The Housewife Assassin's Fourth Estate Sale

by Josie Brown

  “If you really want to help out, take a weekend job at the mall,” I suggest.

  Mary nods. “Okay, sure. But I can be the Signal’s style editor too. In fact, I’ll bet the Hilldale Mall would love it if the Signal showcased some of its couture and accessories.”

  Jeff holds out his hand to Mary. “You’re hired.”

  They shake on it.

  “I can recruit Babs and Wendy to help me with features. And since most students read the Signal online, we’ll produce feature videos and a weekly fashion podcast too!” Suddenly, Mary’s face brightens with a new thought. “Hey, I’ll bet some of the merchants would show their appreciation by supporting the Signal with ads! If it becomes a revenue source for the school, I’m sure Principal Stewart will appreciate it.”

  Jeff frowns. “Commercializing the paper puts us at the beck and call of our advertisers. What if they balk when we run something controversial?”

  I hand out plates stacked high with pancakes. “What do you mean by ‘controversial’?”

  Jeff thinks for a moment. “Like, if I point out some store policy that isn’t great for our students.”

  “It might make them consider a different policy,” I reason.

  My son nods slowly. “I guess you’re right. The press can’t be afraid to call it as it is.”

  The pancakes are gone in no time. As the children rise from the table, I notice Trisha’s skirt. It’s too tight and too short. And when her sweater swings open, it reveals a shirt cropped high above her belly.

  What is happening here?

  Jack’s eyes follow mine and grow big when he sees the subject of my shock and awe.

  Just then, our cell phones hum in unison. He’s still in shock, so I reach for mine first to review the most recent text message:

  * * *

  Overdue book! The Firm —Hilldale Librarian

  * * *

  I’m sure Jack got the same warning. In truth, it’s a coded message from Acme, letting us know that there is some unfinished business with our last assignment. We’ll need to get to the office as soon as possible.

  I point to Mary. “You and Jeff will take my car to school. Since Dad and I have an errand, we’ll drop Trisha at her school.”

  Mary nods and grabs my car key fob from its hook.

  Aunt Phyllis picks up her gym bag. “Can you can drop me at my hot yoga class? I’d walk, but I don’t want to get sweaty before I get there.” She sniffs an armpit.

  Mary puts her arm around her great-aunt. “Of course! Hop onboard our magic carpet.”

  “Which always drives at or below the speed limit,” I remind her.

  Mary and Aunt Phyllis roll their eyes at me.

  Jeff picks up his backpack as well as hers and heads for the door. “On the way, we’ll discuss some ideas for feature pieces.”

  Mary nods. “Great idea! The Signal will be cutting edge! Sensational graphics, in-the-moment trend analysis, thought-provoking essays...”

  It’s rare that my children have found common ground, so yes, I’m doing a happy dance in my head. Granted, they won’t always agree about the goal or the process, but through this collaboration, their respect for each other will grow. I couldn’t be happier…

  Well, yeah, maybe I could. As soon as I figure out how to broach the topic of middle-school-appropriate make-up and clothes with Trisha.

  The conversation starts now.

  Thank goodness Jack is here to support me.

  “Seriously? You’re making me wash my face?” Trisha is incredulous.

  “With all the makeup you’re wearing, one would think you’re about to walk the red carpet!” I exclaim.

  “Everyone wears it like this.” Trisha’s head shakes as she folds her arms at her waist.

  I guess she realizes it’s the only way to keep me from staring at her bellybutton.

  Wrong.

  I point upstairs. “And when you finish, change into a top that covers your midriff and a skirt that covers your thighs! Have you forgotten that your school has a dress code?”

  “Everyone dresses this way,” she says indignantly. “Why shouldn’t I?”

  “You mean to tell me that everyone at school breaks the rules?” Jack is bemused by Trisha’s audacity.

  “Yeah, sort of. If I keep my sweater buttoned, who’s to know the difference?”

  I raise a brow. “Your skirt is still much too short."

  “To get noticed, you have to stand out.”

