Recipes for Disaster

by Josie Brown

  “Good to know. Why don’t we call them over and remind them?”

  Hearing that, he turns as white as his dress.

  “Listen, you Snowden wannabe, you better jump in before they come over and ask you for a date. You’re much too pretty for the boys of Gitmo.”

  He gets it. He tosses his computer bag into the back seat, then climbs in after it. The threshold on the van’s door is high enough that he has to hike up his frock before hopping in, giving me more than an eyeful of his tighty-whities.

  Arnie must be blinded by the sight because he steps on the gas, but stops short before hitting the car in front of us.

  The syringe with the SP-117 flies out the window.

  "Oops," Arnie mutters.

  Time to punt. Forcing a smile, I turn to Chuck. “If you’re going to make a habit of playing dress-up, I’ve got to introduce you to Spanx. And this, too. Trust me, it’ll bring out the roses in your cheeks.” I pull out a lip wand labeled Cherry Noir. Smiling, I apply a little gloss on his lips. “So that it spreads evenly, do this.” I smack my lips then lick them.

  It’s a custom brand carried only by Acme honeypots. The smack does the job of spreading the color. The lick does the trick of drugging him so that he passes out.

  As Arnie roars off down the street, he asks,“Where should we take him?”

  Good question. It’s not as if we can waltz him into Acme's offices. And I’ve got the guest-who-won’t-leave staying in the bonus room over my garage, so that’s out, too.

  Suddenly I have a brilliant idea. I dial Dominic. “Meet me at your new place. You’re about to host your very first guest.”

  Dead silence, then the sputtering starts. “My dear, are you mad? Chateau Fleming is far from ready to receive visitors! There is still much finish work to do. The rake facia on the cornices is off by a quarter of an inch, not to mention the entry foyer’s hardwood floor has yet to be stenciled with my family seal—”

  “Dominic, it ain’t the Queen who’s dropping by. I’m talking … well, torture, if it comes to that.”

  “Ah, I see.” He sighs. “Well, at least that room is complete.”

  I’m not surprised. Dominic has a very active social life.

  When we get through with Chuck, he’s going to wish he’d gone with the Feds.

  In truth, Dominic’s torture room is a pleasure grotto for the senses, with spa, steam room, workout suite, indoor pool, yoga room and massage alcove.

  But when one is blindfolded, even a six-person indoor Jacuzzi spa with forty-four PowerPro luxury jets letting loose with a force equivalent to Niagara Falls can seem as ominous as a waterboarding bucket.

  When it comes to making this extraordinary chamber sound like the seventh circle of Hell, Dominic is a pro. I guess it has something to do with spending twelve years in an English all-boy’s private prep school.

  With all the pomposity of Lord Valdemort, he explains to the prisoner the process in which we will extract the information we need. First, he will be stripped down (yes, the tighty-whities will have to go) and forced to stand for a long time in extreme heat (the sauna room) while being subjected to extreme duress (Metallica, played over a Bose Acoustic Wave stereo system) in contorted positions. (One of Dominic’s new lady friends is a Bikram yoga instructor who doubles as a dominatrix. Just a wild guess, but I presume the mantra chanted most often by her disciples is "I feel the pain!")

  If he still doesn’t break, he is told he will be shackled and stretched until his muscles are forever useless (thank you, Bowflex Revolution Home Gym). “Then there is the waterboarding.” As a special effect, Dominic splashes his hand in the Jacuzzi's roiling tub, and the scent of rose petals wafts through the air.

  I wish he hadn’t done that, since it sort of defeats the purpose of scaring him in the first place.

  As it turns out, Chuck is a bigger weenie than I would have imagined. He whimpers from the moment he is tossed into the sauna. Before a half-hour is out, he breaks. “I don’t know where the information comes from, I swear!” He screams over Metallica’s Whiskey in the Jar. “It’s always anonymous. I got a call from someone telling me where to stand at the Percy speech so that I’d be front and center when that dude walked up to the microphone. Governor Davis’ open mic feed appeared in my YouTube account before I knew it was there. As for Senator Jennings’ son, I was sent the file an hour before the news conference. Of course I was going to confront him with it and leave it up on my YouTube channel. What a scoop! Still, I’m telling you the truth! You’ve got to believe me, please!”

