The Housewife Assassin's Garden of Deadly Delights

  The Housewife Assassin’s

  Garden of Deadly Delights

  A Novel

  Josie Brown

  © 2015 Josie Brown. All rights reserved.

  Published by Signal Press Books.

  mail@SignalEditorial.com

  V031315AMZ

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1 And How Does YOUR Garden Grow?

  Chapter 2 Family

  Chapter 3 Bolting

  Chapter 4 Prickly Thorns

  Chapter 5 Ridding Your Garden of Pests Organically

  Chapter 6 Weedwacker

  Chapter 7 Crop Circles

  Chapter 8 Spreading Manure

  Chapter 9 Germination

  Chapter 10 Leaching

  Chapter 11 Erosion

  Chapter 12 Sucker

  Chapter 13 Pinching Back

  Chapter 14 Bare Roots

  Chapter 15 Forcing

  Chapter 16 Deadheading

  Chapter 17 Frost

  Chapter 18 Heeling In

  Chapter 19 Tendril Loving Care

  Next Up!

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  HOW TO REACH JOSIE

  NOVELS IN THE HOUSEWIFE ASSASSIN SERIES

  OTHER BOOKS BY JOSIE BROWN

  PRAISE FOR JOSIE BROWN

  COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

  Chapter 1

  And How Does YOUR Garden Grow?

  Fresh cut, manicured lawns. A rainbow’s hue of blooms. From the lushest tree to the thickest bush, every inch of a housewife’s garden is scrutinized by her neighbors.

  To ensure that others stare at it in awe (as opposed to glare at it in horror), follow these helpful hints:

  Hint #1: Nurture your plants. Know their growth patterns, and their need for sun, water, and soil type—in the same way you know the life story, habits, and predilections of your targets. It’s the only way to ensure you control their fates.

  Hint #2: Variety is the spice of life—and death. While succulent plums and crisp apples are fruits of your labor that you can actually eat, castor bean and rosary pea aren’t really vegetables, but deadly poisons—good to know, in case there are a few accidents you can’t wait to have happen. Angel’s Trumpet tea, anyone?

  Hint #3: Always add to your garden. A well-placed flowerbed does a lot to cover your yard’s sins—and yours too, especially if you’ve got a corpse or two still lying around.

  A tiny, porcelain Buddha—barrel-bellied and squint-eyed from his clownishly wide grin—taunts me from the next table. I am sitting in the open street-side patio in the Happy Sun Dim Sum Emporium, on Grant Street in San Francisco’s Chinatown, tailing my target on the last leg of his indiscriminate shopping spree. His name is Yang Cheng. He is an asset for the MSS—the People’s Republic of China’s Ministry of State Security—its covert-ops agency.

  He has lousy taste in gifts.

  Not only did he purchase the Buddha, but a vinyl Hello Kitty pencil box, and a Patek Philippe men’s watch knock-off. All of these tchotchkes are actually made in his country before being shipped here, where they are purchased by tourists who don’t realize that practically everything they already own is made in Chinese factories.

  Yang eats alone, slurping down one siu mai, bao, shu mai and har gow after another. The dim sum carts, tinkling from the tins filled with their savory delights, don’t get very far down the slim aisle by his sidewalk table before he stops them to peruse his next dish. From what I’ve counted, he has already chowed down on twenty of the aromatic pot stickers, as well as three pork steamed buns. If he keeps this up, he’ll soon resemble his laughing Buddha.

  Sometime during lunch, he’ll be joined by someone. You see, his real purpose for being stateside has nothing to do with sightseeing and everything to do with stealing intel, which will be handed off to him sometime during his meal, and that he will take back with him to Beijing.

  The majority of the restaurant’s patrons are locals—mostly Chinese-American, but there is a smattering of Caucasian locals and tourists too. My mission partner, Jack, and I can easily be mistaken for the latter as we sit side-by-side, cuddling and cooing and making goo-goo eyes, like any couple on a weekend romp in America’s most romantic city.

  And, like everyone else, we use our cell phones to take photos of the food and selfies of ourselves enjoying it.

  It may seem we’re photographing each other, but in truth, we’re documenting Yang’s movements for our employer, the CIA-sanctioned black-ops organization, Acme Industries, for anything that may tip us off as to when the hand-off takes place.

  Once it does, we’ll make sure that Yang won’t even get as far as the exotic green tile-roofed Dragon Gate at Chinatown’s entrance before he is overcome with a fatal heart attack. It won’t be the Chinese food that kills him, but a prick with a needle filled with aconite.

  We don’t know who is doing the drop, but we have satellite surveillance on the restaurant, so that our tech-op, Arnie Locklear, can follow Yang’s cutout to a final destination. He also sees what we see, through our special surveillance contacts.

  “Incoming,” Jack murmurs, as he takes a dumpling and holds it to my lips so that I can take a bite.

