by Josie Brown
At the same time, Babette walked down the hall to the Oval Office reception area. With no one there to stop her, she entered Lee’s office. Did Babette have time to find the DARPA file and compromise it?
I flip to the feed to see what she did. Yes, she went into the Oval Office, despite the door being shut.
A few minutes later, Eve returned. At first, she didn’t notice that Lee’s door was closed. When she did, she went to investigate. After talking to Babette for a few moments, she left to fetch Lee.
Maybe three or four minutes went by before Lee was seen following her back to his office. The feed showed her closing the Oval Office’s door behind him.
A few moments later, the First Lady exited with Lee.
By then, the others had finished their desserts. Lee joined them, but skipped dessert. Ten minutes later, the whole group made its way to the Roosevelt Room.
When Lee joined them, he was carrying his folder.
Either he or Babette could have compromised it.
I send the security files to the Acme’s cloud server, and text Arnie that he can access them there to do further analysis.
I walk back into the Oval Office reception area to say goodbye to Eve when I hear, “Donna Stone? What are you doing here?”
Ah, hell, it’s Babette.
Chapter 7
Black Widows
The term “black widow” is used to describe a species of spider that release a venom particularly harmful to humans, sometimes deadly. Like the majority of spiders, the black widow is dark in color. However, it does have one distinguishing mark on its abdomen, which resembles a red hourglass.
“Black widow” is also a slang term for a woman who is suspected of killing her husband.
Should you resemble the latter, here are a few tips:
1: Don’t leave clues of how you did him in. Here’s where your obsession with spit-spot cleaning counts most!
2: Act bereaved. Alas, that means resisting the urge to flirt with the handsome detectives that show up to investigate. (And broad hint: If they refuse your offer of a cup of tea, it means they’re on to you!)
3: Make sure he really, truly is dead. Why? Because you don’t want him to quite literally come back to haunt you.
Scorn drips from Babette’s voice as she spits out my name. She can’t—make that, won’t—attempt any semblance of politeness.
I’m not the only one resisting the urge to blanch at her menacing tone. Unlike some who must tread these hallowed halls of power in her wake, those whose jobs don’t tether them to her side quickly scurry from view.
In the couple of weeks since I last saw her, her barely-there baby bump can now be seen. And if her couture maternity frock is any indication, the announcement of a new addition to the First Family was made while we were out of the country.
I wonder how well the proud papa took the press corps’ questions on the topic.
As if reading my mind, Babette’s face turns crimson with shame. Instinctively, she raises her hand protectively, as if covering a scarlet A on her breast.
She should know by now that her secret is safe with me.
“I’m Donna Craig now, Babette,” I declare with as much honeyed sweetness as I can fake. “Don’t you remember? I was married a few weeks ago. You were at the wedding. In fact, you planned it—sort of…Ah, well, no matter.” I smile brightly. “So glad I ran into you!”
“Really? Me and not Lee?” She sniffs the air, as if she smells a foul stench.
Babette’s minions—Narcissa Belmont, her chief of staff; and Lucretia Suchoff, her press secretary—also raise their noses in disdain. This is certainly a change of venue from where they are more accustomed to having them: firmly up their boss’s ass.
“Why, yes, of course,” I assure her. “While Lee and Jack went to play golf, I asked Eve to point me in your direction so that we might have a little chat—”
The moment I say this, I catch the look in Eve’s eyes. Bambi in headlights is putting it kindly. A sixteen-point buck at an NRA convention is more apt.
To Eve’s credit, she’s got a reason to sweat. Babette’s head twists around quicker than Linda Blair’s in an Exorcist reboot. “Is that so?” Her words are leavened with an acidic sweetness. “I didn’t realize Eve knew I even existed, since I’m always the last person to know my husband’s schedule.” She drills Eve with a deadly glare before swiveling so that I am now in her sights. “You, for example. Why wasn’t I told my old friend Donna…let’s see, what are you calling yourself this month? Oh yes—‘Craig’—was coming?”
“It was a spur-of-the-moment trip. We’re checking out colleges for our ward, Evan Martin.”
