by Josie Brown
“I’m glad something came of tonight,” I say crisply. “The sooner we wrap up this mission, the better. And by the way, no one has ever called me a yummy mommy.”
He laughs so hard, I think he’s going to choke. “And for some reason you’re proud of that?”
I peel off in Hayley’s car, leaving him in a cloud of dust.
Serves him right.
Chapter 7
Be the Life of the Party!
Socializing is a big part of a housewife’s life. Lots of friends mean lots of invitations! To keep abreast of all the activity, be sure to post a calendar prominently—perhaps on the refrigerator. That way, your hubby has no excuse to “forget” your social obligations. (Hint: Another gentle reminder that works very well is a cattle prod. Don’t worry, the burn marks heal quickly . . . )
“We’ve got the Crightons’ shindig tonight. Then the Simpsons’ on Friday. And from the look of the calendar next week, another three lined up . . . Jeez, you folks know how to party. How many bugs do we have left?” Jack sounds grumpy.
Can’t say that I blame him. It’s the third night this week that we’ve had a social engagement. Since his quote-unquote return, we’ve been inundated with cocktail and cookout invitations.
My neighbors are nosy about “the mysterious Carl Stone.”
It’s hard for me to forget all those years in which they ignored me while Carl was supposedly on the road.
But I’ll save my pity for later. Considering our mission, I guess this sudden burst of popularity is a blessing in disguise since it allows us into their homes in order to plant bugs that sweep the neighbor’s computers and their phones for any evidence that they are fronting for the Quorum.
Thus far the bugs we’ve planted have yielded nothing.
We’re having a mission update in the one place I know we won’t be interrupted by the children: my bedroom. I pull open my underwear drawer, where I keep all the tracking devices. It gives new meaning to the brand Agent Provocateur.
I do a quick count. “We’ve got enough for the next six parties. I’ll ask Abu for refills.”
Before I can shut the drawer, Jack grabs a red lace thong and holds it up to the light. “Huh. You mean to tell me that you actually fit into this tiny thing?”
How dare he!
His teasing has become an art form. I’ve learned to ignore it. This time, though, it’s a little too close for comfort.
I plant a supreme smile on my face. “But of course, in fact, I’m wearing one now.”
“Really?” His tone is a dare.
What does he expect me to do, strip down to prove a point?
As if.
Besides, I’d lose. The briefs I have on aren’t exactly granny panties, but still, they aren’t the come-and-get-me ass floss he’s holding, either.
As if reading my mind, he looks pointedly at the mirror behind me:
It shows my backside very clearly.
I feel my face heating up. “Just what in hell do you think you’re looking at?”
He cocks his head to one side. “Well, from this angle, it looks like a VPL.”
“Huh . . . ? What does that mean?”
“Code word for ‘visible panty line.’ But it’s not in the official Acme manual, so don’t bother to check.”
I snatch the thong out of his hands. “Okay, so I lied. Those aren’t everyday wear. Only when I have to go . . . you know, undercover.”
Which I haven’t done in a long while. Not since Carl died, literally or figuratively.
Enough of this crap. I shove him toward the door. “Go get dressed, ‘dear,’ or we’ll be late. Remember, we’re looking for the newbies: some single woman named Vivian Norman, a retired couple with the last name of Neufeld, and that couple who moved in beside Hayley, the Kelseys.”
He stops short of the threshold. “What are you wearing tonight?”
“What’s it to you?”
“My interest is purely professional. Think of yourself as the bait. When they bite, we get our man. Or woman.”
“Yeah, I’ll just bet you like it when they bite.” It’s my turn to smirk. “I’ve got a little black number that will do the trick—”
“Nah. Go for that electric blue one. Skin tight, strapless—”
“Wait! How do you know about that one? Have you been rummaging through my closet?”
“Don’t act so shocked. I had to see what you had in the costume department—”
“My clothes are not costumes!”
“You don’t say?” I’d like to slap the grin off his face. “I’ll keep that in mind. Oh, and by the way, I noticed a Singapore Air flight attendant uniform, a nun’s habit, and a nurse’s uniform in there. I presume none of those are typical carpool attire?”
“No—of course not!”
Okay, he’s made his point. I slam the door after him.
Then I yank the clingy blue cocktail dress from my closet.
And the red thong.
Neither gives me any place to hide the bug.
Here’s hoping he’s right. Otherwise I’ll be giving the neighbors something to talk about for nothing.
The Crightons’ place is hopping. Yes, I’m somewhat overdressed, but every now and then it’s great to turn some heads that don’t belong to double-agents, drug thugs, and gun runners.
It certainly gets tongues wagging. The men sidle up, as if seeing me for the very first time. (Dude, I’m the woman who tossed you a plate of overcooked chicken the other day at the father-daughter dance, or don’t you remember? Yeah, I know: I look different without the hairnet.
Jack is no wallflower, either. Apparently those afternoons he’s been spending slipping into foursomes at the Hilldale Country Club (on the golf course, I presume) and buddying up with some of our neighbors has paid off. His back has been slapped so many times that I presume it’s getting sore.