  Ryan, who’s listening in remotely, murmurs, “So, what do you think, Donna?”

  “Frankly, I think he’s telling the truth.”

  Arnie looks up from Chuck’s computer. “He is, from the looks of things. The YouTube videos were uploaded from a different ISP than the one assigned to this computer. There was a call on his cell phone’s caller ID scroll that came in the day of Senator Percy’s speech. It’s anonymous. So is his next scoop, via text message. Unfortunately, all it says is, 'Assassination will leave a nation in tears. tick-tock, tick-tock.' Maybe Emma can tap into the cell phone provider to see if I can track the source.”

  “I’m on it,” she says over our ear buds.

  “Ryan, what would you suggest we do with Chuck?” I ask.

  “If we share Arnie’s reconnaissance with the NSA, its investigators will realize they have no cause to indict Chuck under First Amendment standing. And quite frankly, if his source doesn’t know he’s squealed, it’s better to keep Chuck as a decoy, seeing how Arnie’s Trojan may lead us right to whoever is sabotaging the candidates. The NSA will certainly appreciate our hard work, and their fingerprints won’t be anywhere near it.”

  “Ironic, isn’t it? All this time we thought the candidates would be dodging real bullets. Instead, it’s their characters that are being assassinated.”

  “We’re not out of the woods yet, Donna. With Percy out of the way, Congresswoman Catherine Martin, his strongest party opponent, has surged in the polls. She’ll be in town tomorrow to meet with some of her biggest donors, and for a couple of photo ops.”

  “Gotcha. So many candidates, so little time.”

  Another swipe on the lips with Cherry Noir, and Chuck is sleeping like a baby. When he wakes up, he’ll think he had a bad nightmare, and that will be that.

  I let the boys dress him. As we’re dragging him into the garage, Arnie turns to me and says, “Oh, by the way, I haven’t gotten around to assessing your PTA volunteer wheel, but I was able to tap into Hilldale Middle’s voting records. You were right. Someone tampered with the tally. It doesn’t add up to the paper ballots. I sent Jeff a printout.”

  “Thanks for doing that, Arnie.”

  “No problem. That’s one smart kid. Who knew he took his politics so seriously.”

  “Yes, I’m very proud of him. He’s got a strong sense of honesty.”

  “You know what they say: the nut doesn’t fall far from the tree.”

  “I’ll take that as a compliment.” Better he follow after me than Carl.

  If and when the time comes that I break the news to him about his real father, will he feel I’ve been fair to him, too?

  I’ll have to convince him that what I did was right.

  Not only for him, but for Jack.

  And for me, too.

  Chapter 9

  Pork Barrel

  The political act of pushing through an unnecessary law that benefits a politician’s local district, usually to gain favor with local voters.

  The term dates from the days when salted pork was occasionally handed out to slaves from large barrels, since the mad rush of politicians to get their district's share of treasury funds looked like that of hungry slaves to the pork barrel.

  Don’t be such a snob in presuming you’re above pork barrel politics. Every time you make your husband’s favorite meal in return for extra pin money, you’ve got pork on your paws. And no one could ever accuse you of finessing your
bedside manner in order to get him to fold on your request that he take you to the next Nicholas Sparks tearjerker, am I right?

  Yeah, thought so.

  Sausage and Cheese Biscuits

  (From Jana Anthoine, Dunwoody, Georgia)

  Ingredients

  3 cups Bisquik

  2 cups of your favorite sharp cheese, grated

  1 pound of sausage, raw

  Directions

  1: Mix all the ingredients thoroughly, by hand, or you can use a mixer with a dough attachment.

  2: Form into one-inch balls.

  3: Place each on a cookie sheet, then bake in a pre-heated oven, at 425 degrees, for 10-12 minutes.

  4: If you want to add a little more fire-power, spice up the sausage with Tabasco—but trust me, you won’t be able to hold more than two balls in your hand at once! (That’s what she said.)

