Recipes for Disaster

by Josie Brown

  5: Cool Whip, about 2 inches thick. (Keep Cool Whip in freezer until just before use, it needs to be very firm to support the next layer)

  6: Top this with scoops of vanilla ice cream around the edge.

  7: In the center of this put another layer of white chocolate chip morsels.

  8: Drizzle morsels with caramel sauce.

  9: If you want to add a bit of crunch to it, add a layer of crushed ladyfingers just above the pudding layer.

  10: Keep refrigerated until served.

  “I know you hate the woman, but it’s your job to protect her, so get out of bed.” Jack yanks off the sheet from my mattress, exposing me as the fool I really am.

  In a flannel granny gown, no less.

  And yes, I’m hugging Trisha’s teddy bear to my chest. He better not take that, too, or he’s a dead man.

  I grab for the sheet, but he holds it just out of reach.

  I shrug as I mutter, “Go away! I almost killed a Disney character, in front of my young, very impressionable daughter.”

  “Donna, quit being so melodramatic. For goodness sake, the darn sword is made of plasterboard. If and when he gets out of the hospital, he can rejoin the cast as the palace eunuch.” He flips up the back of my granny gown to admire the view.

  “How was I supposed to know Catherine’s PR flack arranged for her to take the stage?” I yank it out of his hand and pull it back down, this time below my knees. “I’m off this assignment, remember? Catherine made it quite clear to Ryan that I’m to stay out of her sight for the rest of my life, or else risk being sent to Gitmo as a terrorist. The nerve of her! And by the way, if she’s elected president, we’re all moving to Canada. No, make that New Zealand, since it’s not on her list of countries to invade, lucky Kiwis! But if an oil gusher pops up somewhere near Auckland, all bets are off on that country, too. We’ll just have to find a deserted island to live on.”

  “Honey, please—quit feeling sorry for yourself.” Jack pulls me up into his arms. “Don’t you see? The fact that she doesn’t want you around works in our favor. You can shadow her detail. Hide in plain sight.”

  “Frankly, if someone popped her, I could care less.”

  Jack’s smile fades. “No arguments there. Catherine Martin is a conniving, devious bitch. She doesn’t think about anything or anyone but herself. Her whole purpose in running for the presidency is to prove just how far she can go on Robert’s money and goodwill.” He raises my hand to his lips, and kisses it. “But Donna, she can’t prove anything to you, because you already have her number. So tell me: if you save her life, don’t you have the upper hand then? Hell, if she gets elected, at the very least she’d owe you a Congressional Medal of Honor.”

  He’s got a point. Of course, she’d probably choke me with the medallion’s sash when hanging it around my neck.

  I nod grudgingly. “Okay, Genius. Let’s say I agree to play shadow. How exactly do you see this scheme of yours working? After the Disney fiasco, Ryan has put me on permanent leave, remember?”

  Jack shrugs. “What Ryan won’t know won’t hurt him. You may be the only thing standing between her and whatever bullet comes her way.”

  I sigh. “Okay, sure. I’ll do what I can to take down her shooter—but only because I like the idea of her owing me her life.”

  He kisses my forehead. “Great, now get dressed. Four hours from now she’s receiving the Zero Hunger America Humanitarian Award, at the Dolby Ballroom.”

  “Impressive. If only the voters knew she’s leading the charge to gut the food stamp program by forty billion dollars over the next ten years.” I shake my head in dismay. “Another two million people were tossed off the rolls with the last cut.”

  “You can express your personal distaste for her at the ballot box—if she lives that long.” He tosses me an invitation to the event. It’s black tie, of course.

  “Nothing can kill her. The woman is like a cockroach.” I head toward my closet. Hmmm, what does one wear to take down the killer of your worst enemy?

  I pull out a dress I’ve been saving for just the right occasion: a floor-length chantel-beaded evening gown with a scoop neck and low back.

  It is white. Should she prove me wrong, I don’t plan on mourning her.

  Even at a thousand dollars a seat, the Hollywood & Highland Center’s cavernous Dolby Ballroom is packed solid with hobnobbers, do-gooders, up-and-comers, the glitterati, and political patrons of all stripes. With all of Catherine’s competition demolished, the smell of victory is in the air, along with that of smoked flat iron steak with grilled peppers, and California olive-orange marinated Pacific sea bass topped with a caramelized mint fennel.

  Because I’m incognito, I’ve accessorized the gown with a straight blond wig cut with bangs and an ear-length blunt razor cut, ice blue contacts, and a diamond choker and long white opera gloves. I’ve slipped into the ballroom just as the dinner portion of the event is ending. Much of the crowd is out of their seats, milling around. The line to pay homage to Catherine is at least thirty people long.

  Robert is seated next to Catherine, in the front middle table with the director of Zero Hunger America, Beverly Kinkaid. I wouldn’t doubt it in the least if Catherine had Robert strong-arm Beverly for the award, what with it being her year to run.

  As her West Coast hosts, Babette and Lee are also part of Catherine’s entourage. And at Catherine’s behest, Jack is her official bodyguard, while Abu and Dominic are shadowing them. Abu is seated at a neighboring table, while Dominic pretends to chat up a socialite. Really, his eyes dart around the room, looking for anything suspicious.

  Even from my table in the back, I’ll see what Jack and Abu do, thanks to my video-linked contact lenses. The Acme team—which means by default, I, too—can hear Catherine’s instructions to Jack, and his to us. While he calls the rest of the team out by name, he never utters mine—not even when Catherine baits him by murmuring, “I’m sure Donna would have enjoyed this. If only she had behaved herself!”

