The Housewife Assassin's Hostage Hosting Tips

by Josie Brown

  “You’re getting warmer,” I jibe him impatiently.

  When you’re inside a box made of stainless steel that is three-quarters of an inch thick, eight bullets from a semi-automatic hammering a wall next to your head makes you feel as safe as a piñata in a shooting gallery.

  The fact that I’m still breathing means the bullets weren’t able to penetrate the drawer. I consider myself lucky.

  The gun must have jammed, because the shooter lets loose with a litany of blush-worthy cusses, and the exclamation–“I don’t get paid enough for this crap!”–in Russian.

  Really, I’ve given you a very loose interpretation of a phrase that uses a very common English word beginning with the letter F. I’m sure you agree with me that mine weighs lighter on sensitive ears.

  Apparently, Tatyana is alive after all. Does this mean she killed Jack?

  The next click I hear is my drawer being opened and pulled out, and the next face I see is Tatyana’s. She’s holding a gun, and it’s pointed at me.

  Rage blinds me to the reality of the situation: That her smirk indicates she’ll use it without any hesitation. And that I have nothing with me to defend myself against the woman who just killed the love of my life.

  “Where is the tooth with the microdot?” she asks. British accent, veddy posh.

  Ah, well, so much for the simple nicety of a formal introduction, perhaps one of the few things that separates us humans from other species.

  Then, surely, I can be excused as my own animal instincts kick in. The fist holding the needle-nose pliers swings back over my head, stabbing her in her gut.

  Her scream is a shrill squeal, akin to a bonobo in heat.

  The bright red blood flowing out of her is the color of cherry Kool-Aid, but has the consistency of a glaze.

  In other words, it’s made a mess of her chic black sheath.

  Instinctively, she reaches for her wound. It’s only when she stares down at it, though, that the reality of her situation hits her. Shivers run through her body. Her eyes grow big and glassy. She grits her teeth and forces herself to shift her gaze directly at me–

  And to take one more shot.

  The only way to defend myself is to flip over and squeeze myself as far into the right side of the drawer as possible–

  And just in the knick of time. The bullet slams into the left side of the drawer, only to ricochet up, hitting the drawer’s roof, then down–

  Into my ass.

  I groan from the pain.

  Tatyana smiles, even as the light goes out of her eyes. As she slumps to the floor, the weight of her body shoves the drawer back into the wall.

  I hear it click shut right before I pass out.

  I’m awakened by the sound of my pounding heart.

  I take that as a good sign.

  “Doc, she’s coming to,” says Jack.

  He’s speaking to Doctor Fleishman, I presume, who happens to be Acme’s around-the-clock no-questions-asked medicine man. He works out of an urgent care center in the building next to Acme’s, which picks up the tab for it, him, and his staff.

  Just hearing Jack’s voice puts a smile on my face. And feeling his lips on mine is all the encouragement I need to attempt to open at least one eye again. He’s laid his head next to mine, so that we’re nose to nose and I’m staring into his sweet green peepers. The concern in his eyes is all I need to know I’ll be alright.

  “Ouch,” I mutter.

  “I’ll bet.” Jack is trying not to smile. “At least you took it where it could do the least damage.”

  “I guess you’re right.” I crane my neck to see what the doctor is up to, but before I turn, Doctor Fleishman stops me with a gentle tap on the lucky cheek without the bullet hole. “Whoa! I’ve got a few more stitches to go!”

  “Oh…sorry.” Blushing, I ease back down.

  Time to change the subject. “Jack, what’s the prognosis on the Russian widow?”

  Jack’s smile fades. “You pierced her pretty hard. She lost a lot of blood, and she’s still unconscious. The doc says it’ll be touch and go. We’ve got her under lock and key. The moment she wakes up, I’ll be questioning her.” He shrugs. “Abu is at the morgue, cleaning up after her.”

  “I presume Jerry was DOA.”

  “Sadly, yes.” Jack winces. “I wish I’d gotten there sooner.”

  From behind me, Dr. Fleishman declares, “You’re good to go, Donna. I leave you with two souvenirs.” In one hand, he holds a pill cup. I look inside. It holds the bullet that pierced my rear. The other hand holds an inflatable donut–not the greatest fashion statement.

