The Housewife Assassin's Ghost Protocol

by Josie Brown

  His lips meander. The stubble on his cheek tickles the slight swell of my belly. He takes my frenzied groan as the signal to quit teasing me.

  He’s right. It’s time for the main event.

  As Jack enters me, his body, cantilevered by his thick muscled arms, hovers over mine.

  His eyes open wide in rapturous adoration. The late afternoon sun’s rays, streaming through the undulating curtains, fan out behind his head, crowning him with a halo.

  Am I imagining it? No. He is my protector.

  The one true love of my life.

  My angel.

  His thrusts, steady and deep, fill my heart with joy. As Jack’s ecstasy swells within me, all thoughts scatter from my mind, like crispy leaves whipped out of reach by a brisk autumn gale.

  Finally, spent, he shudders as he collapses onto me.

  We lay there for some time, chest to breast. His heart pulsates in tandem with mine.

  As it should be.

  Always.

  If only.

  A scream wakes us from our post-coital slumber.

  The wailing doesn’t stop, but only gets louder, more agitated. A moment later, voices are raised in raucous accusations.

  The chorus of shouts also gets louder as time goes by.

  Jack groans. Still, he unfurls his arms and legs from me in order to ease himself from our bed. His small nod to modesty is to open the curtain only partially, in order to view the ruckus.

  It is evening. Right now the only light is coming off the super yachts. The glow, mirrored in still waters, casts long shadows on the man who still thrills me. It darkens his soulful eyes, heightens his cheekbones, and etches the sinews of his muscular physique. If his curls were alabaster instead of naturally dark brown, I’d swear he was a sculpture by Michelangelo.

  My newly piqued lust quickly dissipates under the singsong blare of police sirens. I leap out of bed, too, scooping up a fallen robe and wrapping it around me before joining Jack at the window.

  From what I can tell, a crowd has gathered on the beach a mere hundred yards from our terrace. Police officers seem to have taken control, shooing away the gawkers.

  “A drowning?” I wonder out loud.

  I’ve barely had time to take note of the action when we hear a rap on our door. I tie my robe tight around my middle while Jack slips into loose sweat pants and a T-shirt. When I see he’s fully clothed, I open the door.

  Two policemen face us. Jean-Pierre stands between them. He is wet and smeared with sand. Tears and fear brighten his red-rimmed eyes.

  What the hell is going on?

  “Oui, les agents?” Jack’s nonchalance doesn’t betray his own shock and awe.

  As he asks, the nose of the older and bulkier of the two officers twitches. Perhaps he has noted our post-coital musk. “Pardonnez-nous, Monsieur and Madame Craig. May we have a moment of your time?” Switching to English is a courtesy proffered by most public servants along the French coastline, which is heavily trafficked by British and American tourists.

  “But of course.” Having lived in this country for many years, Jack’s French is excellent, but for my benefit, he responds likewise. He leans forward in order to read the officer’s nametag. Noting it, he nods. “How may we help you, Captain Duclos?”

  The younger officer hides his smirk in a cough. Perhaps it has something to do with Jack’s generous promotion for his partner, a mere beat cop.

  “Jean-Pierre Gambon claims he has spent the last few hours here, with you. Can you confirm this?” Duclos’s way to silence Jean-Pierre before he says anything is to clamp his hand so hard on our cabana boy’s shoulder that he winces.

  Jack looks to me, then to Jean-Pierre.

  Jean-Pierre’s eyes say it all: Help me.

  Before Jack opens his mouth, I purr, “He gives wonderful massages, Captain. You should try one some time.”

  Duclos’s response to my suggestion is a wary glare. “This is not a joking matter, Madame. Jean-Pierre was found on the beach, clinging to the body of a dead woman: Nicolette Beauchamp.”

  Jack’s smile fades. “But—if she has drowned, why detain Jean-Pierre?”

  Duclos shakes his head. “Drowned? Non. She was strangled. The coroner will soon determine the time of death.” Duclos turns to me. “I ask you again, Madame: when exactly did you receive your massage?”