  “My Cheever would never cheat!” Penelope is in the first of the classic Five Stages of Parental Grief: Denial.

  “I’m sorry, Mrs. Bing, but the evidence is overwhelming to the contrary.” Principal Belding points down to the paper ballots, which sit alongside Arnie’s timeline for when changes were made to the ballot data entry, which lead directly to the ISP address of Cheever’s laptop. After signing onto his personal school cloud account, he took a lucky guess that Miss Bliss’s computer password was GARFIELD, her cat’s name.

  With Cheever as your child, the bumpy road to anger is well traveled. Penelope screeches into that stage at full speed. She slaps him on the back of the head. “How could you shame me like this? If word gets out that you’ve cheated, we’ll both be ruined!”

  That’s just the point. With all the gotcha moments I’ve witnessed this week, I wouldn’t wish another walk of shame on anyone, not even Penelope’s bratty kid.

  Cheever buries his head in his chest and mumbles, “I’m sorry, Mom. I … I just wanted you to be proud of me.”

  It always boils down to that.

  Those whose moms love them unconditionally don’t reek from the sweat of desperation, as Cheever does now. Then again, he rarely changes his underwear, so maybe that’s why he smells. In any regard, I can only imagine that having Penelope as a mother hasn’t been easy for the poor kid.

  Time to move Penelope into stage three, bargaining. “Principal Belding, I know I speak for Jeff when I say we’d hate for the consequence to outlive the crime.”

  “Not me,” Jeff mutters, “I want him scarred for life.”

  “That said,” I continue, “Perhaps it would be better if Cheever publicly resigned. He can give an interview to Hilldale Middle School’s newspaper, theHMS Pinafore, stating that, quote, his first priority is to his academic workload, and therefore he’ll be stepping down as sixth grade class president, throwing his full support behind his worthy opponent, Jeff Stone, etcetera, etcetera, unquote. It allows him to save face”—I catch Jeff’s eye—“and a dear friendship, too.”

  Jeff glares at me—until he hears Cheever’s very loud sigh of relief.

  At least, I hope it was a sigh, and not a fart. Just in case, I hold my breath.

  Not Jeff. Long ago he accepted his friend’s personality flaws, as well as his unchecked bodily functions. The boys shake hands.

  “I can live with that, although I’m sure Miss Bliss will want his Civics grade to reflect his actions. If I were you, Cheever, I’d shoot for an A, so that you can at least make a C.”

  As Penelope and I follow the boys out the door, she mutters, “I suppose you’re expecting some quid pro quo.”

  The remark freezes me in my tracks. “What do you mean by that?”

  “Oh, quit acting so innocent, Donna. I know you’d love to tell everyone the real reason why Cheever is resigning.”

  “If that were my endgame, why did I save your son’s skin just now?”

  “So, what you’re telling me is that you aren’t looking for some favor in return—like, say, taking you off lunchroom duty?”

  “What? No! ... I mean, unless you want to do it as a way to thank me.”

  “Ha! Thought so! You’re attempting to blackmail me!”

  That’s it. I’ve had enough of her psychotic suspicions. “For the record, Penelope, you brought up the lunchroom, not me. Unlike your son, I play by the book, and accept the hand dealt to me.”

  Her smile is much too serene. “Good! Friday is your volunteer day, so don’t forget your hairnet,” she says as she breezes out the front door.

  I’ve never strangled someone with a hairnet, but there’s a first time for everything.

  The email from the Hilldale Public Library reads:

  “Another patron has accidently picked up The Candidate, the movie you reserved for this week. However, he has offered to let you pick it up from his house today at 2:00pm promptly ….”

  The address follows, as well as a cipher with the candidate’s name embedded in it.

  After deciphering it, I let out a low, slow whistle when I see where we’re to rendezvous with the target.

  Jack looks up from the bed. He’s been tapping away on his laptop all evening. I’m sure it has something to do with his research into Lee Chiffray. Except for the real estate connection, he hasn’t been able to find anything else that ties Lee with the Quorum. “Don’t leave me in suspense.”