“Poor Evan! First, his father is murdered by his mother, and then his mother meets her untimely demise, in prison no less!” Babette squeezes out an alligator tear. “Maybe it was for the best. Orange was never her best color.”
Babette’s cruelty never ceases to amaze me. I’m willing to guess she looks somewhat washed out in that same color. Maybe we’ll soon find out.
With that in mind: “Babette, dear, do you have a few moments to meet with me?”
“Why?” Botox keeps Babette from frowning. Still, the trepidation in her voice is palpable.
Her pack of she-wolves picks up on it. Narcissa’s surgically enhanced lips poise in a partially opened position, ready to object with some bogus excuse to steer clear of whatever turbulence I have in store for her boss. Lucretia’s broad shoulders dip, as if she’s ready to block or tackle me if I make some sort of desperate move toward the first lady.
Ha! Wishful thinking. So that they calm down, I take a step back. “A few words, about…a mutual friend.”
The hard line of Babette’s mouth goes soft. She thinks I mean Salem.
Good, exactly what I hoped. I really don’t have anything to say about him, and I’m certainly not going to tell her about his unexpected resurrection—especially having been the one to put him back in a grave again.
She turns to her entourage. “Get lost. I’ll text if I need you.”
Narcissa and Lucretia don’t have to be told twice. The pungent scent of eau de I’m so outta here fills the air. I am left alone with a woman whose beauty and position awes an admiring public, but whose inhumanity never ceases to stun those who know her too well.
I am in the latter group.
Babette knows this, which is why she closes the door to the Oval Office firmly behind us, blocking out any protests that Eve may have about us being in there without the great man himself.
Frankly, I can’t think of a better place to interrogate the First Lady about any terrorists she may still know personally. Perhaps it will bring home all she has to lose: the pursuit of happiness, not to mention her liberty—
And if the crime merits it, even her life.
To soften her up, I start with what should be a soft pitch over home plate: “It’s so kind of you to make time for me today.”
Babette rolls her eyes. “Cut to the chase, Donna. You may have dropped off your new hubby to play golf with Lee, but you didn’t expect to run into me before you took off back to whatever hole you crawled out of.”
Is this the way she wants to play it? So be it. I don’t get bitch-slapped without hitting back. “My, my, my! Was it that obvious?” I raise my hands to my face, in mock horror. “Look, I’ll do my best to be civil if you will. Quite frankly, I’m here because I wanted to see how you were doing after…after the, er, accident.”
“How am I? Lousy! The morning sickness is over, but I’m still in mourning.” She sinks into one of the Oval Office’s large wingback chairs, and massages her brow, as if rubbing away her grief. “You said you had something to tell me. What is it?”
“Frankly, I’d like to ask you a few questions.”
She looks up, suspiciously. “No, no, no. That’s not how this works. If you want to get something, first you have to give something.” A smirk rises on her lips as a thought comes to her: “How about this? For each ques
tion you have, I get one too.”
Hmmm. “Okay, Babette. Why don’t you start?”
She blinks innocently as her lips curl into a smile. “Lee is under the impression that Salem was a terrorist. Did he get this ridiculous idea from you?”
“What did he tell you?”
“What do you think he said?” she sneers. “He told me it was classified, and that he can’t tell me a damn thing. Only, in this case, he was angry enough about…this”—she looks down at her belly—“to call Salem a whoremonger. Even worse, he called him a terrorist. He indicated Salem died in some special ops mission. He said it was for the best; how I’d be hung for treason if the truth of our…our relationship got out.” She sighs.
“Lee wasn’t exactly on point. In truth, you’d be indicted for treason if you’d been caught passing classified intelligence to Salem. And for that matter, if Lee were subpoenaed and it was disclosed that he knew of your relationship, he could be impeached—or worse yet, convicted of a crime. As it’s been proven in other administrations, the President of the United States is not above the law.”
“Great dodge. I’ll take that as a yes.” She nods grudgingly. “It’s your turn.”
“Babette, are you still on Graffias International’s board of directors?”
