The Housewife Assassin's Greatest Hits

by Josie Brown

  When I do, it explodes…

  Nuclear football.

  When I left the White House just now, Gordy was sitting just outside the West Wing library. The satchel—which holds an aluminum briefcase nicknamed the “nuclear football”—was by his feet.

  The “Gold Codes” within the briefcase—the numeric sequences the president would use to launch a nuclear attack—are changed daily. However, should anyone gain access to them along with the other items in the briefcase—the Major Attack Options placards and the gold phone tied to a secure transmission channel—our country’s nuclear options could be hacked.

  Suddenly, Carl’s voice comes to me just as clearly as if he’s standing next to me:

  He’s not Jack.

  But… What?

  Kill Eric—now.

  I stare at the face I’ve come to know and love. The features are the same: the shape of his cheekbone, the dent in the chin, the curling forelock—

  And yes, his eyes are the right color: deep green.

  Except that they are too cold—

  Too deadly.

  They are not Jack’s.

  Despite the bile seeping into my throat, I manage a smile as I move beside him. I sigh, as if relieved for his safety.

  “Thank goodness”—I lean in seductively. When we’re nose-to-nose, I whisper—“Eric.”

  It takes only a moment for him to realize the jig is up. When he does, his smile sours into a grimace. He raises his gun—

  But I’m too quick for him. I slap it out of his hand. It flies high before falling over the rail.

  Instinctively, his eyes follow it as it falls three stories below.

  Even before it clatters onto the checkerboard marble floor, I’ve wrenched the satchel from his other hand and taken a step back. A high kick, squarely to his chest, sends him over the railing.

  As he falls, his scream echoes up through the stairwell.

  Through my earbud, I hear the collective gasp of my mission team.

  Ryan yells, “Donna—what the hell did you just do?”

  Oh, my God! What if…

  The man sprawled out on the floor stares up at me.

  He, too, is Jack.

  Had I not shown up, Eric would have shot him.

  Apparently, Jack doesn’t see it that way because he’s glaring at me as he lifts himself off the floor.

  “Here, let me help.” I hold out my hand.

  “Why? So that you can throw me over—again?”

  His words startle me. “What do you mean by that?”

  “You shoved that man—a man who looks like me—over a railing three stories up,” Jack retorts.

  “As you just pointed out, he isn’t you,” I counter hotly.

  “But how did you know that? Donna, when I saw him, I thought I was looking in the mirror! When he turned around, you didn’t even give him a chance to speak.”

  The only thing I can do now is shrug helplessly. The truth is too fantastical—or at least, that’s what he’ll think. “A wife always knows,” I insist.

  “Bullshit. You didn’t even hesitate.” He stares at me as if he’s now seeing the ghost I once was. “It wasn’t as if you saw me—the real me—first before you shoved him, for God’s sake!”

  “Jack, you’ll have to trust me that I knew he wasn’t you—that I knew he was…Eric!”

  “Eric? But—it doesn’t make sense!”

  He doubts me. Worse yet, he doesn’t trust me.

  Abu yells up the staircase from the ground floor. “Whoever the hell he is, I’ve got a pulse—but barely.”

  Through our earbuds, Ryan declares, “An ambulance is on its way. Abu, clean up the shooter. You’ll find her on the fourth floor: room 467, which faces the West Wing of the White House.”

  “Right, Chief,” Abu answers.

  The elevator opens. Rappaport rushes out with two security guards. I hand him the satchel. “If this is indeed what we think it is, then great work,” he says jubilantly.

  “Dominic, you’ll accompany our prisoner to Bethesda Naval Hospital,” Ryan commands. “You’ll work in eight-hour shifts with Jack and Donna until the suspect wakes up—or expires.”

  I remember I have a stop to make first. "I’ll get there as quickly as I can. Unfortunately, I have to go to back to the West Wing."

  "Why?" Jack smirks. "Did you suddenly remember Lee's kiss and his proposal?"

  "What are you talking about?" I deny hotly. But my blush tells him he's guessed right.

  Angered that he may be right, Jack throws up his hands. “I’m going with the ambulance. Dominic can ride with Donna.” He takes the elevator down. The doors close before I can get in too.

