An Aromatic Demise

I remember Mom vividly. As though decades hadn’t passed since I was that troublesome nine-year-old kid. She was young then, probably not much older than thirty. She took me in, just like the other Moms had, to care for me until either someone adopted me or until she got tired of me and sent me off to live with another Mom. At first, I expected her to be like the others. Cold and callous, only in it for the money. But she was different. She seemed to care about me, in a way that seemed weird and foreign. I knew because she would look at me with those shining eyes, and say things. Things like, “I’m so proud of you,” and “You’re a special one.” And she never yelled, or hit. She would talk to me like I was a dear friend who just couldn’t seem to stay out of mischief. She would plan exciting things with me and take me to exciting places. “I want your time here to be fun,” she would say. And we would go to the beach, and museums, and water parks, and the zoo. And when she would tuck me in at night, she would read me fanciful stories of kingdoms and legends, dragons and knights, princesses and unicorns. And just before she turned out the light, she would look at me with sparkling grey eyes and a soft smile and say, “I love you.” And for the first time in my life, I believed it. She was the kind of Mom a child would kill for.

And yet, she was the one I was going to kill.

I never wanted to. But when an assassin is assigned to eliminate someone, they must carry through. I had no idea why Boss wanted me to kill her. Did he know she was my former foster Mom? Was this some sort of loyalty test? I didn’t know, and I didn’t ask. Assassins didn’t ask questions. They take their orders and obey. So when I received my assignment to eliminate Ms. Beatrice Rowe in Little Lake, California, I simply took my plane tickets and went on my way.

I arrived in Little Lake mid-afternoon. I stopped briefly for lunch, then visited a local flower shop to purchase a bouquet. I selected an arrangement of peach and ivory roses with eucalyptus. Perfect for springtime. I scribbled a few words on the attached notecard. Then, making sure to completely infuse them with the odorless poison, I stored them carefully in the back of my vehicle before changing into my uniform of choice. I drove until I was just a few blocks away from where I knew she lived. Then I pulled over and parked. The weather was nice tonight, why not walk a little?

I stepped out and breathed in deeply. The evening air was cool and sweet. A breeze swept loose tendrils of hair out of my bun. Gathering the lethal bouquet in my arms, I began to walk. The thump of my boots on the pavement seemed to echo loudly in the quiet suburban neighborhood. I looked up. The last of the sun’s rays were quickly fading from the cobalt blue sky, and stars were beginning to show. Palm trees swayed and bushes rustled softly, their flower buds partially open and bobbing in the wind. I glanced down at the flowers in my arms and caressed a petal with my finger. Roses were so beautiful, but their lives were so short. I wondered, not for the first time, why people loved something like flowers so much, only for them to die days later? What value did they have, beyond momentarily looking beautiful? What value did anything have, beyond the value that was assigned to it by society? I thought of all the people I knew, everyone I had ever cared about. Were they valuable? Or were they like roses, slowly wilting away into nonexistence, with no real purpose but to take up space and die? I supposed I’d never know.

I turned onto Archer Drive, scanning the houses for the correct address. Then I saw it. It was a beautiful home. Brick and cottage-style, it was painted a cheery light teal with white framed windows and a dark grey roof. Two white pillars provided support for the dainty portico, and a pair of yellow armchairs sat facing the street, as though welcoming me to come and sit. A light switched on in one of the rooms downstairs. She was home.

For a moment I froze. I’d been doing this work for quite some time, but this was the first time I had been tasked to kill someone I knew personally. This wasn’t just any assignment. I was about to take the life of the one I used to call Mom. A twinge of guilt infected my mind. What on earth was I doing? I had to be crazy. I should just turn around now and go back, explain to Boss why I can’t kill my own mother. He wouldn’t understand. He would be angry for sure, but he would get over it. He would ask one of the others to do it. Mom would still die, but at least then I wouldn’t have to do the job myself.

I shivered. The air was frigid now. Any warmth the day had had earlier must have fled with the sun. I was still standing there uncertainly when the front door opened. I jumped, and a woman poked her head out.

“Is that for me?” She asked.

Well, too late to change my mind now. She had spotted me, standing there and staring at the front of her house like a sociopath. I approached, clearing my throat and getting into character.

“A delivery for Ms. Beatrice Rowe?”

“That’s me.”

I couldn’t look at her. I knew she must look different now from the image my mind had of her. And that scared me. My memories of her were precious, I didn’t want them to change. I thought I could get away with keeping my gaze down. I would hand her the bouquet, mumble a “have a good evening,” and be gone. But when she lifted the flowers from my arms, she surprised me by saying, “My, you look worn out. Is this your last stop for the night?”

My head snapped up, and my brown eyes met her steel grey ones. She smiled, and for a brief moment, I was transported into the past. She looked much the same as she had thirty years ago, except now she carried more wrinkles around her eyes and mouth, and the color of her hair almost perfectly matched her eyes. But her smile was the same. I couldn’t help but smile back.

“It is, actually,” I answered.

She shifted the bouquet into her left arm and nudged the door wider with her right. The scent of something baking wafted from the kitchen. “Well, I’ve got brownies in the oven. Why don’t you drop by for a minute, and I’ll give you a few to take home?”