  Even as I lick my lips and open wide, I shift my gaze toward Yang. Jack is right in one regard: Yang has been accosted by a little old lady. Her hair is gray, her skin is pocked, and her back is bowed with age. She stands outside the thin railing that separates the Happy Sun’s tables from the rest of the sidewalk. Apparently, she is trying to sell him historic postcards of Chinatown. He waves her away while shouting back at her in Mandarin, but she is insistent. When she jabs a gnarled finger at one card in particular, something he sees there makes him stop mid-expletive. He grabs them out of one of her hands and shoves a ten-dollar bill into the other. She stuffs the bill deep into the folds of her shawl.

  The Buddha is pocketed too.

  “She’s the cutout,” I mutter.

  “If that’s the case, go after her,” Jack insists. “There must have been something in the Buddha, and it’s being passed off to someone else. Find out whom, while I take care of Yang.”

  As part of my cover, I give him a long, deep kiss. It’s also part of my philosophy on life: live every moment as if it is your last.

  As our lips part, I slip him the needle with the aconite and whisper, “Take the cards. By his reaction, they’re obviously important.”

  He nods as he strokes my cheek. “Be careful,” he mutters.

  As I saunter out of the restaurant, I feel Yang’s eyes upon me. I don’t like the leer on his lips.

  That’s okay. It won’t be there for long.

  The little old lady weaves in and out of the thick throng of tourists who are perusing the myriad of wares on the outside tables of the district’s vendors.

  She stops four blocks from the Happy Sun, beside a trio of old men who are playing authentic Chinese instruments, as if enthralled by their simple tune.

  A young Asian man in black jeans and a leather jacket nudges her. They don’t make eye contact, but he proves he has the Buddha when he tosses it in the air before pocketing it.

  When she looks back, I turn toward a shop window displaying silk kimonos. Her reflection is clear enough for me to see the satisfied smirk on her face.

  Then, suddenly, the smirk is gone, along with the rest of her face. Really, it was a mask. Now I see a beautiful Asian woman who looks to be in her late twenties. She also strips off the gloves—thin skin-like latex—that gave her hands an aged effect, and tosses all three items into a trashcan.

  “Did you get a clean enough shot for a scan?” I ask Arnie.

  “Clean enough
,” he assures me. Good. Hopefully, Acme’s Facial Recognition software will reveal her true identity.

  When I turn back around, she is climbing on a bus headed up Sacramento Street’s steep incline.

  On the other hand, her courier strides quickly down the street.

  Quickly, I grab the gloves and mask from the trash. Then I run toward the courier, only to be blocked by a clerk insisting to a German tourist that the Bose speaker system in his hand can be purchased much more cheaply here than in Berlin.

  By the time I get around the hagglers, it’s too late. The courier has disappeared into thin air—

  Or not. I pass a narrow alley wedged between a souvenir shop and a restaurant, the Crescent Moon. I hear footsteps. A slim shaft of light reveals the man. He pulls a brick from the wall and pulled out a key.

  He gets the feeling that he’s not alone. Slowly, he turns around. Seeing me, he frowns—

  Then hurls the brick at me.

  I duck just in time. The brick whizzes above my head by barely an inch.

  By the time I’ve drawn my Sig Sauer P226R, he has already hopped onto one of the two motorcycles used by the Crescent Moon’s delivery team—both Ducati Hypermotards—and is roaring down the alley.

  Sure, I’m up for a ride.

  The second bike’s ignition key is tucked in the hole in the wall as well. I hop on, rev it up, and head down the alley until it dead-ends into another. But I’ve reached it just in time to see my target’s bike climbing a stone stairwell.

  When the courier reaches the top, he skids to a stop.

  Damn it, my bullet just misses his ear. He’s now duly warned that I mean business, and screeches off again.

  Oh well, in for a dime, in for a dollar, right?

  I open up the throttle on my bike so that it climbs the stairs too.

  When my bike reaches the top, it clatters over the roof’s clay tiles before landing onto the flat center beam. I brake hard to halt it from flying off into oblivion and crash-landing onto the unsuspecting tourists three stories below.

  The courier is already on the far side of the roof. He zips over a long, narrow plank that connects a neighboring building’s even steeper roof over an alleyway.

  He makes the leap. As he roars off again, he turns back to wave at me, a wide grin on his face. Of course, he doesn’t expect me to follow.

  Wrong. My son’s dirt biking scout badge came at the expense of many cuts and bruises—his and mine. Granted, as his troop’s leader, I wasn’t eligible for a badge. That’s okay. The true reward of any skill is how you use it to your own advantage. I use it now, as I zoom off after the courier. I twist the throttle—

  And over the alley I go.

  As my motorcycle hits the slanted roof, it almost slips out from under me, but not quite. I rev the engine to keep my momentum. A second later, I crest the roof, skidding onto the center joist.

  The courier’s bike clatters on the clay tiles as it heads toward the far side of the roof. I shoot for his head, but he ducks just in time.

  He now realizes that his only chance to lose me is to leap onto another roof. Unfortunately for him, the closest building is at least a fifteen-foot jump. To make matters worse, its roof’s pitch is even steeper than the last.

  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 sh
ovels 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?”