  “Take it easy for the next couple of weeks,” Doctor Fleishman warns me.

  “Will do,” I promise, as I ease myself off the gurney. Gingerly, I step forward. Pain pulses through me, but I force a smile through it as I make my way to the front door. “Now that I’m benched, per doctor’s orders, I guess it will make it easier for Ryan to learn to live without me when I formally turn in my resignation.”

  “He’ll whine at first, but he’ll get over it,” Jack assures me.

  “I didn’t realize I’m so easily replaceable.”

  Jack raises a brow. “No one says you are. But you’ve made up your mind, and that’s that. Acme will have to go on without you.”

  “I do feel right about it,” I insist.

  “As you should,” he assures me. “Frankly, your timing couldn’t be better, with what seems to be coming down.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  He shrugs. “Tatyana’s reappearance is not a good sign of things to come.”

  “You mentioned that you have a history with her.”

  “Just a couple of run-ins. She’s a former SVR sparrow. These days, she’s freelancing for the Quorum, which is why she was also coming for the microdot.”

  “I see.” I pause.

  Nothing else. Apparently, he doesn’t want to talk about it.

  About her.

  “Nothing to worry your little head about.” He forces a smile on his lips. “As of now, you’re off the clock, right?”

  We’re in a business in which some intel, even between lovers, is only divulged on a need-to-know basis. Apparently, Jack thinks this is one of those times.

  I pretend to respect his wishes, and drop the matter.

  Still, I wish my aim had been just a little bit better.

  Chapter 2

  Choosing a Theme for Your Party

  Throwing a posh soirée? Give it a theme!

  For example, choose a decade. How about the nineteen-thirties? Hand out tin cups to your guests, put Ruth Etting and Ethel Waters blues albums on your retro turntable, and wear chiffon dresses with cap sleeves (to cover up your jiggly batwings). As for food and drink, make revelers stand in a soup line, and dole out gin you really made in your bathtub, out of pure grain alcohol and juniper berry juice (as opposed to holly berries, which may turn your party into a wake for the first to imbibe). Talk about authenticity!

  Another example: commemorate a movie. For example, you can have fun with Hitchcock’s “The Birds.” Stage your living room with taxidermic crows. Invite your guests to put their hair up in a French twist and to dress in jacketed sheaths, like Tippi Hedren. Your buffet can include hard-boiled eggs and roast quail. For authenticity, hire a falconer and have him do tricks with his trained peregrine–

  Well, his ad claimed the bird was trained.

  Last one into the phone booth is a rotten corpse!

  I’ve spent the night sleeping on my stomach. At least Jack’s arm was around me. But sadly, I now awaken to find he’s not in our bed.

  Nor is he in the shower. A shame. I’d love to have joined him there.

  According to the bedroom’s mantle clock, it’s only six-fifteen. I slip on a robe and head downstairs.

  Jack is standing at the kitchen counter, where Mary, Jeff, and Trisha’s lunch boxes lay open. He’s already made sandwiches from last night’s leftover roast chicken. A sandwich bag filled
with chips is also tucked into each box. He’s chopping a carrot: first the tip and the end before slicing lengthwise once, then again, so that the carrot is quartered. He lines up the pieces so that the next cut halves all the slices at once.

  Without turning around, he murmurs, “You’re up early.”

  But of course he’d know I was behind him. All senses working at all times. It’s second nature for spies like us.

  He turns and smiles. Leaning against the counter, he teases, “Between the day you had yesterday and the painkiller Doc Fleishman gave you, I expected you to sleep in until at least noon.”

  I steal a carrot stick and take a bite. “I’m too restless. As they say, ‘This is the first day of the rest of my life.’” I hold what’s left of it out to him.

  He takes it in one bite. As he munches on it, he admonishes me, “I still insist on making breakfast this morning, and taking the kids to school.”

  “If you’re offering to make your world famous French toast, how can I refuse? But why don’t we split up carpool? You take the girls. I wanted to attend the middle school PTA meeting anyway.”