  I take her other hand. “Honey, there are good ways to stand out and there are bad ways. Getting called out for inappropriate dress won’t earn your teachers’ respect.”

  Trisha holds her head high. “I’m a straight-A student! My teachers should never judge me on what I wear, but what I do or say.”

  I’m speechless.

  “She has a point,” Jack murmurs.

  “Nope. Not if she gets expelled,” I hiss back. But my tone with Trisha is firm and loud: “We’ve always been proud of you for your hard work and dedication to your studies,” I assure her. “And you’re right. Your teachers should only judge you on your merits. Not just your academic record, but as you put it, your actions and your words as well.” I look her in the eye. “So, Trisha, I ask you: What message are you trying to send to those who you want as friends?”

  “That I fit in.” She scowls stubbornly. “I’m the only girl in my class who doesn’t wear mascara or blush or eye shadow or eyeliner!”

  “I find that hard to believe,” I declare.

  “Oh yeah? Just look!” She pulls out her phone. A moment later she’s showing me a photo. In it, Trisha is ganged together with three other girls.

  She’s right. Their face paint is thick, their skirts graze their upper thighs, and when their cardigans are open, their blouses are tied high on their abdomen.

  One of the girls at the end has her arm extended to snap the selfie of their identical poses: mouths are pursed, exaggerating the natural plushness of their lips. Each girl’s right hand is extended in a gang signal.

  Jack’s eyes grow large. He doesn’t say anything. Instead, he bites his lip to keep from laughing.

  On the other hand, I’m trying to hold my temper. “Who taught you that hand gesture?”

  “Madison’s brother, Curt. He says it’s really gangsta.”

  “Oh, I’ll say it is,” Jack responds. “Honey, if you do that to the wrong person, they may hurt you.”

  “But…it’s just a joke!” Trisha sighs as she rolls her eyes. “It’s something you say if you want to be snatched.”

  “That’s our point!” I exclaim. “We don’t want you snatched!”

  “Obviously!” She puts her hands on her hips, as if ready to do battle. “Mom! Dad! Madison has finally noticed me! And now that she wants me in her squad, I’ve got to up my game! Otherwise, they won’t respect me!”

  “Which one is Madison?” I ask.

  Trisha points to the girl holding the camera. Her blond hair has dark roots: a deliberate ombre dye job. She also has a small tat on her wrist that proclaims BARELY VIRGIN.

  Oh, great.

  I force my voice into a gentler tone. “But Trisha, you’ve just said that respect shouldn’t be based on how you look; that what really matters is how you act, and whether you keep your word and others’ respect.”

  “You’re twisting my words to make your point!”

  Another text pings both mine and Jack’s cell phones. This discussion must end now.

  I point to the stairwell. “No arguments, Trisha! Now, put on an appropriate top and skirt. Otherwise, you’re grounded from all extracurricular activities and no cell phone, iPad, or computer.” My tone says it all: I am not kidding around.

  Trisha storms upstairs.

  During the drive to school, Trisha is silent.

  When we pull up, Jack turns to face her. “Look, kiddo, maybe you and your mom could go on a shopping spree after school. You’ve certainly earned the right to some new clothes.”

  “Why bot
her? Mom wants me to stay her little girl forever!” She slams the car door and stalks off.

  Jack sighs. Seeing the sad look on my face, he shakes his head. “You know she didn’t mean that.”

  “Yes, she did.” Frustrated, I shake my head. “And you know what? She’s right. She is my little girl. If I could, I’d freeze time. Life is too precious to waste a moment of it. We’ve both been to the precipice, and by the grace of God, we were pulled back. We should cherish every moment with the children.”

  “You did nothing wrong by insisting that she follow school policy.” Jack strokes my cheek. “She just wants a little independence. It’s part of growing up.”

  I wipe away a tear. “I don’t mind that as long as Trisha doesn’t…well, as long as she doesn’t grow up too fast.”

  “Whether she does or not may not be in our control,” he reminds me. “Even under normal circumstances, a child’s innocence is never assured.”

  Of course, he’s right.