  I stare down into the lobby, where his twin lies on the floor in a twisted heap. Dominic is kneeling beside him.

  When the elevator reaches the lobby, Jack gets out and Abu gets in. He’s headed to the fourth floor to see my handiwork.

  Dominic stares up at me. I’ve never seen a more pitying expression.

  I guess I’ve earned it.

  21

  Back Off Bitch

  Performed by Guns & Roses on the band’s album, Use Your Illusion I. It was written by Axl Rose and Paul Tobias.

  Does the song have a backstory? You betcha! In 1982, Axl moved to Los Angeles with his then-girlfriend Gina Siler. They broke up because of his anger issues.

  Whereas the lyrics of the song didn’t exactly lend itself to airplay back in the day, it helped take the album to #2 on the Billboard 200 chart, perhaps because it was a crowd favorite with concertgoers, even before the release of the band’s debut 1987 album, Appetite for Destruction. (Gee, I wonder why?)

  Should some frenemy take it upon herself to be a constant pain in your arse, here are a few things you can do to encourage her to reconsider this aggravating role in your already harried life:

  First, ask her nicely to check her attitude at the door. If she laughs at the suggestion, smack her head into said door. When she comes to, something tells me she’ll duck the next time she crosses your threshold.

  Next: Reaffirm the adage that she’ll “catch more flies with honey than vinegar.” To prove this, tie her up and then roll her body in honey so that she can see how many flies show up. If this still doesn’t convince her, waterboard her in vinegar. When she comes to, I guess she’ll no longer complain about the flies.

  Finally, have a true heart-to-heart talk with her—literally—by demonstrating how perfectly the shiv you now have in your hand fits between the second and third ribs of her chest. She may whimper as you explain why this would put an end to your friendship (not to mention her life), but one way or another she’ll get the point.

  I make Dominic stop off at a 24-hour supermarket before we head over to the White House. I come out with two-dozen long-stemmed white roses, tied together with a small blue teddy bear. “For the First Lady,” I explain.

  He smirks. “You’re a cheeky monkey! Are you barmy? I’ve gotten the distinct impression that she can’t be arsed by you.”

  I laugh. “It’s that obvious, eh?” I shouldn’t take pride in getting under her skin, but I do. “Who told you that, Narcissa? Chantal?”

  “If you must know, both have mentioned it at one time or another—perhaps in unison.”

  “Speaking out of school, are they?” I bat my eyes. “What else have they told you?”

  He puffs up. “Other than I’m a consummate cocksman?”

  “I mean, after that topic was finally exhausted.”

  He pouts at the thought. “My dear, ‘exhausted’? I can’t imagine that is even possible!”

  I count to three before starting over. “Surely, their conversation eventually strayed onto other topics! For example, I can imagine that they’re quite aware that Babette is still in mourning over Salem.”

  “Personally, I abhor pillow talk,” he grumbles. “But I’m hardly no mouth and all trousers. One must at least attempt some modicum of chitchat between rousing bouts of rumpy-pumpy.” His forehead crea
ses as he searches his memory for one of these times. “Ah, yes! Chantal let on that Babette had given Scarlett the heave-ho just yesterday. The saucy redhead stormed out of the West Wing in a huff.” He sighs mightily. “Ah, well, there goes my Charlie’s Angels fantasy: satisfying a blonde, a brunette, and a redhead all at the same time.”

  “Why was she fired?” I ask.

  “According to Narcissa, Scarlett insisted on tagging along to every function on Babette’s calendar.”

  “You just said it was Chantal who told you about Scarlett monopolizing Babette’s time.”

  Dominic cocks a brow. “I say, old girl—it’s hard to tell them apart, especially when they’re chattering in unison! But the long and the short of it was that she was intrusive. Even in the family’s private quarters, Scarlett dominated Babette’s time. Now, we know why.” He gives me a knowing wink. “That bird was brass monkeys—and it had nothing to do with my prowess—or, that of any other man, for that matter.”

  “‘Brass monkeys’? What do you mean by that?”