  “I just received a cipher about our next candidate, Massachusetts Congresswoman Catherine Martin. We are to meet her for a face-to-face debriefing, in less than three hours, at the home of one of her largest donors—Lion’s Lair.”

  “Lee Chiffray’s place?” He puts down his laptop.

  “Well, technically, Babette’s—but yes.”

  “This just in: Technically, Lion’s Lair is an asset of Breck International. And since that company has been absorbed by Lee Chiffray’s privately held corporation—Global World Industries—she is no longer the owner.”

  “Wow! I wonder if she realizes it.”

  Jack chuckles. "If anything can drive a wedge between a gold digger and her latest sugar daddy, it’s finding out that he’s talked her out of one of her shiny little baubles.”

  “I don’t want to be in the room when she finds out.”

  He smiles. “Then I guess that means you won’t mind if I break the news to her.”

  Unfortunately, I see where he’s going with this. “Go for it … Um, no, don’t go for it! I think you know what I mean.”

  “Of course I do! You mean, ‘Do your best to ensure Babette has reasons to doubt Lee is working in her best interest. That way, when she’s angry enough, she’ll feed us the information we’re looking for.’”

  “I couldn’t have said it better—except for the ‘do your best’ part. ‘Your best’ is not something I’m willing to share with anyone. Heck, even ‘your worst’ is better than most.”

  “Excuse me? I only have a ‘best.’” He frowns. “If there is some skill set you find lacking, please be specific.”

  “Tell you what, let’s do a thorough head-to-toe assessment, right now.”

  “I’m always up for that.”

  I look down at the blanket. “Mmmm, yes, so I see. Gee, I wonder where I put my score pad.”

  He won’t let me out of the bed, so I’ll have to keep the points in my head:

  Okay, yes, the gentleness with which his hands caress me all over earns him a quick ten points;

  I’ll give him another ten, because he has me undressed in under a minute, flat.

  All the while, his fingers tweak and nudge and stroke and taunt my most tender places (9.5 points … Oh, wait—that … felt … awesome. Raise it to 10 … plus one … make it two.)

  And his tongue gets very high marks for creativity. Wow …

  I’m …

  Speech …

  Less ….

  Only one item can be measured quantitatively, and at eight and three quarters, it is an impressive specimen. But as we all know firsthand, it is execution that counts most. It would be trite to say that Jack rises to the occasion because he does so muc
h more than that—

  In so many different, ways:

  Gently—

  Robustly—

  Wantonly—

  Deeply—

  Until we are both limp with bliss.

  “How am I doing so far?” Jack gasps.

  I wait until I’ve caught my breath to whisper, “Oh, I’m so sorry, I lost track of your points! But please feel free to start over.”

  I can always count on his competitive spirit.

  “Donna, my sweet! Long time no see!” Babette’s air kiss misses me by a mile.

  Not so with Jack. He turns his head so quickly that her lips miss his, catching his shirt collar instead.

  Babette shrugs. “What a shame! You’ve got my lipstick on your collar. At least this is one time Donna has no excuse to be jealous, since she witnessed my innocent attempt to kiss you.”

  He winks at her. “Donna doesn’t get jealous, she gets even.”

  I love this man.

  While Babette lets this sink in, Lee walks out of the estate’s grand salon. Seeing us, his face lights up with a smile. “Ah, the Stones! Glad to see the DNC took my advice, and hired your firm for Catherine’s protection—and that of the other candidates, of course. I was so impressed by the way in which you exposed Fantasy Island’s questionable management practices. It allowed my company to clean house, and to reassess the island’s investment potential.”

  Jack takes my hand and presses my palm as a warning to let him take the lead. “What company is that, again?”

  What a smart ass.

  “Why Global World Industries, of course.” Lee smirks. “But you already know that, don’t you? My sources told me Acme was asking around about me, too.”

  “Well, then certainly thanks are in order—especially for keeping our covers under wraps at the time, since our presence there wasn’t supposed to be known to the island’s management group.” Jack puts out his hand.