The Housewife Assassin's Hostage Hosting Tips

by Josie Brown

  Like being teased into having sex–and getting pregnant.

  Or being urged into trying pot, or Oxycontin, or worse–say, coke and heroin–and end up with a lifelong addiction.

  Or letting her depression over her father’s death get the better of her, so that she ends up hating herself–and if she hates herself enough, she may also end up dead.

  Mary’s head whips around in my direction. “How about you, Mother? Do you have any regrets?”

  Right about now, I regret having this conversation.

  Keep calm. “Let’s stay on topic. If I can’t trust you, I’ll have to–”

  She turns back around. Her eyes glitter with scorn. “You’ll have to what, Mother? Track me via my cell phone’s GPS? Initiate satellite surveillance? Embed a tracker in my wrist?” She laughs cruelly. “That’s okay. To tell you the truth, it doesn’t bother me in the least that you don’t trust me–because I don’t trust you.”

  I slap her cheek–hard.

  Instinctively, her hand rises to the heat she feels on her face.

  My face feels as if it’s on fire too. Anger can do that to you. So can shame. “I’m sorry, Mary. I shouldn’t have done that.”

  “You want the truth?” Her voice quivers–from fear or rage, I can’t tell. “Okay, you asked for it! I’m glad I made you angry with me! At least it’s an honest emotion–not like the lies I’ve heard from you my whole life.”

  “I’ll admit it–I didn’t tell you everything. But at the time, I had legitimate reasons. Sometimes it was the privacy conditions that went along with my job. At other times, you were too young to comprehend what was happening.”

  “I’m not too young now. So, tell me the truth! Who killed my father? Was it you, or was it Jack?”

  Her tone says it all: Do you want to earn my honesty? Do it here and now.

  Okay, then–let’s see if she can handle the truth.

  “You’ve got it all wrong,” I say coolly. “Your father rigged it so that Jack would die in an explosion in a cabin. When I came looking for Jack, your father promised to let him live–if I went with him on a boat. As we were out to sea, the cabin blew up anyway. I thought Jack had died. I threw the item your father wanted so badly overboard. He was so angry that he tied me up and threw me off the boat. He didn’t know it was rigged to blow up if it went above a certain speed.”

  Truth walks a tightrope. It can tilt too much toward disbelief on one side, or hatred on the other. No need to shoot the messenger when the odds are she’ll stumble into the bottomless abyss of distrust on her own accord.

  From the ice in Mary’s eyes, it seems I’ve shot myself in the foot and am in a free fall–and that I may never crawl out of it.

  Finally, she growls, “I knew it! I knew you killed him.”

  He was a terrorist; a killer; a deserter of his company, and his family.

  And a deadbeat dad.

  And yet, somehow, I’m the bad guy. Well, to hell with that. “You’re grounded. Hand me your phone.”

  She sits there, stone-faced.

  “Now,” I warn her.

  She reaches into her school bag and tosses it into my lap.

  I growl, “And just to be clear, no Facebook or texting, either,”

  She slumps further into her seat.

  On the way home, neither of us says a word.

  Neither of us cries either.

  And we certainly don’t say we’re sorry.

  Like mother, like daughter.

  “Delicious,” Jack declares, as he digs into a second chocolate cherry brownie heart.

  I’m not surprised that Mary skipped dinner, pretending that she wasn’t hungry. As for Trisha and Jeff, they gobbled down my spaghetti and meatballs. By now, Mary’s moodiness is taken for granted by everyone. I guess I should be relieved that my younger children have less pressing issues. In Trisha’s case, whether or not she’ll be chosen as the ballet recital’s fairy queen. On Planet Jeff, I can’t tell if he’s more concerned whether he’ll be the starting forward in his next basketball game, or if this competition over the infamously well-endowed Gabrielle Mathews bothers him.

  Frankly, I hope it’s the former. The last thing the Family Stone needs is more relationship drama.

  Eventually, they’ll ask questions about Carl’s death. Mary’s reaction is good preparation for when that time comes.