  “She was cold. Frigid.” He looks me up and down as if comparing my temperature with his perception of hers. When he nods sympathetically, I resist the urge to punch him. It can wait, whereas getting to the White House is a priority.

  “Obviously, she had an unreciprocated crush on the beautiful Babette,” he continues. “Why else would she be driven to kill her?”

  I snort. “Who said she was aiming at Babette? She and Eric were trying to assassinate Lee!”

  “Such a naïve little fool you are.” He chucks me under the chin. “Don’t you remember all that blather about Babette’s blood spattering on her negligee? What was it the illustrious Ms. Packard said? ...Oh, yes! ‘I even helped her pick it out. I made her model it first, though…’” Dominic grins lasciviously. “Sounds to me as if her unrequited love got Eric a bonus hit—well, almost. Babette may owe you her life.”

  As he chatters on, Scarlett’s final words rise in my ear:

  Like Jack and Jackie just before Oswald’s second hit. Blood splatters on the peignoir will be a wonderful touch, don’t you think? It was her idea to wear it…

  Babette’s idea.

  Valentina’s declaration tickles my memory like a feather: The wife knows everything.

  Eric was after the nuclear football, whereas Lee’s assassination was Babette’s idea.

  I nod as I fiddle with the teddy bear in my lap, but I’m not just feigning interest. My fingernail has loosened enough threads in the bear’s plush belly to slip in a tiny disk that transmits the sound of the softest murmur to one of Acme’s many satellites hovering beyond Earth’s stratosphere.

  Before knotting the seam tightly again, I activate the disk.

  A second later, Emma murmurs, “Reading you loud and clear.”

  Good. Time to clear the air between Babette and me once and for all.

  Despite it now being the early hours of the morning, the White House is roused and fully staffed. Word of the attempt on the President’s life has put his staff on full alert.

  I’ll soon find out if Babette is also awake. My guess is yes, if only for the sake of appearances.

  Chantal and Narcissa aren’t the only White House minions susceptible to Dominic’s obvious charms. The night receptionist now guarding the First Family’s quarters practically melts under the come-hither gaze emitting from Dominic’s baby blue peepers. She barely glances at my bouquet and me as she waves me onto the next gauntlet, Narcissa’s desk.

  Narcissa must keep her eyes peeled to the lobby’s security feed whenever Dominic is in town. Why else would she be practically running down the hall toward him? Make that hopping, because at the same time she’s changing into a pair of five-inch Pigalle Plato pumps. This gives me just enough time to slip into a supply closet. If she sees me, she may shoo me away.

  When the coast is clear, I walk swiftly to the First Lady’s bedroom suite. As always, Lurch and another Secret Service agent are standing close by. Lurch’s brow rises when he sees me.

  I smile sweetly. After juggling my flowers in one hand, I hold out the other. If he takes it to put me in an arm lock, I’ll know that my status with Babette is persona non grata.

  To my relief, Lurch shakes my hand warmly. “So happy to see you up and about again. And I’m sure The First Lady will be pleased to see you too.” His wink is proof we both know that this is not the case. Still, he knocks on the door.

  “Enter,” Babette declares. “What took you so long, Narcissa? My God, I need to put out a statement on the assassination attempt immediately…”

  Her voice trails off when she sees it’s me.

  The last vestiges of Babette’s baby bump are well hidden under her long-sleeved floor-length silk kimono. Maternity has softened her once sharply etched cheekbones and given her face a healthy natural glow.

  Sadly, her puckered pout is the same.

  She sits on the living room couch. Her infant son lies in a bassinet beside it.

  Chantal sits beside Babette. Seeing me, she almost drops the iPad in her hand. Her frown is practically a snarl.

  My way of ignoring it is to murmur, “Dominic and I were just passing by and thought we’d drop this off.”

  Upon hearing her lover’s name, Chantal practically salivates. I wonder which of his many charms elicits this Pavlovian response.

  Babette dismisses Chantal with a wave. She doesn’t have to ask twice. Chantal is out the door in a flash.

  Babette’s eyes drill through me. “No need for pretenses. Lee isn’t here.”

