The Housewife Assassin's Hostage Hosting Tips

by Josie Brown

  By the time I grab the epi-pen, it’s too late. She is convulsing.

  The bartender informs me that the nearest clinic is twenty miles away by rough road, and tosses me the keys to his jeep. I practically carry her to it because anaphylactic shock has overtaken her.

  By the time we get to the hospital, all they can do is pronounce her dead on arrival.

  The call to Ryan is not one I look forward to making. He must not like seeing my telephone number on his Caller ID because he growls hello into the phone.

  My message is the last one he needs to hear. After a litany of curses, he shouts, “This is crazy! It’s true what they’re saying! You’re a black widow trainer!”

  “Well, my esteemed colleagues are wrong!” I retort indignantly.

  “I say it is! Three strikes, Donna!” He hyperventilates another few moments. When he calms down, he growls, “Tell the truth. Are you doing it on purpose?”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “You know what I mean–killing off the competition.”

  “How dare you! I won’t even dignify that with an answer! Listen, if you prefer that I bow out of training a replacement–”

  “Prefer it? Hell yeah, I prefer it! And so would anyone who wants to apply–if there’s anyone left. Once the word gets out, I doubt that very much indeed. Oh, and Ms. Stone, one last thing.”

  “What is it, Ryan?” I wince because I’m afraid to hear his response.

  “If you expect to collect any of your exit package–or for that matter, whatever bonus you’ve accumulated this year to date–you’ll first have to attend a minimum of three SA meetings.”

  “What? Now, that’s not fair, Ryan!” I sputter. “Just what the hell is SA?”

  “Spooks Anonymous. It’s a non-profit organization that was set up by the covert-ops community as a way to help with the emotional decompression of exterminators and other highly stressed assets, so that they may better re-assimilate into society.”

  “You’re kidding, right? Granted, our jobs may be abusive at times–your harassment now is a good case in point–but it’s not as if we’re strung out on some drug!”

  “No, I’m very serious. There’s an active chapter in Los Angeles. I know someone who may actually consent to be your sponsor. You’ll get a call from Bosworth Hobart within a day or two.”

  “Sounds peachy.” I slam down the phone.

  When I pick it up again, it’s not to call SA, but to get George down here with a helicopter, as soon as possible. I request that he pick me up in equipment that can handle Tally’s body as well.

  Tally was wrong about one thing. She didn’t die alone.

  But she shouldn’t have died at all.

  By the time I get home, it’s after midnight.

  The house is dark. Jack’s car is not in the garage, so I assume he’s still at Acme.

  I’m quiet as I walk upstairs because I don’t want to wake Aunt Phyllis or the children.

  I pause when I pass Mary’s door. The urge to hold her in my arms is overwhelming. No matter how briefly you’ve known them, watching helplessly as the last seconds of someone’s life flows out of them makes the relationships you care about most even more precious. I don’t like that the estrangement with my daughter has gone on this long. I want to talk to her, and to laugh with her again.

  I open the door, just a crack. Her body is just faintly outlined through the moonlit night coming in through her window.

  Her body, and someone else’s.

  Their bodies are so close that if I didn’t know my own daughter’s size and shape so well, they could pass as one, despite the fact that he is taller.

  Not to mention blond.

  Oh…

  Fuck.

  No way.

  She’s sleeping with her Mystery Date.

  Instinctively, I draw my gun with one hand, and yank the covers off with the other.

  Thank goodness, the boy is sleeping over the sheet, and Mary is under it. Both of them are fully clothed.

  As Mary and her friend-hopefully-not-yet-benefitted scramble out of bed, my daughter exclaims, “Mom…Please, don’t shoot him! It’s not what you think!”

  I waver from doing so. Finally, I drop my arm and flip on the overhead light.

  Even when my eyes adjust to the brightness, I still can’t believe who’s standing in front of me:

  It’s Evan Martin–Bobby and Catherine’s son.

  Okay, yeah, this I have to hear.