And from the friendly waves he’s getting from several of the wives in the room, yep, I have no doubt he’s been getting around.
Unfortunately the Kelseys aren’t at the party. Worse yet, the gossip I’m hearing seems to be a dead end. Someone’s dog got loose yada yada; some juicy tidbit about the Martins’ divorce, okay, whatever; the scuttlebutt on the San Diego team that the Wildcats must face next in their little league playoffs; and the fact that Penelope will have to paint on her eyebrows for at least the next six months, thanks to the “fire incident”—
I slink away, guilty as charged.
That’s when I overhear Patty Steadman say, “—sweetest guy in the world! They are the new folks, on Palm Avenue. Have you met him yet?”
Quickly I sidle over, to catch the rest of the conversation.
“No, but I’ll be sure to drop off a welcome basket of my blueberry muffins,” says Nicole de Santaana, whose little girl, Maritza, is in Trisha’s preschool class.
“I haven’t either,” I chime in. “What did you say their names are again?”
“His is Dave. Hers is . . . let’s see, what did he say it was again? Oh yeah, Midge. But she wasn’t around, when I came over with the Bundt cake. I think he said she was working.”
I took a sip of my wine. “Do they have any kids, Patty?”
“Yes, a teenager. A boy, I think he said.” She shrugged. “But he’s away at a prep school.”
Hmmm. That could be a front. The Kelseys of Palm Avenue are getting more and more interesting . . .
I glance over at Jack. Jeff’s coach, Whitey Haskell, now takes his turn at slapping him on the back.
I meander over just in time to hear Whitey exclaim, “Dude, listen, your advice to Jeff is really paying off. I can’t believe we’ve made it to the regionals! My offer is still open, for you to assist coaching the team. What do you say?”
“Sorry, guy, no can do. I’ve got a heavy work schedule over the next coup
le of weeks.”
Whitey’s disappointment would be mirrored in Jeff, had he overheard this conversation.
It makes me doubly glad he’s not here.
Out of nowhere, Nola appears at Jack’s side. “Down, bad boy! Heel!” She purrs this command loud enough for all of us to hear.
Whitey is so taken aback that he chokes on his beer until it comes sputtering up through his nose. Jack, ever so cool, has the audacity to give her a hug.
Nola takes this as permission to hang on for dear life. “This party is deadly, isn’t it?” She feigns a yawn. “If things don’t liven up, I’m taking off. Even walking the dog is more exciting than this . . .” Her voice drops to a whisper, “Or it can be . . . ”
Jack’s expression doesn’t change the least. I can’t help but wonder if he’s at all tempted.
Or if he’s already been there, done that—with Nola.
It bothers me that I care. As long as it doesn’t get in the way of the mission—
Or hurt my kids.
Oh, who the hell am I kidding?
I need some fresh air.
“I’m walking home,” I murmur in Jack’s ear—the one that Nola isn’t still breathing into, that is.
He glares at me. Does this mean he resents being left with her? If so, then good. He has yet another redeemable quality.
To make it up to him, I’ll walk Lassie when I get home, so that he doesn’t have to.
Seriously, It’s the least I can do.
Emma has eliminated about half of Hilldale’s business owners and their employees, as well as eighty percent of its households. It’s been a slow and grueling process. I can see the wear and tear on her face.
Ryan is getting restless. Time is slipping away from us. He’s called Jack into Acme to see if they can brainstorm a different strategy.
That means Jack is missing Jeff’s practice. Trisha and I leave during the last half hour in order to pick Mary up from basketball practice.
By the time I get back, practice is over. I look around, but Jeff is nowhere to be found. I tap Cheever on the shoulder. “Have you seen Jeff?”
“Yeah—about ten minutes ago. He went off with some guy.”
The little hairs go up on the back of my neck. “What did he look like?”
“I dunno. Some guy.”
“Don’t be such a smart aleck! This is important. What did he look like? Was it Jeff’s . . . dad?”
That doesn’t go trippingly off my tongue. I still feel bad about lying to the children about Jack’s role in their lives.
Cheever can tell by the tone of my voice that I mean business. “No, it wasn’t Mr. Stone. But he was as old as him. Gee, Mrs. Stone, I don’t know!”
A chill went through me. I have to find him, now! Before it’s too late—
“Stay in the car,” I yell to Mary and Trisha. “And for God’s sake, lock the doors! Don’t let anyone in!”
Crazy women running through Hilldale aren’t exactly a common occurrence. However, if they are yelling the name of a child, they are cut some slack by those who would otherwise call them cuckoo.
Not that any kid has ever been abducted from our gated community, but there is always a first time.
No one wants their child to be the first.
I’m five blocks from the park when I see Jeff: standing next to the most ubiquitous car in Hilldale, a black BMW. He’s opened the back door, but he looks perplexed, as if deciding whether or not he should jump in—
“Jeff! JEFF!” I’m shouting at the top of my lungs “Don’t, Jeff! Don’t—”
As the black Lexus screeches away from the curb and down the street, the door slamming shut—
And Jeff has jumped away from it, just in time.