  “So glad you enjoyed my little treat.” It’s nice to be appreciated, even for something as small as a homemade dessert. “And…thank you for picking up Trisha and Jeff.”

  “And for putting up with you, too, as you go through separation anxiety with Acme,” Jack adds as he licks his fork clean.

  I nod grudgingly. “Call it what you will.”

  “What would you call it?”

  “Not jealousy, if that’s what you’re thinking,” I declare primly. “I have complete trust that you know exactly what you’re doing as it pertains to Tatyana.”

  He drops his fork with a clatter. “Oh, yeah? Since when?”

  I can’t exactly tell him, Since you crushed her pinky and stripped the skin off her back. So instead, I say, “Let’s just say I’ve known you long enough to trust your actions, motives, and instincts.” I slump down in my chair. “Which is more than I can say for my daughter, as it pertains to me.”

  Jack pulls me into his lap. And in a totally unnecessary attempt to turn my frown upside down, he spoon-feeds me a bite of brownie. As I chew on it, he murmurs, “I suspected that Mary’s grief over Carl’s death would explode somehow. I’m sorry it was directed at you, Donna.”

  “Better me than you.” I wince. “Although, to be honest, you’re right alongside me in the Mary’s mad-at-mommy doghouse.”

  He kisses my forehead. “I can’t think of a better place to be.”

  That gets a laugh out of me, but my smile fades as I hand him back his fork. “Doesn’t she get it? What if we’d died instead of Carl? That was the alternative!”

  “Donna, remember, she’s still a kid. If Carl had succeeded, believe me, she would have been beating him up over it–or he would have beaten her into submission, emotionally if not physically.”

  I shudder at the thought. As for Jack, his hands curl into fists. After a moment of silence, he takes a deep breath. When he releases his fist, it’s to stroke my palms. “She’s lashing out,” he murmurs. “We have to bite our tongues and wait it out.”

  “We should do more than that,” I insist. “Jack, I think we should go to counseling, as a family.”

  He nods slowly at the thought. “Good suggestion. It will clear the air about Carl, and maybe about other things as well. Just name the day.”

  “Janine gave me the name of someone she trusts,” I murmur sadly. “Ha! And all this time, I thought I was the perfect mother.”

  He laughs. “You’re the perfect lover. Isn’t that enough?”

  “It means a lot that you think so, yes.” I’m being serious. “But if I’ve let my children down in any way, I’ll never forgive myself.”

  “You haven’t. And the sooner we get Mary beyond her anger, the sooner we can get on with the rest of our lives.”

  “Agreed.” I hesitate and add: “You know, I was thinking…about Tatyana.”

  Jack groans and closes both eyes.

  “Please, Jack, don’t jump to conclusions! What I have to say is strictly professional.”

  He opens one eye. “Okay, let’s have it.”

  “I was just thinking…I mean, I don’t know how your surveillance has been on her since she left Club Dread, but considering the few facts we–you know about her mission, I hope you realize that she’ll be back here on U.S. soil as soon as she can.”

  “We already have all ports of entry being watched,” he assures me.

  “Good”–I take a deep breath–“because we both know that no one with a ticking clock is going to sit too long in one place.” I smile up at him innocently.

  Despite his attempt to keep a poker face, I see the corneas of his eyes gro
w as it dawns on him that Tatyana’s stay in Mosul is now going on its second day.

  This is not the norm.

  I kiss him before jumping out of his lap. “I’ve got to clear the table. Afterward, I’m going to leave a message with the family counselor Janine suggested, so that we can get the first available appointment.”

  He nods absentmindedly. Not that I blame him, with all that’s on his mind right now. I could have easily predicted his next step: walk upstairs to the bedroom to call Ryan and ask all the right questions:

  Did Tatyana somehow discover she was tagged with a GPS chip?

  And, if so, what other surveillance does Acme have on the area, to determine if she lost her tail?

  Fifteen minutes later, when Jack is back in the kitchen, he isn’t smiling–not a good sign. I guess my hunch was right, which is unfortunate for Acme.

