Crunch Time by Diane Mott Davidson

were marijuana plants. Hello!
    I counted them: six. I knew that under Colorado law, you could grow six plants legally if you were the provider for a card-carrying medical marijuana user. But . . . Ernest was a recovering addict. Was it really such a good idea for him to be growing a plant with narcotic properties? And why had he left the puppy chow up there ? So the dog food would absorb some of the marijuana’s properties and the puppies would sleep through the night?
    And why, oh why, had the cops missed this?
    Or had they?
    Okay, I’d graduated from the University of Colorado, one of the top party schools in the nation, and I hadn’t been born last night, either. I knew enough about weed to know that it was the bud, and not the leaves themselves, that provided a quality high. Harvested leaves only produced what was known to folks in the know as schwag, and everyone from stoners to stockbrokers knew that schwag was junk.
    Ernest’s marijuana plants each boasted large buds, so they were ready for harvest. Without thinking, I walked over to Ernest’s shelf of tools, picked up a pruner, and snipped off a large bud.
    It was then that my vision caught a movement outside: what looked like a small rock, only not on the ground, because it was moving. For the first time since I’d entered the house, fear scurried down my spine.
    I squinted. What with the rain and fog, it was hard to make things out. I watched for a moment, and saw the moving rock was a person, a tall, heavyset person who was carrying something in one of his hands. Was he a cop? I doubted it. The guy was moving in too stealthy a manner. Was he a looter?
    I swallowed my fear and tried to think. Kill the lights, my inner voice said. Try to get a better look at him, without his seeing you. And call the cops. I shoved the marijuana bud deep into my jacket pocket, reached for the switch, and turned off the greenhouse lights. I rooted around in my pocket for my cell while keeping my gaze fixed outside.
    The man seemed to be wearing a dark jacket. My dousing of the lights had not bothered him—just the opposite, in fact. My mouth dropped open in disbelief as the intruder used his free hand to pick up a large rock. He reached back and heaved it at the greenhouse.
    I ducked as the rock exploded through the glass. Damn it! Where is my cell phone? Rummaging for it, desperate to call 911, I saw the intruder bring a small object out of an unseen pocket. He fumbled with the thing, whatever it was. Then a light flared in the near-darkness. The man was bald.
    This guy had a lighter? What was he going to do, have a cigarette while he waited for us to come out? Or maybe Ernest was his medical marijuana provider, and he was going to smoke his last joint before getting some new buds?
    He was going to do neither. He lit the thing he was holding in his other hand. It flared hugely. It was a cloth, hanging out of a glass bottle. Oh my God, the man is holding a live Molotov cocktail. He reached back and flung the flaming bottle toward the hole he’d already smashed through the greenhouse glass.
    “Yolanda!” I screamed as I raced out of the greenhouse. I dug my hand into my pocket and finally grasped my cell. “Get out! Get Ferdinanda out! Right now!”
    The Molotov cocktail crashed through the hole in the glass. There was a sudden whoosh that actually propelled me headfirst down the stairs to the basement. The cocktail had reached its target. Damn, I thought as I rolled and got awkwardly to my feet. Damn, damn, damn.
    My cell phone had skittered across the floor. I grabbed it and pressed 911. “I need a fire truck up here right away!” I hollered at the operator. “Ernest McLeod’s house, I don’t know the address. Sorry.” Then I hung up and stuffed the phone in my pocket. I knew enough about emergency services to know that the operator could figure it out. I barreled toward the garage as Yolanda raced in from it. We barely avoided colliding.
    “Goldy!” Her face was