Read Online The Housewife Assassin's Garden of Deadly Delights by Josie Brown - Free Book Online

 
    Losing his potbelly would be a better move. You’d think he’d figure this out when his gut knocks a couple of the folders onto the floor.
    “It’s a fairly big job. I better get to work.” I bend quickly to catch yet another falling folder.
    Bad move by me. The next thing I know, his hand is cupping my ass.
    Worse move by him, because the next thing he knows is that I’m twisting his nuts.
    He yelps, but gets the lay of the land and skedaddles back down to the first floor where the rest of the R&D staff are holed up, playing mad scientist with the genetic makeup of God’s bounty.
    Good riddance. I’m not here to bury dead files that no one will ever read, or to be a plaything to some horny clown in a lab coat. I’m here to learn whether the killer seeds are already out the door.
    I stare out the window. Twenty-eight silos are lined up on the north side of the field, identical aluminum sentries reflecting bright rays in full sunlight. I have to shield my eyes in order to look at them. They stand at least thirty feet tall, and ladders go up one side. They are elevated, and their bottoms are coned so that the bags of seeds held within can be funneled into SeedPlenish’s delivery trucks. Right now, bags are being dropped from Silo Number 18.
    Which one contains the killer seeds?

    By jove, I think I’ve found them—thanks to Jilly, whomever she is.
    She left in such a hurry that she didn’t even take the time to clean out her desk. A month-old ticket to a San Francisco Giants–Los Angeles Dodgers game is in one of the drawers, as well as an autographed photo of Buster Posey.  
    I guess we know which team she roots for. But, obviously, she didn’t make the game, or the ticket wouldn’t still be here.
    Dr. Wellborne was stupid to leave me her computer, especially since SeedPlenish’s tech personnel haven’t ditched her old password. First, I try BusterPosey . No luck. Then Buster , then Posey . Both dead ends.
    I use my cell to call Arnie. “I’m trying to hack my predecessor’s computer. From what I can tell, she’s a baseball fan—specifically of the SF Giants’ Buster Posey. I’ve tried the name in various combinations, but no luck.”
    “Didn’t you read your manual? For example, the password has to be alpha-numeric.”
    Duh.
    “Just a wild guess, but why don’t you try the name, ‘Buster,’ with his team number?”
    I type Buster28 . “Bingo,” I murmur.
    “Link me in,” Arnie suggests. It’s a good idea to allow his employee ID to access it as well, so that he can see what I’m seeing, and perhaps pick up on other clues throughout all her stored data.  
    We roll through her emails. At first, the ones to and from Dr. Wellborne are all business, then become flirtatious, and, finally, all pleasure—
    Until the last week of her employment. For some reason, the tone is now stilted and distant.  
    The last email between them comes from her. It reads, simply:  
    You lied. It hurt.
    “She is—or was—a Thomas Wellborne fan girl—at least, at first,” I murmur. A renowned scientist as a notch on your belt? To each her own, I guess.”
    “Wow, wow, wow,” Arnie murmurs excitedly. “Jackpot!”
    A file pops up on my screen, entitled, Strain v.101313.
    “How do you know this is it?” I ask.
    “Because she copied it from his secure cloud.”
    “I wonder how she figured out his password,” I mutter out loud.
    “She knew him well enough, I guess. By the way, it’s AssMan1.”
    Ouch. Yep, that hurts.
    “Apparently, she got her revenge. This file has everything: his correspondence with an entity he refers to as BIG PAY DAY, in which he puts out feelers for its interest in what he calls ‘the Exodus Strain, 22:6.’ There is also a response in the affirmative, along with confirmation of a one billion-dollar payoff, placed in a Cayman Islands bank account.”
    “‘Exodus?’ That’s a book in the Old Testament of the Bible.” A thought hits me. “Hey do me a favor and look up