  Chapter 13

  Party Crashers

  Inevitably, word will get out that you’re throwing the social event of the year, if not the decade. (I’d say century, but I haven’t seen your guest list, so I reserve judgment on that for now.) I might as well warn you now that some starry eyed wannabes will do their utmost to crash your party. The best way to handle unexpected guests is to:

  1: Scan your party periodically with hidden webcams. You can’t be everywhere at once, so why not plant digital video cameras in every room? Not only will you catch interlopers, you may also see those who sneak off into your bathroom to make out. (Bonus! You’ll get to listen in as your besties gossip on what they really think of you.)

  2: Hire bouncers. Raid this week’s trendiest hot spot for a couple of brawny guys who won’t take any guff from an insistent party crasher. (Tip: make sure they have at least a fifth grade education, so that they can read the guest list you hand them.)

  3: Release the hounds. Yes, I know. You’re worried that despite the incomparable training received by your pack of Tibetan mastiffs, one of them may tear into the wrong guest. Not to worry! Upon arrival, spray skunk essence on those who belong.

  Should this cause a mass exodus, you’ve still accomplished your goal: getting rid of undesirables.

  I used to think that even on the worst day of your life, hot cocoa had a way of making the world right again.

  Not today. Not if half of what Evan is telling us is true.

  “So, Evan is the boy you’ve been sneaking around to see?” I ask Mary.

  She nods defiantly. “We’ve stayed in contact since–well, since his father’s funeral. He’s dropped out of school. He’s been living in cheap hotels. I convinced him to come out here because he’s got nowhere else to go, Mom! When he got here, he found one off the 405, but now he’s run out of money.”

  I shift my gaze to Evan then back to her. “Why didn’t you tell me before now?”

  “I would have, but Evan was being stupid about it.”

  Evan turns red. “I’ve been making a lot of dumb decisions lately. I felt that with all the bad blood between you and my mom, you’d figure out a reason to say no, and that would make Mary even madder with you than she already is.”

  I don’t want to tell him that her anger is already at fever pitch.

  He has a point about one thing. Under normal circumstances, the fact that Catherine tried to stab me to death should have put a damper on any goodwill I have toward her family, but it did just the opposite: I truly feel sorry for Evan.

  Even more so since the parent he needs most is the one he no longer has in his life.

  “Mother, when Evan finally agreed to come here, you’d just gotten back from a trip,” Mary says. “But by then, you’d heard I’d been slipping out during lunch to meet with him, and you went ballistic and accused me of…of...” She glances over at Evan, too embarrassed to go on.

  I turn to Evan. “Tell me everything, from the beginning.”

  His tale is not pretty. “After Dad died and Mom went to prison, I was left on my own. As you know, I was in the middle of my junior year at Overton Prep, in Massachusetts. My parents had already paid my tuition through my senior year. You get a bit of a break if you do it, or you can earmark the difference to the school’s scholarship fund. Dad opted to do that instead.”

  Of course, he would. He was always generous to those less fortunate. I knew this firsthand.

  “I was a straight-A student. I was also a co-captain of the lacrosse team,
and of the JV basketball team. But when news came out about Mom’s role in Dad’s death, suddenly it was like I couldn’t do anything right at Overton.” Shamed, he drops his head. “I couldn’t sleep at night. I was distracted by all that was going on. My grades dropped, and I wasn’t holding my own on either team.”

  “Surely your counselor at Overton acted as your advocate to your teachers and the head of school,” I point out.

  He snorts. “Hardly! Like all the counselors on staff, Mr. Shackleton is a psychiatrist. His way of helping was to give me ‘something to sleep.’ The dosage he gave me was so high that I missed many of my morning classes, not to mention a practice or two. When I asked him to lower the dose, he refused. When I took it upon myself to cut the dosage in half, it was used as part of the reason for my permanent suspension, along with my falling grade point average.”

  “Between grieving the loss of a parent, and the anguish of learning that your mother, the president-elect, was going to prison, of course there was a chance your grades would suffer,” I murmur. “I can’t believe anyone could blame you for your mother’s deeds–”

  “Oh, I can,” Mary exclaims. She blushes and looks down. Her father may be dead, but she’s left to shoulder the infamy of his shame.