  “It’s a deal.” He must not mind that I have carrot breath because he goes in for a real kiss–long, deep, and oh so sweet.

  When I open my eyes, I notice that his eyes have shifted toward the kitchen table, where his laptop sits open. Nonchalantly, he positions himself so that he stands in my sight line.

  Why?

  I turn toward the cabinet and open it for a coffee mug. After pouring myself a cuppa, I reach for the morning paper. Pretending I’m immersed in an article about Hilldale’s local bake sale, I murmur, “Oh…sorry, darling, I forgot to mention it, but I’m pretty sure I woke up because your cell phone was buzzing.”

  “Oh?” he frowns. “I guess I should check it, to see what’s up.”

  I nod absentmindedly.

  I wait until he’s all the way up the stairs before I click onto his computer, using his password: my measurements. (At least, the ones I swore to him were mine.)

  He’s been reading an Acme file that includes an update on Tatyana’s condition. Apparently, she’s regained consciousness, but refuses to speak to anyone.

  No surprise there.

  His footsteps are heavy enough that I can hear him in the hallway above me. Before he makes his way to the stairs, I position myself back at the counter with the newspaper back in my hands, as if the latest shenanigans of the Hilldale city council are of grave importance to me.

  Too late, I realize that I closed his laptop.

  Oh. Shit.

  If he notices, he doesn’t show it. Grinning, he starts on his next carving project, an apple. “I presume that, after PTA, you’ll stop by the office to formally tender your resignation to Ryan.”

  “Of course.” Does he notice the catch in my throat?

  I’ll admit, it won’t be easy leaving my Acme family. But I’ve accomplished what I set out to do when I started this journey: save my children from the harm that was imminent when Carl disappeared.

  More to the point, I saved my children from Carl.

  The world would be a safer place, too, if his demise meant that the Quorum was also dead. Unfortunately, Hardy and Tatyana’s machinations prove otherwise.

  To be honest, it bothers me that Jack doesn’t also feel the need to get on with his life.

  By that, I mean our lives together.

  I force my lips into a smile. “I’ll be in the office before noon. Let’s have lunch together, somewhere off campus. That way, we can play catch up.”

  He’s about to say something, but whatever it is, he decides to wait because Mary is tripping down the stairs, rubbing her eyes. Seeing her, he reaches for the square skillet–a sure sign that the family Stone is to be treated to his celebrated French toast.

  She hesitates before giving him a hug on the way to the fridge for a glass of orange juice. Of my three children, Mary took the news of Carl’s death the hardest.

  As if the blow of Carl’s death wasn’t bad enough, the press has been having a field day dissecting the data files–courtesy of the straight-shooting data thief known the world over as the Mad Hacker–that accompanied a Clark Kent Justice League article. It detailed Carl’s attempt to auction off security intelligence while in his position as the U.S. Director of Intelligence.

  Jeff’s mourning is mitigated by his classmates’ taunts that his father was a terrorist, whereas Trisha’s teacher, Miss McGonagall, and her principal, Miss Darling, have done a good job of tamping down the parents’ gossiping in front of their children. No bullies at any age are tolerated at the school.

  As for Mary, her initial response was a shrug, but every night for a week, I heard her crying, usually right before dawn. We didn’t tell her how it happened, since there is always the tendency to shoot the messenger. Granted, if she knew the truth, she’d have just cause.

  Then again, if she knew that Carl almost killed Jack and me, maybe she would have shot him herself.

  I married evil. Taking him down was my way of dealing with it. His child might see it differently.

  Speaking of evil, I wonder if Jack will mention Tatyana’s status to me, or if he’ll honor my resolve that all Acme business stays out of my life from now on. I hope it’s the former. I mean, hey, who doesn’t like a little office gossip now and then?

  Especially when it’s about the person who put a bullet in your ass.

  “Why is your mom sitting on a whoopee cushion?” Jeff’s best friend, Morton Smith, points at me.

  That’s what I get for leaving the car door open as I position my inflatable donut.

  My son’s face turns candy apple red. “She…had surgery.”