  He takes my hand and leads me out into the backyard, where a hammock awaits us, as does a night filled with glistening stars. I fall into it first, and he follows.

  As I lay snug in his arms, we stare up into the sky, but neither of us says anything. Instead we stare up at the cosmos of constellations far over our heads.

  Finally he murmurs, “You were right. Tatyana must have realized she’d been tagged with a GPS chip, and dug it out before leaving Mosul.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that, Jack.” The angle of the moonlight extends the shadows around the features of his face. His eyes become more deep-set, and his cheekbones even more pronounced. As I stroke the one closest to me, I ask, “Were you able to pull up coordinates based on the last signal reading?”

  “Yes. It’s a large apartment building. The DOD already had a drone scheduled with extermination orders. If I’d called even one hour later, the place would have been a pile of rubble. I’m sure Tatyana and her hosts were hoping we’d do just that, considering all the bad press it would have generated over the collateral damage. Your fast thinking saved many innocent lives, Donna.”

  “I…well, I’m glad of that.” I lower my head onto his chest. It’s too dark for him to see me blush at his compliment.

  “In fact, the chip may have been planted in that specific building after it was removed from her. As we speak, Acme is going through all satellite surveillance leading up to her arrival in Mosul. Actual sightings will help us pinpoint exactly when and where we might have lost her.” He tilts my head so that we’re eye to eye. “How did the thought come to you?”

  “I told you–it came to me out of the blue. I figured it had already occurred to the surveillance team, but I thought there’d be no harm in mentioning it, just in case it hadn’t,” I say nonchalantly. “Jack, will my replacement be assigned to this mission?”

  He hesitates before answering. “Probably not, unless she’s already highly seasoned. My team can’t afford someone who’ll slow it down, or make mistakes. We’re handicapped as it is, what with you giving notice, and Emma out on maternity leave.”

  “But Emma is still working from home–” The moment it’s out of my mouth, I could bite my tongue.

  “How did you know that?” Jack sits up so quickly that I’m almost tossed out of the hammock. I’m still trying to come up with a plausible answer when he raises his hand. “Wait–don’t tell me. I really don’t want to know.” He shrugs. “Donna, I’m certainly obliged to you for catching on to Tatyana’s trick and passing it forward to me.”

  “Thank you for saying so. I hope you–”

  “Wait, I’m not finished.” He takes a deep breath. “I truly believe that you’ve made the right decision for your–our future. At the same time, for both professional and personal reasons, I’ll sorely miss you on my Acme team. But make no mistake: I’ll be sticking to protocol as it pertains to this mission. By that, I mean you can’t be questioning me or anyone else involved about its status. Are we clear on this?”

  “Yes, crystal clear.” I blink my tears away.

  “Good. That being said, I’ve already asked Ryan, and he’s agreed that as we both value your opinion, you’ll be consulted on specific matters,” he pauses to emphasize, “on a need-to-know basis.”

  I’ve heard that line before “Yeah, sure. But how is that different from my status five minutes ago?”

  “Five minutes ago, Ryan felt you didn’t need to know anything, considering you’ve got one foot out the door. Now it means that if and when we want your input on some portion of the mission, we’ll ask for it. But your last Acme assignment is still finding your replacement.”

  “Understood.” I add slyly, “And if I should stumble onto some insight that may be useful?”

  “By all means, pass it forward.” He smiles knowingly. “Just don’t spend your day tripping over Emma’s computer–or mine again, for that matter.”

  “I didn’t trip. It fell.”

  “If you say so.” He smiles as he settles back down in the hammock. The arm that isn’t cradling his head finds its way around my shoulder.

  What can I say? It’s great to feel appreciated–

  Even if it’s only on a need-to-know basis.

  Well, of course I need to know–everything. I want to keep my family safe, and my Acme colleagues too.

  And I would die if anything happened to Jack.

  It’s why I’ll always have his back.

  Just like he has mine.

  I start by giving him my mouth.

  By the way he devours it, I presume he missed it as much as it has missed him.

  Chapter 8

  Should You Use Cater Waiters?