  As am I, Jeff, and Trisha.

  “She deserved to go to jail.” He looks me straight in the eye as he states it as a fact, nothing more or less. “Frankly, she deserves–well, worse. But I’m paying for it, too. You know what they say: ‘The sins of the father…’” He looks sideways at Mary. “Or, in this case, it’s the mother.”

  “Did you check into other schools?”

  “When I applied to other private preps, the drop in my GPA was the excuse they gave to turn me down.” He shrugs. “We had the farm in Massachusetts, but because Mom was in Congress, I grew up in Georgetown. I applied there, to the local public schools. It turned out to be a very big mistake. This is what happens when you’re a wealthy white kid who won’t hand over his ATM card to the school’s bad-ass gangsta.” He pulls up his T-shirt to show me cigarette burn marks.

  Seeing me flinch, he tucks his shirt back into his jeans. “I’m not that rich anymore, anyway. Without my dad at the helm, his company is in a free fall. My mother’s legal fees are humongous, and our personal financial manager has made some bad calls too.” Just speaking of the problems weighing him down makes the tiny lines on his forehead seem to grow deeper. “Mrs. Stone, I didn’t know where else to go. The trusts are bleeding cash at such a fast rate that I’ll be broke before I reach my twenty-first birthday. The D.C. townhouse is in foreclosure. As for the farmhouse, it was paid off years ago, but I’ll never go back there. I’ve already put it on the market. The only lookers are those who want to see where ‘the killer congresswoman’ lived.”

  I don’t blame him in the least for not wanting to go back there. It’s where his mother gave a hit man the order to kill his father.

  Carl was the hit man.

  It’s something I can never tell Evan. Or Mary either, for that matter. Not after seeing the deep sadness in her eyes as she listens to her dear friend’s plight.

  Not after watching her as she lays her hand over his and squeezes it tightly, in solidarity.

  And certainly not after agreeing with her when she implores, “Mom, it’s okay if Evan stays here with us, isn’t it? He can finish high school here, at Hilldale High.”

  “It’s fine with me. He can take the bonus room over the garage. However”–I pause and take a deep breath–“despite your feelings for your mother, I think you should tell her your plans, Evan. She has a right to know.”

  He shakes his head. “She has no say in my life anymore.”

  “You may think that’s the case, but until you’re an emancipated minor, she still has some authority over you.”

  He shrugs. “I’ll file as soon as possible. But I’m through with her. Feel free to tell her yourself.”

  Great. It’ll be the cherry on the cake of my day.

  Seeing my face, Mary says, “Mom, I promise–no more playing hooky.” She holds her head high as she adds, “And no more fights with the other kids when they say cruel things about–about my father.”

  Evan murmurs, “Mary, I’ll be there for you. No, really, we’ll be there for each other.”

  As I make Evan a second cup of cocoa, I hold in my tears to the point where I can’t talk, because I know I’ll choke on them.

  When I finally pull myself together, I say good night and go upstairs to bed. First thing tomorrow, I’ll call the Federal Prison Camp in Alderson, West Virginia to ask if they can accommodate a visit to Inmate Number 27955-101, known to the outside world as former President-Elect Catherine Martin.

  Emma purses her mouth into a sour frown. “Um…are you sure they’ll be okay? I mean, Nicky’s been so fussy lately. I can’t seem to get him to sleep. Not to mention, Phyllis seems pretty busy this morning.”

  She has reluctantly agreed to allow Phyllis to watch her newborn while we go on a run. Ironically, Emma’s limited exposure to my aunt has never really caught her in the best light.

  Noting her frown as Phyllis puts Nicky’s bassinet on top of the dryer while she sorted the laundry, I pull her out the door with me before she changes her mind. “I’ll admit it, Aunt Phyllis can be absentminded, but trust me, Emma–Nicky won’t end up in the dryer or something.”

  I conveniently neglect to mention the time Aunt Phyllis once took then four-year old Jeff with her to her senior poker night. Because it was the first time she won every hand, one of the other ladies (I use the term lightly) claimed my son was counting cards for her.