  Even before Trisha’s birth, our family wasn’t “normal.” Thanks to my dead and buried ex-husband Carl’s duplicity, I just didn’t know it.

  “There was a time in my life when I thought I’d never experience the joys and trials of parenting,” Jack admits. “Sure, it’s not always fun. But I wouldn’t trade the experience for anything in the world.”

  His confession earns him an eye roll. “Wait until Trisha turns eighteen then tell me how you feel.”

  For just a second, his smile turns upside down. But his kiss tells me that he’s more than ready for the challenge.

  Together we’ll get through it. And so will she.

  We walk into the Acme conference room to find a woman kneeling in front of Dominic Fleming, one of Acme’s operatives. He has his back to us, but from what we can see, this comely lady’s hand is high between his legs.

  Jack snickers. “Well, this has got to be good…”

  Apparently, our opinions differ on the matter.

  This sight stupefies other members of our team, specifically, Arnie and Abu. On the other hand, our ComInt op, Emma Honeycutt, is busy scanning a video on her computer screen. Like me, she finds Dominic’s sexploits less than impressive.

  Ryan is still in his office, on the phone and pacing the floor. Oh, joy. I can’t wait to see his reaction to this scene.

  It isn’t until we walk around Dominic and his friend that we notice her astounding beauty. The woman holds a cloth tape measure that stretches up from the floor. Looking up adoringly at Dominic, she purrs, “My, that’s quite an inseam you have, sir.”

  He grins down at her. “Impressive, I know.”

  His smile widens when he sees us. “Ah! Here’s the old boy now! Jack, if anyone needs a new suit, it’s you. And Seamstress Simone is just the person to wrap you in luxury to which you’ll soon grow accustomed.” He strokes the cuff of his shirt admiringly. “Let me tell you, she’s quite a flocker! I can vouch for the fact that her finger press is, er, the tightest I’ve ever felt.”

  “You don’t say,” I growl.

  I look down at Simone’s open sewing box. Amid all sizes of needles, thread, and fabric samples she’s got a large darning mushroom. If Dominic keeps up the sewing puns, I’ll be tempted to put it where the sun don’t shine.

  As if reading my mind, Jack quickly assures him, “Thanks, but no thanks. I’m an off-the-rack kind of guy.”

  Dominic sighs. “Sadly, it shows. Ah well…” He winces when Simone’s fingers graze his crotch. “Gently, dearest! One must handle the family jewels with the utmost care.”

  Emma rolls her eyes. “Don’t be so coy, Dominic. Your testicles have seen more action than most porn stars.”

  Instead of being miffed, Dominic swells with pride.

  I look over Emma’s shoulder at her computer screen. “What’s this? Reconnaissance for our next mission?”

  Emma’s cheeks turn crimson. Guiltily, she shakes her head. “Um…no. I…Well, Nicky started toddler preschool today, and I thought I’d check in to see how he’s doing.”

  The scene on her screen would melt any parent’s heart: a dozen toddlers, sitting in a circle, are singing “Itsy Bitsy Spider” with their teacher.

  I move in for a closer look. “I don’t see Nicky. Where is he?”

  Emma’s finger taps the corner of the screen, where Nicky sits in the lap of another teacher. Despite her attempt to engage him in the song, he is crying.

  “It’s natural for him to be a little forlorn. It is his first day of school and all,” I remind her.

  “I know…but…I feel as if I’ve abandoned him.” A tear rolls down Emma’s cheek.

  “Em, it may take a few days or even a week, but he’ll adjust as long as you keep telling him that he’s having fun making new friends. And as you can see for yourself, he’s in capable hands.” I smile encouragingly. “I think it’s great that the preschool has a webcam system. I’m sure the parents find it soothing.”

  “Yeah, um…about that…” Emma bites her lower lip. “To be honest, it’s not their webcam. I sort of set it up after hours.” She puts a finger to her lips. “Please don’t tell anyone, especially not Arnie! He’d laugh at me for being such a…such a mom.”

  “Cross my heart,” I promise. “First and foremost because it’s illegal and unsanctioned! If Ryan finds out, he’ll have to fire you.”