Her back stiffens. “I…I resigned when Lee was sworn in. It’s the law, you know.”
“Then why is your name still on its most recent corporation papers?” I counter.
She smiles slyly. “Is that a question?”
“No. It’s a fact. And should anyone else discover it—”
“Merely a clerical error. I’ll have someone take care of it immediately.” She flicks her wrist in annoyance. “My next question to you is: what were the state secrets that Lee’s previous secretary, Eileen Woodley, supposedly stole?”
“I can’t answer that question for the same reason as Lee stated to you regarding Salem.”
Babette rolls her eyes. “If that’s the case, I get another turn.”
“Sure, go for it.”
She leans in, as if analyzing every pore in my face. “What exactly is it that Jack sees in you?”
I bite my tongue to stop myself from shouting out: You mean, besides the fact that I’m not a conniving gold digger? Instead, I tell her the truth: “That’s easy: my husband knows I love him with all my heart, and that he can trust me with his life.”
Proof that the concept is novel to her is that she reels back, like a demon sprinkled with holy water.
My turn: “Having established that Salem was involved in terrorism, what can you tell me about his business dealings, legitimate and otherwise?”
“I was his lover, not his accountant,” she hisses. “Our meetings took place in a bedroom, not a boardroom.”
“You’ve been on the board for quite some time, even before you knew Lee. Your first husband, Jonah Breck, was also on Graffias’s board. Is that where you met?”
She wags a finger at me. “You aren’t supposed to get two questions in a row, remember? But I’ll give it to you, as a bonus. The answer is no. I met him around the same time he came on the board. And after Jonah’s unfortunate demise, Salem asked me to take his place on the board.”
I nod. Still, I’ll have Emma pull together as much as she can on Babette’s background, not the public relations fodder planted for reporters find for puff pieces in Vanity Fair, Vogue, or Elle. “Okay, now, what do you want to know?"
Her eyes glitter as she taps her OPI-glossed talons in anticipation. “What’s your opinion: was Carl a better lover than Jack?”
“Hardly,” I growl.
“What?” She shakes her head in mock shock. “With those long fingers, and those bedroom eyes…not to mention all the not-so-subtle innuendos, I just thought Carl delivered mind-blowing sex! Oh, not that Jack’s fingers are so short.” She winks knowingly. “You’ve piqued my interest, Donna. So come on, give me all the juicy little details.”
I shake my head primly. “That’s a second question.”
“Give it to me, and I’ll do the same for you.” She winks slyly. “But just this once.”
“He’s a wonderful kisser. He likes to cuddle—”
She yawns—loudly.
“As I was saying before I was rudely interrupted with a view of the potential cavity in your Number 28 bicuspid, when Jack and I are intimate, he gives as well as takes. He is kind, loving, gentle, and—”
“You’ve got to be kidding me, right?” Her nose wrinkles in disgust. “Next you’ll tell me that he only does it missionary.”
I feel my face heat up, not out of shame, but anger at telling her anything at all about him.
Babette notices too. She giggles. “Oh, my God, I get it now! You’re making him sound boring on purpose. You know, we were supposed to be honest with each other!” She clicks her tongue at me as she stands to leave. “I guess it lets me off the hook, and not a moment too soon. I’m getting bored.”
“I still have two more questions, remember?”
She lets loose with an exasperated sigh, but sits down nonetheless.
“You stopped by the Oval Office on Thursday while Lee was in a meeting in the Roosevelt Room. You were in there by yourself for at least three or four minutes. What were you doing, Babette?”
Scorn lifts her brows. “Twiddling my thumbs. We’re hosting Vice President Drucker and his wife, Leona, at Lion’s Lair this weekend. I wanted to go over the agenda to keep his boring wife busy. Apparently, he had something more important to do.”
Gee, now what could that be…
Oh, yeah, I got it: save the world from destruction.
She shrugs. “She’s gaga over celebrities, so I guess all I’ll have to do is rustle up a few to hang poolside with us. At least there’s one upside to this: considering the poor woman’s girth, I should look practically svelte beside her, even in a maternity one-piece.” She looks at her watch again, to let me know the clock is ticking. “You’ve got one more question, so you better make it a good one.”