  He was, but the point I’m making is that they got out of there in one piece.

  Okay, granted. Phyllis lost her upper bridge somehow, but as long as Jeff held on to all of his fingers and toes, I chalked up the evening as a success.

  The jogging trail I’ve suggested takes us out of Hilldale, through nearby headlands overlooking the Pacific Ocean. On purpose, I haven’t mentioned the Acme mission at all. Instead, I’ve kept the topic on the shenanigans involving the prom. Emma shakes her head when she hears about the pedophile photographer. When I get to the part about the Tarot card reading, she’s laughing so hard that she has to stop.

  We’re at the very top of the hill, so it’s as good a place to catch our breath as any. As we gaze out over the Pacific Ocean, Emma exclaims, “Wow! Beautiful!” She sighs deeply. “Thanks for talking me into doing this.”

  I squeeze her bicep. “Hey, you were the one complaining that you’re no longer the lean, mean fighting machine you once were.”

  She smiles. “I guess getting out again in the middle of the day for fresh air and sunshine is one of the perks of being a lady of leisure, even if it’s only temporary–I mean, in my case, anyway.”

  I open my mouth to say something, but nothing comes out. What is there to say, anyway? She’s right. I, on the other hand, have a permanently out-to-lunch status.

  In the wake of three deaths, make that persona non grata status.

  Emma takes my silence as tacit approval. “Boy, I’ll bet you’re ecstatic that the whole ‘replacement’ situation is finally over.”

  What does she mean by that? Has Ryan come to his senses and realized that no one can follow in my footsteps? Well, about damn time.

  “It was inevitable, right?” I lift my head, better to bask in the glory of it all.

  “I can’t believe it happened so quickly! And to get Mara Portnoy, of all people!”

  And just like that, my fantasy of being irreplaceable dissipates in the stark bright light of reality. “What do you mean?”

  Realizing that she’s once again the bearer of unexpected news, Emma grits her teeth. “I thought Jack would have mentioned it to you. After all, it was his idea. She was the Acme sparrow based in Istanbul. Before that, she was based in Paris, around the same time as Jack. She retired, too. It’s been at least five years by now. No one knew why. The typical rumors went around–y
ou know, burn out. But Ryan left the door open for her to return if she changed her mind. Jack had the bright idea of reaching out to her. We were all surprised she said yes. ”

  “Oh.” I nod and twist my lips into something I hope resembles a grin. “Well, at least it’s someone I won’t have to vet.”

  “Considering Jack’s previous experience with her? I’d say not. I guess when you’re partners as long as they were, every wink and nudge is shorthand.”

  “This Mara woman was Jack’s partner? He’s never even mentioned her name to me!”

  Emma takes a step back, as if once again she’s put her foot in the proverbial merde. “It was before my time, but from what gossip Dominic told Arnie, apparently they had a falling out over…well, someone.”

  Was it Jack’s now-deceased wife, Valentina?

  If so, Mara would find it ironic that he is now living with the woman who was married to the person Valentina left Jack for: Carl.

  I shake off Emma’s concern with a tap on the shoulder. “Last one home is a rotten egg.”

  “Why bother?” she mutters. “You’ve always been faster than me–not to mention I already feel like a rotten friend.”

  Still, she must be game because she takes off down the hill, leaving me in her dust.

  She’s seen me angry. I guess she feels the bigger her head start, the better.

  We get home to find Nicky sound asleep, albeit still on top of the dryer, which rocks as the clothes within it tumble around furiously.

  “I can’t believe it,” Emma murmurs. “He’s out like a light–finally!”

  She gives Phyllis a hug, but my aunt waves her off. “A little trick every mother should know. They miss the motion in the ocean.” She moves her hands back and forth in unison as her eyes drop to Emma’s wasp waist. “You’re just a little thing! I’ll bet he was, too, when he finally came out of you.”

  Emma nods. “He was barely six pounds. Came early, in fact. The stress of the job, I guess.” She nods toward me. “This one has her priorities straight. I may follow her out of the racket.”