  Emma nods sadly. “I know. I’m so sorry, Donna! But, I just couldn’t bear leaving Nicky without some way to watch over him.”

  “Emma, listen, I understand thoroughly. Still…” I think for a moment. “Hey, why don’t you offer the preschool a free webcam system? Pitch it as a way to make the parents feel secure. If you do it at the next parents-and-teachers gathering, I’m sure they’d jump at it, especially if the other parents are just as cautious.”

  Emma attempts a smile. “You’re right. In fact, there’s a potluck tomorrow night.” She kisses her fingertips then places them over her little guy’s image on the screen. “I’ll turn it off the moment I get him home.”

  We both snap to attention when we hear the door open.

  Ryan rushes in, but he stops short when he sees Seamstress Simone, who is now measuring Dominic’s waist. Why she feels the need to stand practically breast-to-chest with him is beyond me.

  Apparently, Ryan feels the same way. His growl is incomprehensible when he sees them.

  Dominic turns pale.

  Seamstress Simone knows better than to turn on the charm. Instead, she tosses her tape measure into her sewing kit and scurries out the door. Through the glass window, we see her being escorted out by two security guards.

  Before Dominic can explain, Ryan barks, “You’re lucky we don’t have time to get into why you presumed it would be a smart idea to bring nonclassified personnel into our conference room. However, Mr. Fleming, if Acme is compromised, you’ll find yourself being hauled off to a black site wearing nothing but an ill-fitting orange jumpsuit. Do you hear me?”

  Dominic nods solemnly and sits down.

  “Good.” Ryan nods, satisfied. “Everyone, please take a seat. We’ve got a crisis in the making.”

  3

  Backgrounder

  The information within an article that provides context and history to a current news story is called “backgrounder.”

  You and I create our own backgrounders. For example, yours may include loving parents and the collie that pulled you to safety after a flood. This backgrounder explains why you are an animal lover and have five kids of your own.

  Or perhaps you had a cute-meet in a frozen yogurt parlor with your future husband who turned out to be a serial killer. In this case, an aversion to both fro-yo and husbands is understandable.

  Should your backgrounder include experience as a professional assassin, no need to let that particular scalded cat out of the bag. Just make something up!

  And, if someone should dig up the truth? Bury it—along with the researcher who found out your dark little secret.

  “Besides the covet
ed stateside Russian asset list, the Wagner Klein mission netted the CIA something else of interest.” As Ryan clicks a button, the far wall in front of us becomes a floor-to-ceiling screen.

  Immediately, a map of the world appears.

  A logo on the map proclaims:

  Hart Media Corporation

  “Hart Media is another client of Wagner Klein. Not only has the German law firm been setting up offshore bank accounts for this media conglomerate in the BES Islands—that is, Netherlands Antilles—it appears that some of the transfer of funds were held, jointly or prior, in accounts controlled by one of Russian President Putin’s straw men: Kirill Sokolov.”

  “Why would the Russians be paying a news network?” I ask.

  Emma snickers. “You mean, other than its propaganda mouthpiece, RT America?”

  Ryan isn’t laughing. “The CIA is asking the same question. And Hart Media isn’t just any media company.”

  Blue stars shimmer over specific major metropolitan areas: Paris, Rome, London, Tokyo, Sidney, Rio de Janeiro, Berlin, Amsterdam, Madrid, Johannesburg, New York, Los Angeles, and Washington, D.C., to name a few.

  “Randall Sinclair Hart is the sole owner of the largest news organization in the world,” Ryan announces. “His company owns newspapers in eleven world capitals. Additionally, it has a total of five newspapers in the United Kingdom, and three in Germany. It also has dailies in the top ten major U.S. markets and another thirty secondary markets.”

  The screen now morphs into a montage of banners from the company’s various publications.

  “Hart Media's content is not only syndicated to sister publications but to smaller media companies all over the world,” Ryan continues.

  Red and gold stars appear on the map. Most of these are clustered in capital cities or large urban metro areas.

  “Today, Hart’s media empire includes television and radio stations too,” Ryan explains.