  Stupid me. I should have taken Jack up on his offer to drive the boys, too. But he’s got enough on his mind–even if he won’t tell me exactly what that is.

  “Let me guess,” declares Cheever Bing, Jeff’s other pal, “hemorrhoids.”

  “No,” I growl, as he climbs into the middle seat of my Toyota Highlander Hybrid. I pull away from the curb with a jolt. He takes the hint and buckles his seatbelt.

  If he were smart, he would have read my tone as a warning: subject closed.

  But the child is not the sharpest pencil in the drawer, which is par for the course, considering his mom, Penelope, is just as dull and twice as obnoxious. Cheever wrinkles his forehead, as if using his brain is hard work. Finally, he ventures another guess: “Prostatitis?”

  Jeff shoves him. “Women don’t have prostates, you moron.”

  Cheever shoves back. “Prostatitis is a disease sluts get from the johns who pay for them.”

  Morton leans over the seat from the back row. “What…you mean, like, paid toilets?”

  “No, jerk! Johns, as in men who pay for sex.” Cheever leers at me through the rearview mirror, then hits the seat hard enough that Morton retreats back into his corner.

  Jeff grabs Cheever by the neck and puts a fist up to his nose. “Are you calling my mother a hooker?”

  Cheever breaks free and shrugs innocently. “I’d never do that. On the other hand, my mom says that any woman who’s got two husbands must be making them both pay through the nose for something.” He winks broadly at Morton.

  Morton’s face twists from a complete lack of comprehension. “I didn’t know your mom was a bigot!”

  “You mean bigamist, you idiot,” Cheever snorts.

  “She isn’t a bigamist! And she’s not a whore, either–” Jeff grabs Cheever by the collar and swings his arm back.

  His fist is within pummeling distance when I screech to the curb. Catching Cheever’s eye in the mirror, I say, “Out. Now.”

  He looks back at Morton, as if he doesn’t believe I’m addressing him. Morton heads for the door. My two-fingered whistle puts him back in his seat, fast.

  “I mean you, Cheever–you little perv.” I jump out in order to slide his door to one side, then I grab him by the collar and pull him out.

  He’s actually whimpering. �
�But–but it’s two miles to school from here!”

  “Not quite. A mile and two-thirds, to be exact.” I squeeze his plump cheek until he winces. “A nice long walk may help you lose some of this baby fat.”

  He’s so frantic that he’s practically clawing at the car. “But–I’ll miss first period history class!”

  I climb into the driver’s seat. Revving the engine, I shout out the window, “Not if you jog!”

  He’s still staring after us as I drive off. Make that, glaring.

  I’m curious, so I ask, “Why, all of a sudden, does he give two hoots whether or not he makes first period?”

  “Because of Gabrielle Mathews.” Morton holds his hands chest-high and hefts them, as if they cradle a bounty. “Capisce?” he asks.

  Jeff leaps over the middle seat in order to slap Morton’s hands back down into his lap. “Not only are you not Italian, you’re disgusting.”

  “What did I do?” Morton whines. “You know it’s true! She’s got ’em, and Cheever wants to get ahold of ’em.”

  Angrily, Jeff shakes his head. “Oh yeah? Like that’ll ever happen!”

  A part of me is proud of Jeff for standing up against derogatory remarks aimed at the opposite sex. But another part of me suspects there’s a reason for his gallantry.

  Maybe two. Chest high.

  “Why do you care, anyway?” Morton mutters, just loud enough for both Jeff and I to hear him.

  Catching my eye in the mirror, Jeff turns bright red.

  Who is this Gabrielle Mathews, anyway?

  A quick scan of his Facebook page’s friends list should answer a lot of questions.

  My quick curb stop makes me a few minutes late for the PTA meeting. I get the evil eye from Penelope’s sergeant at arms, Hayley Coxhead. She waves me to a seat in the back of the room.

  My walk of shame takes me in front of the podium. As I pass Penelope, she mutters, “Well, surprise, surprise! Mrs. Stone has graced us with her presence. Or shall I say, Mrs. Craig? ...Oh! Forgot, you aren’t married to him. You’re just living in sin. Ah, what a wonderful example you’re setting for your three children.”