Page 81 of Chaos
She circles her free hand in the air. “Why are we going to the kitchens with ant poison?”
I tug her into a small reading room off the main hallway, and double check no one is in there. “Do you want to do something illegal with me?”
“Yes.”
“Are you sure?” I probably shouldn’t involve her, but I also don’t think I can do this alone, and am highly suspicious that anyone could really believe a blind woman and a pregnant woman did it. The patriarchy has a few benefits for women, and one is that people usually think we’re too gentle to murder anyone.
“I’m sure.”
“We’re killing Ben.”
She nods like what I said made all the sense in the world. “Oh, I’m for sure in.”
“No questions?”
“One.” Her lips push out thoughtfully. “Ben is a small man in many ways, but last time I checked, he’s a bit bigger than an ant.”
“One thing I learned from the poison books is that a small dose can be medicinal, but a large dose is deadly. Whatcan kill an ant can kill a rat, and what can kill a ratrat can kill a Ben rat. Volume is key.”
“And how do you intend to get him to ingest sufficient volumes of rat poison?”
“That’s where you come in.”
She tips her head to the side. “Hooker, I’m blind. I can’t poison anyone.”
“Plumberger’s food already sucks. Even Auden said it tastes like poison. Ben’s used to it. And I owe Yorke a birthday cake. Ruby had it all planned out. She even made vanilla bean paste.” A sharp stab of grief rockets through me. “We’re going to make a cake.”
“Right now?”
“No time like the present.”
“And Ben’s going to eat Yorke’s birthday cake?”
“We’re going to make a lot of cake. Enough for the whole army. Theirs won’t be poisoned.”
“Won’t it be suspicious if Ben drops dead the same day we show up in the kitchens?”
“Not if everyone eats cake and no one else is sick.”
“Por los clavos de Cristo,” she breathes.
“Does that mean ‘for the clavicles of Jesus?”
“Nails.”
“Dramatic.”
“Appropriate.” She mimes rolling up fake sleeves. “Never a dull moment, Frank. Let’s go. I’m ready.”
MUSIC IS PLAYINGin the kitchen when we get there, a low, gentle, and old song about seven women harassing a man that instantly brings back a dozen memories from my childhood.
The room is the same, a massive industrial kitchen, segmented by rows of stainless-steel work surfaces with storage beneath.
There’s no Hank camped out with his ham radio.
The counter tops are not piled with cookbooks like it was under Ruby, though there are stacks of squash to be cut and cans to be used. There’s a black chalkboard leaning against a wall with the weekly menu on it.
I try not to wince when I see bacon curry listed under Saturday.