  Jean-Pierre’s mouth gapes open, but nothing comes out. His eyes implore me to save him.

  To believe him.

  For some reason, I do. When Jean-Pierre looked at Nicolette, his eyes were filled with adoration. With love.

  And, sadly, regret.

  He has so much more to regret now.

  “Jack’s massage was first. It ran over an hour, didn’t it, Jack?” I turn innocently to my husband.

  His eyebrow arches. Still, he nods his head. “Yours was immediately afterward. And about the same amount of time.” His tone leaves no room for doubt.

  The younger officer takes a pad from his pocket and scribbles this down.

  Duclos scowls. “Again, Monsieur, what time were these massages?”

  “Well…” Jack looks skyward, as if searching his memory. “Jean-Pierre left only, say, a half hour before the sirens began.”

  “And only because I asked him to walk out onto the beach. I’d misplaced my sun hat. It’s black, with a white band around the rim,” I add. I tilt my head in Jean-Pierre’s direction. “By the way, did you find it?”

  Slowly, Jean-Pierre shakes his head. Still stunned, he says nothing.

  Inspector Duclos is no idiot. He realizes his number one suspect has not just one alibi, but two. His grip loosens on Jean-Pierre. With a tip to the brim of his hat, he growls, “Good night, Madame and Monsieur.”

  “Wait! Officer, aren’t you going to ask us what we might know about Nicolette’s whereabouts?”

  This stops Duclos in his tracks. “Oui, Madame. And what may that be?”

  “Late this afternoon, the young lady was sunbathing beside us, along with two of her friends. When a humongous yacht dropped anchor, they ran over to the owner’s helicopter and flew back to it with him—what is his name again? You know, the Middle-Eastern gentleman that owns the big pink monstrosity on the hill?”

  The color drains from Duclos’s face. “Salem al-Sadah?”

  So, it is Salem after all.

  But how could that be?

  “Yes, that’s the man,” I assure him. “She welcomed him on the beach. Everyone around saw it. In fact, she was talking to him on his phone as his helicopter landed beside us. I remember this because I lost my hat because of it.”

  “I’m sure what my wife said can be verified by Mademoiselle Beauchamp’s cell phone records,” Jack adds. “Since Mr. al-Sadah may have been the last person to see her alive, why don’t you start your investigation there?”

  Duclos’s lips pucker at this new information, and no wonder. If what Jean-Pierre said earlier—that the local police are paid to look the other way at al-Sadah’s indiscretions—I assume he’s not too eager to poke at that bear.

  Well, too bad. It beats blaming an innocent man.

  Finally, Duclos shrugs. “The gentleman is having a private party on his yacht, as we speak. A masked ball! But of course tomorrow morning we will inquire as to any such rendezvous.”

  “Mr. al-Sadah does not like to be bothered before noon,” Duclos’s partner reminds him. “In fact, the captain mentioned that the Divide and Conquer leaves port early in the morning.”

  His honesty earns him a scowl from Duclos.

  “Seriously, you’re just going to let him float away?” I taunt him. “You have a dead woman on your hands—for that matter, maybe more than one. Nicolette’s friends accompanied her and al-Sadah. Have you questioned them? What will you do if two more bodies end up on the beach?”

  “If you’re implying that Mr. al-Sadah had anything to do with this tragedy, I assure you, Madame, nothing could be further from the truth.”

  Jack steps so close to D
uclos that they are face to face. “You don’t know if you don’t ask.”

  Shame rises in a red blush on Duclos’s face. Still, he says nothing.

  “If you’ll excuse us, now, it’s the cocktail hour.” Jack nods toward the suite’s fully stocked bar. He takes out a twenty-euro note and sticks it in top left pocket of Duclos’s jacket. “Thanks for returning our cabana boy. If we can think of anything else you may want to ignore, we’ll be sure to give you a call.”

  I link one arm into Jean-Pierre’s in order to draw him inside the room. The other arm firmly closes the door behind us.

  “They thought I killed Nicolette. Don’t they realize…” Jean-Pierre stares at the door as if he expects the long arm of the law to punch its way back in and pull him out.