  I walk up to her. “I came to see you,” I assure her. “May I sit down?”

  “Why? Do you plan to stay long? Sorry, but I can’t accommodate a social visit at this time. As you know, I just had my son—our son–Harrison.”

  I sit down anyway and hand her the flowers. “I’m sorry I missed the blessed event.”

  “Yes, I heard you were predisposed,” she replies with a smirk.

  “That’s one way of putting it.” I shrug. “But as you can see, I survived.”

  Babette pats my hand. “Lucky you.”

  I put my hand over hers. “Do you mean that? I mean, let’s be serious. Wouldn’t you rather I’d died?”

  She tries to pull away, but I hold on tight. Annoyed, she growls, “Don’t be ridiculous! Our girls are inseparable. Janie would have felt morose—for a month, at the very least. And didn’t Jack tell you that she and I came to visit?”

  “You mean, when you kissed him and told him that you’d always be there to—how did you put it again? Oh, yes! ‘To comfort him’.”

  She wrenches her hand away. “He told you that, did he?” She grins smugly. “Bad boy! What our men won’t do or say to see us get into a cat fight.”

  “Not my style,” I assure. “Although, according to Scarlett, you might enjoy a little girl-on-girl action. Isn’t that why you invited her to watch as you tried on negligees? Hey, I’m not passing judgment! Your choice in partners—Jonah, Salem—has always shown an exotic bent.” I lean in as if I want in on the secret. “Seriously, Babette, is that why you let her go? Or, was it all part of an act to cover up the bigger plan?”

  Babette’s eyes narrow. “I don’t know what you’re talking about!” she exclaims hotly.

  “Scarlett admitted it.” I shrug. “To her credit, she thought she was talking to Eric at the time,” I assure her. “As she aimed at Lee from the fourth floor of the EEOB. But you already know she was Eric's shooter, don’t you? In fact, you felt comfortable enough with her marksmanship that you offered to distract Lee—in your sexy nightie, no less.”

  “How dare you insinuate—”

  “Sorry, Babette. Her remarks were recorded. Lee will be briefed on them shortly.”

  She reaches out to slap me—

  But I grab her wrist.

  “You bitch," she says in a growl. "If you think Lee will take your word over mine—”

  “Lee deserves to know the truth.”

  “He already know
s it,” she retorts hotly. “He also knows that there is nothing he can do about it. He needed me to get here, and he needs me to stay here.”

  “You’ve done everything to undermine his presidency—including conspiracy for treason! For the good of the country, he’ll do the right thing,” I warn her.

  She laughs raucously. “You’re such a fool! He’s boxed in. Admitting that I tried to kill him will be his political undoing. If I go down, so does he—”

  At the sound of Harrison’s fearful squalling, we freeze in unison.

  I drop her arm.

  Big mistake. This time, Babette slap hits its mark. I reel backward.

  She stalks over to Harrison and picks him up, nudging aside her robe to put his mouth on an engorged breast. “Shall I ask Lurch to escort you out?” she asks.

  “Not necessary. I’m late for a meeting anyway.”

  I head for the door.

  “We got it all,” Emma whispers. “What a bitch!”

  Before waving goodbye to Lurch, I swing my hair so that it covers the slap mark that still stings my cheek.

  Will some foundation cover it up? It’s certainly worth a try. I make my way to the nearest ladies’ room.

  If it didn’t hurt so much, I’d laugh at the realization that I was just bitch-slapped by Babette Chiffray.

  22

  He Stopped Loving Her Today

  Performed by George Jones. Written by Bobby Braddock and Curly Putnam. Released in March 1980. It reached Number 1 on Billboard’s “Hot Country Singles.”

  Eventually, tumultuous relationships come to an end. Here’s how you’ll know when the passion you share with your off-and-on-again beloved has finally jumped the shark:

  Telltale Sign Number 1: He quits calling. You quit caring.

  Telltale Sign Number 2: His lies no longer mean anything to you.

  Telltale Sign Number 3: When you’re at the target range, you no longer imagine him behind the bulls-eye. He isn't worth the cost of the ammo. It’s cheaper to change your locks and move on.