words Evan mumbled were directed at George, who encouraged him to sit up in the cockpit.
 

In other words, it’s painfully obvious that Evan resents me for my role in making him face his mother, even if he hasn’t come out and said so.
 

Jack is riding shotgun. He stares out the window, but by the way he squeezes my hand, I presume he actually saw Evan’s reaction in the side view mirror and knows how much it hurts me, especially since I can’t stand her either.
 

Few bushes or trees line the seemingly endless driveway that curves around the minimum-security prison camp. In other words, even if you get a hankering to break out, there are few places to hide. When compared to some of the other women’s prisons around the country, odds are you’ll stay put, and no one would blame you. Alderson could pass for a country club. The rules are reasonable, the duties are light, and on the cruelty scale, the guards are a step above the worst nun in a Catholic reformatory for wayward girls.

We park outside the main building. It seems as if we take a collective deep breath before exiting the car. When we enter the lobby, the female guard who stands behind the glass cubicle that serves as a reception desk checks her list to verify that, yes, we’re on the guest roster. She then scrutinizes our drivers’ licenses.

“Not you.” She points at Jack. “Or you.” She motions to Arnie.

“Why not?” Frantically, Evan’s eyes shift from the guard to Jack.

“They ain’t on the list. Just you”—she points at Evan—“and her.” She points at me.

Jack puts his hand on Evan’s shoulder. “You can do this.”

It takes a moment for Evan’s breathing to get back to normal. When he gives me the high sign, I nod at the guard.

She buzzes us into a narrow hallway that leads to several glass-walled visiting rooms.

We stop in the doorway of the one holding Catherine. Two guards are sitting at the farthest side of the room. When we enter, they glance up from their backgammon game, then exchange shrugs. One is a slight, petite woman with a curly blond ponytail under her cap. Her nails are long, and painted turquoise, with a diamond embedded in the middle fingers. The other is a beefy man whose legs are too thick and long to slip under the small table.
   

Neither have firearms, but both have stun guns clipped to their belts.

Catherine stands tall, her head held high. She faces the window. But then, as if sensing us, she turns around.
 

Evan’s eyes grow small as he scrutinizes her for the first time in almost a year. I saw her just a couple of months ago, and even since then there is a marked difference in her. Her khaki prisoner’s uniform now hangs loosely. Her face is gaunt to the point that there are now hollows in her cheeks. Black shadows haunt her eyes. Lips that were once frozen in a perpetual smirk are now pursed into a tight fretful line.