The Housewife Assassin's Garden of Deadly Delights by Josie Brown Page B
Authors: Josie Brown
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it.
Something is wrong. The color—it isn’t right.
I wave my hands to get Jack and Abu’s attention. “This isn’t the right corn! Look at the color!”
They stare down at me, then back down at the almost-filled truck bed. Jack slams the hopper with his fist. “Damn it, you’re right! Why, that son of a bitch!”
He jumps off the truck and runs toward Barnaby’s office. “The son of a bitch is gone!”
I’m on the phone to Ryan. “Barnaby must be in on it. He gave us the wrong corn, and ran off, but he couldn’t have gotten too far.”
“Emma will text you his home address, his car’s make and license, and any surveillance video we find on him during the past hour.”
It doesn’t take long before Emma calls back. “We lucked out! He’s down at the bank branch where we wired the money. Go south on 99, until you get to Taft Highway, then make a right. You’ll see it on the right side—the National Bank of Bakersfield.”
“What’s he driving?” Jack asks.
“A brand spanking new Ford F150 XLT. It still has the dealer’s plates.”
“Thanks, Emma,” I say. “We’re on it.”
I shouldn’t let Jack drive when he’s so pissed. Suddenly, I feel sorry for Barnaby.
You should always look in the back seat of your car before you get in. You never know who’ll be there, waiting for you, perhaps with a gun.
In Barnaby’s case, it’s Jack.
He waits until Barnaby tosses a briefcase filled with cash into the passenger seat and heaves himself into the driver’s seat of his brand new Ford F150 XLT before sticking the barrel of his gun on the back of Barnaby’s neck.
I open the passenger door, grab the briefcase, and hop in beside Barnaby. “I suppose you wanted to get this money so you could hand over our refund. Let’s not play games, where’s the corn?”
Barnaby is white around the gills, but he’s still able to mutter, “It’s…it’s gone.”
“Where?” Jack asks.
When Barnaby doesn’t answer, he nudges the gun deeper into the base of his skull.
“Okay, okay! Just—don’t shoot!” He takes a deep breath. “I have to look it up in my records.”
“Slide over. She’ll drive.”
He doesn’t argue, but he groans when I gun the engine before sliding his truck in front of a fast-moving van.
“Don’t shit your pants, or there goes your new car smell,” I warn him.
As it turns out, Barnaby waits until we’re back at his office before he expels via a few choice bodily functions. I’m pretty sure that his pistol-whipping from Jack has something to do with it.
“Let’s be clear. You say some of the corn went to the Farris Ranch feed lot, and to something called TasTee Cereals in Pasadena? And that the balance went to Disneyland, for the corn-on-the-cob booth in Frontierland?”
It’s hard to talk when your mouth is stuffed with your own socks, but Barnaby was whimpering so loudly that it was a necessary evil.
The way he’s hogtied, he’s lucky Jack didn’t cram a corncob into it, or any other orifice, for that matter.
It’ll take the FDA agents another hour to get here. In the meantime, Abu stands guard while I’ve been rummaging through Barnaby’s file cabinet for the paperwork that verifies his claims. “Is there anything you’re leaving out?” I ask.
He shakes his head emphatically.
“Think hard,” Jack warns him.
“Mmmm!” Barnaby exclaims. “FIWZ!”
I look over. “It sounds as if he said ‘Fiwz.’’’
Jack shrugs. “Maybe he likes the taste of his own socks.”
Barnaby shakes his head again, but even harder this time. “Naaah! Fiwz Cowa—”
“Jack, he’s choking. Do something.”
Jack sighs, but pulls out the sock anyway.
It takes a moment for Barnaby to catch his breath. “Fizz All-Natural Cola! Santa Ana!”
“What does a cola company need with corn?” Jack wonders out loud.
Barnaby shrugs. “Fizz makes its own corn syrup from scratch. That way, it can claim it only uses all natural ingredients.
Something is wrong. The color—it isn’t right.
I wave my hands to get Jack and Abu’s attention. “This isn’t the right corn! Look at the color!”
They stare down at me, then back down at the almost-filled truck bed. Jack slams the hopper with his fist. “Damn it, you’re right! Why, that son of a bitch!”
He jumps off the truck and runs toward Barnaby’s office. “The son of a bitch is gone!”
I’m on the phone to Ryan. “Barnaby must be in on it. He gave us the wrong corn, and ran off, but he couldn’t have gotten too far.”
“Emma will text you his home address, his car’s make and license, and any surveillance video we find on him during the past hour.”
It doesn’t take long before Emma calls back. “We lucked out! He’s down at the bank branch where we wired the money. Go south on 99, until you get to Taft Highway, then make a right. You’ll see it on the right side—the National Bank of Bakersfield.”
“What’s he driving?” Jack asks.
“A brand spanking new Ford F150 XLT. It still has the dealer’s plates.”
“Thanks, Emma,” I say. “We’re on it.”
I shouldn’t let Jack drive when he’s so pissed. Suddenly, I feel sorry for Barnaby.
You should always look in the back seat of your car before you get in. You never know who’ll be there, waiting for you, perhaps with a gun.
In Barnaby’s case, it’s Jack.
He waits until Barnaby tosses a briefcase filled with cash into the passenger seat and heaves himself into the driver’s seat of his brand new Ford F150 XLT before sticking the barrel of his gun on the back of Barnaby’s neck.
I open the passenger door, grab the briefcase, and hop in beside Barnaby. “I suppose you wanted to get this money so you could hand over our refund. Let’s not play games, where’s the corn?”
Barnaby is white around the gills, but he’s still able to mutter, “It’s…it’s gone.”
“Where?” Jack asks.
When Barnaby doesn’t answer, he nudges the gun deeper into the base of his skull.
“Okay, okay! Just—don’t shoot!” He takes a deep breath. “I have to look it up in my records.”
“Slide over. She’ll drive.”
He doesn’t argue, but he groans when I gun the engine before sliding his truck in front of a fast-moving van.
“Don’t shit your pants, or there goes your new car smell,” I warn him.
As it turns out, Barnaby waits until we’re back at his office before he expels via a few choice bodily functions. I’m pretty sure that his pistol-whipping from Jack has something to do with it.
“Let’s be clear. You say some of the corn went to the Farris Ranch feed lot, and to something called TasTee Cereals in Pasadena? And that the balance went to Disneyland, for the corn-on-the-cob booth in Frontierland?”
It’s hard to talk when your mouth is stuffed with your own socks, but Barnaby was whimpering so loudly that it was a necessary evil.
The way he’s hogtied, he’s lucky Jack didn’t cram a corncob into it, or any other orifice, for that matter.
It’ll take the FDA agents another hour to get here. In the meantime, Abu stands guard while I’ve been rummaging through Barnaby’s file cabinet for the paperwork that verifies his claims. “Is there anything you’re leaving out?” I ask.
He shakes his head emphatically.
“Think hard,” Jack warns him.
“Mmmm!” Barnaby exclaims. “FIWZ!”
I look over. “It sounds as if he said ‘Fiwz.’’’
Jack shrugs. “Maybe he likes the taste of his own socks.”
Barnaby shakes his head again, but even harder this time. “Naaah! Fiwz Cowa—”
“Jack, he’s choking. Do something.”
Jack sighs, but pulls out the sock anyway.
It takes a moment for Barnaby to catch his breath. “Fizz All-Natural Cola! Santa Ana!”
“What does a cola company need with corn?” Jack wonders out loud.
Barnaby shrugs. “Fizz makes its own corn syrup from scratch. That way, it can claim it only uses all natural ingredients.
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