Oh lady, ’tis indeed. “Are you a Quorum operative?”
My question knocks the smirk off of her face. “How dare you!”
“That isn’t an answer.”
“I won’t dignify that with another word!”
“I’ll take your dodge as a yes, then.”
Furious, she springs to her feet. “Get out of here! Get out of my life, once and for all! Why, I’ll have you banned from stepping foot on one blade of grass on these grounds—”
“Calm down, Babette! I’m not going anywhere, but you’re certainly free to leave.”
“No—not until you answer one last question!” She grabs hold of my arm.
“Okay, shoot.” If she had a gun, I’m sure she would.
“Did you…were you with Salem on the night he was killed?” Her voice cracks under the weight of her question.
“Me?” I’m flustered because I didn’t see the question coming.
Hmmm. How much does she already know? I’ve got better than a fifty-fifty chance that she truly is clueless.
I’ll take those odds. “Sorry, but no. I had better things to do on the eve of my wedding. And, even if I hadn’t, I would never—repeat, never—be unfaithful to Jack.”
Her face is a complete blank. Either too much Botox, or she’s thinking this through.
Finally, she rises again. With head held high, she murmurs, “I’m glad we finally had this little chat and cleared the air, Donna. I always wondered if yours was the last face Salem saw. I can now sleep soundly without worrying that the woman my husband would so willingly fuck also killed the man I loved.”
She opens the door and walks out.
Suddenly, I realize that she never even bothered to take this opportunity to ask me to confirm or deny her suspicions about her husband and me.
I guess she doesn’t care.
I find myself with one more reason to pity Lee Chiffray.
“Really? The golf game was that bad?” I kick off my h
eels before plopping down on our hotel suite’s sofa and draping my legs over Jack’s.
“The game itself was fabulous—for one of us, anyway. Evan owned the back nine.” He tugs at my toes, one by one. “This McIver guy would be an idiot to pass on adding Evan to his student body—if not for his grade point average, then because the university’s golf team would lose out.” He gives me a knowing wink as he kisses my little toe. “Hey, the tub in the master bedroom is big enough for two.”
“My feet smell that bad? Yeah, okay, I can take a hint.” I pull my legs in under me. “But I’m not ruining a good soak by talking about my reconnaissance. We’ll do it here and now.”
“I’m all ears. I’d hate to think today was a complete waste of time.”
“Really? You didn’t have fun on the links?”
He rolls his eyes. “I could think of better things I could have been doing. Unlike you, I don’t find hanging on Lee Chiffray’s every utterance that enthralling.”
That declaration earns him a kick. “No? Well, then, maybe you would have enjoyed answering Babette’s questions instead—since they were mostly about you and your”—I glance down at his lap—“bedroom technique.”
He’s laughing so hard that he falls off the sofa. “And all this time I thought women never played kiss and tell.”
I point to myself. “This woman did—sort of, in the hope that she’d give me pertinent intel in return.”
“So, what did you ask her?”
“Everything: about Salem, the Quorum, even Jonah Breck.”
He raises a brow. “Did you ask her about Lee?”
“You mean, how he is in the sack? Of course not!”
“That’s not what I meant, my lascivious little arm charm!” He shakes his head in wonder. “I mean, did she indicate he had ties to the Quorum?”
I grab his hands in order to pull him back up onto the couch with me. “I felt she’d be more willing to discuss Salem. She was, but only up to a point—that point being what I knew about his death. The last thing I was going to tell her was that I pulled the trigger—let alone that I somehow missed, but got a second chance at taking his life, with a set of pliers.” I shrug. “It was all for naught. When it came to answering my questions about Salem, she turned on the dumb blonde routine.” I bat my eyes, and with all of Babette’s honeyed sweetness, I declare, “‘Salem and I were just fuck buddies…The Quorum? What’s that? …I was only put on Graffias’s board because of Jonah’s untimely demise.’”