  “That you love her? A crime of passion always provides a possible suspect, Jean-Pierre. But you didn’t kill her.” Jack’s tone insists that Jean-Pierre confirm this.

  “Mais non, Monsieur! You must believe me!”

  I pat his arm. “We do, Jean-Pierre. And since we are now your official alibi, you must tell us the truth about your whereabouts since we left you this afternoon, up until you were found with Nicolette on the beach.”

  He thinks for a moment. “The concierge told me there had been a request I retrieve the suitcase for another guest from his room and take it to the luggage room. The man was checking out soon. When I took the bag from him, I mentioned I was also the hotel’s masseur. He asked that I accommodate him after dropping off the bag. Of course, I did.”

  “Then this guest could contradict us as to your whereabouts,” I point out.

  “No! He has...what I mean to say is…” He runs his fingers through his thick curly blond hair. “He will be…discreet. He has too much to lose.”

  “I see.”

  Jean-Pierre shakes his head. “It is not what you think at all! You see, he too does not want others to know he is here. He is spying on his wife, who is here with her lover.” He shrugs. “Then again, he was here with his lover.”

  “How very French,” I murmur.

  “Not at all,” Jean-Pierre replies. “From his accent, he could be Austrian.”

  The joke is on me, I guess. “What is the man’s name?”

  “Smith. John Smith.”

  “An old Austrian moniker if I ever heard one.” Jack shakes his head. “How did you end up on the beach beside the body?”

  “After Monsieur Smith’s massage, his lover requested one as well. In the meantime, he went for a walk on the beach. When he returned he realized he’d taken off his sunglasses while watching the sunset. Because they were running late to catch their flight, he asked me to retrieve them. I found them a few meters from where Nicolette lay.” He takes the glasses out of his pocket and holds them up. “I would have mentioned them to the police, but while I was being questioned, I noticed their limousine drive off.” He hesitates then adds, “It was an imposition to use your names, but I had no choice! You can see this, oui?”

  “Oui,” I mutter. “How convenient that his glasses were practically in the exact spot as Nicolette’s body.”

  Jean-Pierre’s eyes open wide. “Do you believe he had anything to do with her death?”

  “It is an obvious coincidence,” Jack concedes. “Tell us, Jean-Pierre: what did Monsieur Smith look like?”

  Jean-Pierre thinks a moment. “He is a short man, and almost bald. His manner is a bit nervous. Surprisingly, despite the temperature, he chose to wear a wool suit. He also wears glasses—the ones that are circular in shape and tortoise shell in style.”

  At that moment, there is a knock on the door.

  I open it. A bellhop hands me a suitcase. “Pour Monsieur Craig. Compliments d'un vieil ami.”

  “This was sent from an old friend?” I turn to Jack. “But no one knows we’re here. Were you expecting anything?”

  He shakes his head.

  The bellhop shrugs and walks away, leaving me holding the bag.

  And it’s ticking.

  What the…

  Jack hears it too. He grabs it out of my hand and runs toward the door leading out onto the terrace.

  Shocked, I watch as he slings the case with all his might toward the sea.

  It drops into the water—

  Just in the nick of time. Still, the explosion deafens us.

  A tidal wave hits us. Jean-Pierre and I are thrown backward, like rag dolls.

  My head slams into the wall. Before I pass out, the last thing I remember is Jack flying through the air toward me.

  My angel.

  Chapter 2

  Ghost Story

  Everyone has at least one ghost story.

  Perhaps yours includes a relative, not long deceased, who rose from the dead in order to give you some cryptic message that still stymies you to this day. (You can’t wait to run into her again in the netherworld, if only to discover what the hell she was talking about.)

  Or maybe you spent the night in some haunted hostelry, only to discover that your suite came equipped with a king bed, free HBO, a mini-bar, and its very own apparition!

  Yada, yada, yada—we’ve heard it all before. If you really want to impress us, you’re going to have to embellish your own tale from the crypt with some hair-raising anecdotes. Here’s how.

  First, come up with a bigger, badder spook. A run-in with Casper the Friendly Ghost is a snore.