As I run past my son, I shriek, “Go home to Inga! Tell her to get to the park, where I’ve left Mary and Trisha in the van. She can drive it home.”
He looks more worried for me than for himself.
Gimpy or not, whoever is driving that car doesn’t know Hilldale half as well as I do. Its curved concentric streets create a labyrinth of epic proportions. I sprint across the street keeping on its trail. When it turns a corner, I cut through my neighbors’ yards, hurdling over their picket fences in order to keep the BMW in my sights. On the way through the Gifford’s terrace, I grab hold of an ice pick that is on the counter of the outdoor kitchen.
Just in case I need it.
I’m huffing and puffing, but I can reach him, if I had more momentum . . .
That’s when I see little Tommy Henderson on his skateboard. “Tommy, sweetie, can I borrow that? I’ll buy you anything you want from the ice cream truck when I get back, I promise!”
No argument there. He bails on his board, popping it in my direction with a slam of his heel.
No, it’s not the ideal form of transport for chasing down bad guys. To add insult to injury, I’ve signed petitions calling for safety gear to be worn by the road warriors who love these little hot wheels. But in desperate situations, beggars can’t be choosers.
The jerk in the BMW barely skirts an au pair pushing a pram. Obviously the “Slow Down, Kids at Play!” sign means nothing to him.
I should talk. She trembles in the middle of the street as I whiz past her, hot on his tail.
By cutting through the alley that runs between Hilldale’s two biggest boulevards—Maple Drive and Acacia Avenue—I end up two blocks before the security entrance. The speeding car, rounding the corner, finds me standing there, in the middle of the street.
I’ve whipped out the Glock 17 I’ve got strapped to the small of my back, and take aim—
But just then Penelope’s husband, Paul, steps out of the Tuscan McMansion that’s for sale on the corner. His clients, a pregnant woman and her husband, are slack-jawed at this showdown between me and an eight-cylinder luxury sedan—
My first shot bounces off the bullet-proof windshield. And damn it, my next shot hits a tire rim, but no rubber—
The BMW breaks through the security gate and goes screeching down the road, with Billy, the guard, hollering after it.
I’m still catching my breath when I realize that Paul and his clients are staring at me, frozen in terror.
The pregnant wife, still awestruck, nudges her husband. “Honey, I love the fact that the neighbors here are so hard on drivers who break the speed limit! We’ve just got to buy this house!”
Paul’s eyes open wide. Always the consummate salesman, he doesn’t miss a beat. “Yep, that’s Hilldale’s neighborhood watch for you! What say we go back to my office and draw up that contract?”
The house was overpriced to begin with, so Paul’s commission will be generous. I hope he remembers my role in the sale with a fruit basket or something.
Chapter 8
Starve a Fever, Feed a Cold . . .
Loved ones with fevers and colds both must be nurtured, but in different ways. For a fever, drink lots of hydrating fluids (water, Gatorade), but go light on the food. Soda crackers are okay.
For a cold, bring on the chicken soup—and steam a few sprigs of thyme to inhale, with your head under a towel to catch the soothing aroma.
However, for targets with the sniffles: suffocation is a quick, natural way of elimination.
If going gentle into the night doesn’t matter but elimination of the body does, find a remote spot, off the beaten path. Tidy Tip: Dig deep, and be sure to cover the body in a heavy layer of slaked lime—also known as calcium hydroxide, or Ca(OH)—which accelerates decomposition and kills odors that attract animals who may want to dig it up. A layer of dirt, then another of the slaked lime before a final half-foot of dirt. The bugs will help finish the job!
Acme’s conference room wall displays a live, interactive satellite map of Hilldale. Homes and businesses that have been cleared are spared the blue X’s that dot the screen. B
esides satellite surveillance and GPS tracking via cell phone numbers, we’ve also cleared any seemingly suspicious cell phone calls.
At this point, background checks have been run on all but thirty.
Our top suspects, whose homes are marked in red, are the single homeowners and childless couples who have resided in Hilldale less than two years: the Kelseys, the Langleys, and the Whites.
“We should put the Kelseys on the top of the list,” I say.
“Why?” asks Emma. “They’ve got a kid.”
“We haven’t confirmed that. He’s supposedly away at ‘prep school,’ so it could be a front.”
Jack nods approvingly at me.
I turn my head so that he can’t see me blushing.
A faint smile lands on Ryan’s lips. “Well, then let’s turn up the heat. Arnie, why don’t you show Donna her cover?”
Arnie’s thin lips break into proud grin. From under the conference room table he pulls a round yellow polka-dot hatbox that touts the slogan Rave-on Cosmetics. The lid comes off to reveal a cornucopia of lipsticks, perfume vials, nail polishes, eye shadows, you name it.
“I don’t get it. Is this your way of telling me I need a make-over?”
“Of course not.” The way Jack says this isn’t so convincing. “Going door-to-door peddling this crap will get you into your neighbors’ houses quicker than us waiting around for an invitation. Every housewife gets a sample lipstick. In reality, it monitors all cell phone, wireless, and G4 devices within a 2,000-foot range—”