I shrugged. Why not? It would allow me the opportunity to make sure the job gets done properly. I stepped inside and shut the door behind me, allowing myself to be enveloped in the delicious scent. Ms. Rowe led me into the small kitchen and waved a hand toward the table.

“Make yourself comfortable.”

I sat and watched as she set the flowers carefully on the kitchen counter. “My, these are so lovely. I wonder who sent them.” She opened the tiny notecard and read its contents. She stared for what seemed like just a moment too long before turning away. “I should have a vase for these somewhere.” She proceeded to open cabinets and search inside. I squirmed a bit. She hadn’t smelled the flowers yet.

“What is your name, child?”

I thought quickly. “Cathleen Marshall.”

“Cathleen Marshall.” She repeated, pulling out an ornate glass vase. “Beautiful name.” She filled the vase a quarter of the way with water, then inserted the flowers and stood back to gaze at them. “Roses are always so lovely this time of year. I just love spring, don’t you?” I nodded. When was she going to smell them? Didn’t everyone sniff flowers?

A beep sounded from the oven. “They’re ready!” She pulled out the cookie sheet, chattering happily. I gave a few nods and “mhms” on occasion to give the impression of being attentive, but I was nervous. This was taking longer than I had expected. If I had just dropped off the flowers and left, would she have never smelled them? Would this have been my first failed assassination?

Ms. Rowe handed me a small platter with two generous helpings of brownie. “Tell me what you think. I tried a new recipe this time.”

They were still hot, so I took a bite carefully. They were more delicious than I had imagined. Crisp around the edges, soft and fudge-y in the center. All they needed was some butter slathered on top, and they would be perfect. “Mmmm. Thank you, Ms. Rowe. They’re delicious.”

She beamed. “I’m glad you think so. Would you like some milk with that? They are quite rich.”

“Please.” She scurried back into the kitchen. I took another bite, then another, and another. They were so good. I couldn’t seem to stop. By the time Ms. Rowe came back with a glass of milk, I was more than halfway finished. But for some reason, I was having a hard time finishing. And it wasn’t because they were rich.

I reached for the glass in front of me, and my arm suddenly felt too heavy. It dropped and hit the table with a loud thump. I tried again. But I could only lift it a few inches before it dropped again. I tried to stand, but my legs wouldn’t cooperate. I felt myself begin to fall, and I couldn’t catch myself. Ms. Rowe caught me and repositioned me in the chair.

“Look at me,” she said. Her voice had gone from sweet to cold. I barely managed to turn my head to look at her. “I put a little something in the brownies, to paralyze you. In just a few minutes, you shouldn’t be able to move at all.” She pulled out a chair and sat. “Now, I already know why you’re here. You’re here to kill me. I’ve been expecting you.”

She paused, as though waiting for a reaction. I gave her none. “I will spare you the boring details. All you need to know is that I have connections to your Boss’s... shall we say... enemies. One of which, whom I won’t name, sent a spy to pretend to be among you so that he could gather information on your Boss’s assassination plans. When he heard that my name was on the line, he sent me a warning to be on the lookout for someone like yourself.” She chuckled. “So when I saw a young delivery woman standing idly outside and watching my house this evening, well, you could guess what I assumed from there.”

She stood and walked toward the kitchen counter. “And of course, when I read the note saying ‘Happy Spring, from Boss,’ it only confirmed my suspicions. I would assume that these,” she gestured to the bouquet, “are your murder method of choice?” She gathered them in her hands and lifted them out of the vase, letting their long stems drip all over the countertop and floor. She brought them over to me. “I bet you wanted me to smell them, didn’t you?”

I glared at her.

“No comment? Well, I suggest you say a prayer and make your peace with God, young woman. These are your last moments.”

I said nothing.

“Good-bye, my dear.” She held the bouquet to my nose. I held my breath, but I knew I wouldn’t be able to for long. As my lungs began to burn, the irony of the situation suddenly hit me. I came here to assassinate someone who, for all intents and purposes, was my Mom. And the tables had turned in such a way that I, the child, was the one being killed by the Mom with my face in a bouquet of roses. I almost burst out laughing at the thought. But hey, if I was going to die, I guess death by toxic roses wasn’t so bad. At least I could gaze at something nice while being transported to the afterlife. If there was such a thing. I guess I was about to find out.

I couldn’t hold my breath any longer. I gulped in deadly air. It felt good to breathe, even if it was just for a moment. I took another deep breath, and I felt my airways constrict. I began to cough, softly at first, then violently. Ms. Rowe finally removed the bouquet from my face and watched as I lost my balance and fell to the floor.

“Well, that takes care of you.” She tossed the roses aside and crouched down beside me. “Who are you, anyway? I doubt Cathleen Marshall is your real name.”

It was near impossible to speak. I tried to move my lips. They barely twitched. Foam bubbled up in my throat and escaped through my mouth. “Cec-”

“What was that?”

I tried one more time, with all the strength I had left in my body. “Cec...ilia...Moo...re.”

“Cecilia Moore.” Her face was blank. Then her eyes suddenly lit with recognition. “Cecilia Moore?” She stared at me, as though seeing me for the first time.

“Cecilia... is that you?”

It was the last thing I heard before the world faded to black.