  Next, ratchet up the suspense. Set the mood and build to the actual sighting. In other words, do whatever it takes to get them to lean in, listen up, and freak out.

  And finally, make it a happily ever after—for you, not the ghost.

  “Donna…Donna, please, wake up!” Jack’s anxious pleas rouse me from my black oblivion.

  My eyelids flutter open to find his face hovering over mine. Concern for me is etched deeply in his brow.

  There is a bruise on his forehead. When I touch it, he flinches.

  I shake my head, angered that I’ve hurt him. Droplets fall onto my shoulders. I shiver at the memory of the wave that washed over me. Then I realize I’m shaking because I’m wet. Oh, my God—it wasn’t a bad dream after all.

  “When the wave hit me, I slammed into you,” Jack explains. “We knocked heads.”

  “Ouch! I’m sorry, Jack.” Instinctively, I reach up again, but I stop myself just in time. Jean-Pierre! Is he…”

  “I am here, Madame.” I turn to find Jean-Pierre sitting on a chair behind us. He holds a damp compress over his eye. “There is much damage to the room. All of your things are ruined.”

  I frown. “It’s the least of my worries. Someone wanted to kill us. I’d like to find out why.” I rummage through the ruins of our room for something to put on that isn’t sopping wet. As luck would have it, a pair of my shorts are hanging off a torchiere lamp. I salvage that, along with one of Jack’s button-down shirts hanging in the closet, and then snap my fingers at Jean-Pierre, indicating that he is to turn around while I dress.

  He obliges with a blush.

  Not Jack. He flops down on the bed, which was pushed by the wave against the back wall, and takes in the view—me, as opposed to the shoreline. “If we’re going to catch Mr. Smith, first we have to know what he looks like. Jean-Pierre, what are the chances of us viewing archival footage from the hotel’s security cameras?”

  “I will take you there now. At least once a week I am asked to relieve the hotel’s security guard; therefore, I’m allowed to access it.”

  The only shoes I can find are heels, so hey, they will have to do. But before I can bend down to strap my foot into it, Jack is kneeling at my side. Without a word, he takes it out of my hand. Gently, he places my foot into it.

  When he feels the touch of my finger behind his ear, he looks up at me. There is no smile on his face, just adoration.

  He is my Prince Charming.

  More importantly, he is my life partner.

  Yes, I trust him with my life.

  My fairy tale spell is broken when Jean-Pierre beckons m
e from the door. “This way, Madame.”

  The honeymoon is officially over.

  “It can’t be him,” Jack murmurs.

  A chill goes up my spine. “Who is it?”

  “Pinky Ring.” Jack is so shocked that he lowers himself into a chair.

  I’ve never seen him so awestruck. I touch his arm to bring him back to the here and now. “I…I don’t know who you mean.”

  “He’s a former East German Stasi colonel who was recruited by the Quorum. I chased him down years ago, in London. When he came west, he hid under an alias. Acme never discovered what it was.” Jack frowns. “I watched as he was hit by a bus and then again by a car. By the time I got to him, he was dead. I took his Quorum ring. It contained intel about the Los Angeles attack that put us together.” He freezes the video frame before leaning in for a closer look. “Looks like he’s gotten ahold of another ring.” He points to the man’s hand.

  The ring is the twin of one I took off Salem: bling given to only the highest-ranking members of the Quorum. Unlike Salem, who wore it on his right ring finger, this man wears his on the smallest finger of his right hand.

  Salem died, as did this man. So, how could it be that we’re seeing them now?

  The man is exactly as Jean-Pierre described him: short, fidgety, and immaculately, albeit inappropriately, dressed for Biarritz’s sweltering climate.

  On the other hand, the posh woman with him would turn heads in any part of the world. A white sundress drapes her tanned, slim body, which glides along on her four-inch heels as if floating on a cloud. Unfortunately for us, she wears large sunglasses and a hat that covers her hair, obscuring any obvious identifying features.

  Still, there is something familiar about her.

  After the couple is given their suite’s security key by the desk clerk, they make their way onto the beach path that leads to the cabanas.