  Unless you’re Lady Crawley of Downton Abbey, a battalion of butlers holding trays with each of the delectable courses served at your next party isn’t a necessity.

  However, should your next gathering be large enough that formal invitations are in order and valets will be needed to park your guests’ cars, a few cater waiters wouldn’t hurt. Whether it’s for passing pu pu platters, trays of champagne flutes, or manning the bar, here’s how to pick the ones who will best serve and protect (your precious china):

  First, interview each one personally. The obvious ones to avoid are the ones likely to bump into your exquisite furnishings, pick their noses in front of you, as well as those who smell like a brewery, or like your ganja dealer. You can also do without the guy calling his bookie every five minutes, and the gal with red-rimmed eyes who sobs incessantly because her married boyfriend just broke up with her. The much better choices are hotties who can easily dodge your drunk, grabby guests while carrying two trays, or the naughty boys who can mix a dry martini and a mean French 75.

  Next, check their references. If it turns out the names given are similar to characters in Marx Brothers movies or corpses now residing in the local cemetery, cross these candidates off your list.

  And, finally, don’t hire anyone whose criminal record includes pick-pocketing.

  On the other hand, anyone who’s done five to ten in the big house but has never snitched on his murderous bunkmate, no matter what secrets were divulged, would make an ideal sous chef during the preparation of your world famous blue cheese mushroom caps, especially if he had kitchen duty while in the hoosegow. (Added bonus: should someone try to wheedle the recipe out of him, he knows how to use a shiv and hide a body.)

  Pucci Tedeschi is shorter than she looks in her photo. I guess the mile-high honey blond bouffant threw me off. She’s also thinner and has a tiny frame–except where it counts, if the hanging tongues of all the men she saunters past is any indication.

  So far, she’s passed every task adequately. Although her martial arts skills are limited, they’re effective. Acme’s MA instructor finds this out the hard way when he grabs her in a chokehold from behind and says, “Let’s see how you’d protect yourself when I do this to you.”

  A second later, he’s doubled over as she grabs and twists his ball sack. When she slams a fist into his throat, he’s down for the count.

  Crude, but effective.

  On to her lie detector test, when she’s asked i
f she affiliated with any known terrorists, her response is, “I know every psycho mob hit man in Jersey. Does that count?”

  It doesn’t, and the rest of the questions go just as smoothly, so it’s on to the next task: psychological testing, with our in-house psychiatrist, Doctor Bellows.

  Afterward, she’s asked to leave the room so that he and I can go over the results. The good doctor’s glasses fog up as she sashays out. Even after he removes them, his eyes don’t leave her. I guess she cured his nearsightedness. Go figure.

  When he collects himself, he reports, “No panic disorders or phobias. However, there is a touch of adult antisocial behavior, a smidge of impulse control disorder, and a sprinkling of sadomasochism.”

  Sounds like a recipe for trouble–or for an excellent sparrow. “In other words,” I declare, “she’ll make a perfect hit woman.”

  “Yes…except…” he hesitates, then adds: “Her narcissistic personality disorder is somewhat worrisome.”

  “Tell me, doc, is that something you’d find in, say, Dominic Fleming?”

  At the mention of Acme’s blond British Adonis, Dr. Bellows rolls his eyes. “He’s a textbook example! In fact, he is the textbook example.” Bellows picks up the latest issue of The British Journal of Psychiatry and leafs through it until he finds what he’s looking for, and hands it to me.

  It’s an article entitled, The Triple Threat of Egocentrism, Vanity, and Megalomania: Can This Patient Be Saved?

  Dominic’s picture is there, all right, as a centerfold–

  And sans a stitch of clothing.

  I turn it sideways so that I can take it all in, pun intended. No doubt about it, he has a lot to be proud of.

  I turn back to the first page of the article and notice the byline: Dr. Alfred Bellows. “Congratulations on its publication, Doctor. This photo, however…”

  He nods. “Yes, well, Dominic gave me a few to choose from. To put it mildly, this was the most acceptable. On the plus side, this issue of the magazine has sold more copies than any other since 1963, its first year of publication.”