  I have to give Jack credit. He doesn’t even wince at her cattiness. On the other hand Abu mutters through a cough, “Bitch.”

  My sentiments exactly. But to keep my mind off of killing her myself, I focus on saving her life.

  Only Catherine’s security team is allowed to carry weapons into the Hollywood & Highland Center. All bags have been checked, no matter how chic, tiny or elegant. Arnie, who has been working in the cloakroom before covering the crowd as a waiter, slipped me my favorite Walther PPS when I handed him my white mink stole. Just six inches long and a shade over nineteen ounces in weight, it fits nicely in my clutch purse.

  The ballroom is over twenty-five thousand square feet in size—broad, deep, and with towering ceilings. If a shooter is in fact here, he or she would have to be positioned within 2,700 yards of the stage, where Catherine will be receiving her award.

  I scan the tables within shooting range. They are filled with celebrities, the wealthy, and the otherwise renowned. But unlike the theatre next door which hosts the Academy Awards, this room is not tiered with view boxes, and there is no balcony.

  High above our heads, spot and track lights are affixed in strategic locations on the ceiling. For shows this size, there must be a tech control booth for lights and audio, and it has to be located in view of the stage …

  Ah, there it is, high on the wall to the right-hand side of the stage is a large glass window. The room behind it is dark—

  Wait … Did something just move up there?

  Despite the fact that the ballroom lights are flickering to let the crowd know the speeches will start any moment now, I wind my way through the milling crowd, toward the back of the room. “Arnie, how would I access the stage tech room?” I whisper.

  “Go back out into the lobby. Facing the ballroom, you’ll see a door to the right of the ballroom. It’s the staircase to the tech room.”

  “I’m on it. Abu, Dominic, I may need back-up. Jack, do what you can to cover Snow White.”

&nb
sp; “Will do,” he murmurs back, “Watch your step.”

  That goes without saying when you’re trying to take down an assassin in four-inch Loubies.

  The stairwell climbs up to a second story. It opens into a hallway that elbows around the ballroom’s right side.

  The corridor is so dark that at first I don’t see the large lump of humanity in the middle of the hall—the body of a man, who was obviously shot trying to escape.

  My guess is that the poor guy was hired to run the lights. Now someone else is opting for fireworks, when the time is right.

  The door to the tech room is opened a mere crack.

  I hold my gun low with both hands. I move forward slowly, hugging the wall until I reach the doorway. I listen for sounds, but all I hear is Beverly Kinkaid’s voice.

  She is telling touching tales about the Martins.

  I crack open the door, just a few inches. This allows me to peek inside the room, which is dark, except for the light emanating from the stage two stories below. I can also see the barrel of an M110 semi-automatic sniper rifle. It is positioned in its bipod, which sits on a high table placed up against the window, which has a sliding panel.

  No surprise, it is aimed at the podium.

  So that I can see the shooter, I nudge the door open a few inches more—

  Where the hell is he?

  I get my answer when the door smacks my shoulder—so hard that I drop my gun.

  My assailant yanks me into the room and slams my back up against the wall. Before I have time to react, he grabs my wrists with one hand, and cuffs them with plastic locking restraints with another.

  When I shout, he slaps me across the face with the back of his hand. “No one can hear you.” His growl is barely a whisper. “This booth is soundproof, so shut up already.”

  I realize he’s right. It is through speakers that we hear the crowd laugh as Robert regales them with the often-told story of his infatuation with his childhood sweetheart, how everything he did in life was to garner her attention and earn her respect.

  And, finally, her hand in marriage.

  How, with her support, he built a multi-million-dollar business.

  And how, with his support, she has followed her own dream, as he puts it: “to enrich the lives of others, through her unwavering commitment to public service.”

  Their eyes mirror his adoration for the woman who strives only so others may live their dreams.

  Little do they know their worst nightmare is about to take place.

  Mine already has.

  Like every other man here, the shooter is dressed in a tux, except his face is hidden under a ski mask, and his hands are covered by latex gloves.

  He pulls my hair back, revealing my Acme ear bud. He yanks it out and crushes it underfoot. I’ve gone dark to my mission team.

  Why aren’t they here by now?

  He shoves me down into the chair in front of the rifle. As if reading my mind, he mutters, “The door from the lobby was set to auto-lock, just a minute ago.” His voice is tinny. It’s obvious he’s talking through a microphone using voice changer software. “You got in by the hair of your chinny chin chin.”

  Lucky me.

  And by the way, I don’t have hair on my chin. Implying that I need electrolysis gives me reason enough to kill this son of a bitch.

  As Robert and Catherine join Beverly at the podium, the shooter curls my hands on the grip. “You’re just in time to pull the trigger.” His nonchalant whisper sends a shiver up my spine. “What should we aim for? Head? Chest?”

  I answer him with a head butt.

  He groans and instinctively reaches up to touch his bruised cheek. I grab the rifle and leap up out of the chair. But as I whip around to take him out, he sidekicks me in the gut.

  When I double over, he jerks the gun from my hand and tosses it on the table. Then he drags me by the handcuffs toward a steel storage closet door.

  He tries the knob, but it’s locked. “Too bad,” he whispers hoarsely. “But this will hold you anyway.” In no time, he’s twisted one my wrists around the knob. He pulls duct tape from a duffle bag by the table, tears off a piece, and slaps it over my mouth.

  No matter how hard I try, I can’t pull away.

  Applause floats up from the ballroom below us. As he slides open the window a mere inch, I push and strain to break loose from the knob, but I can’t. I’m too far away to stop him, but I watch as he mounts the gun again, positions it through the window opening, and focuses the sight on his target.

  From over his shoulder, I too can see the stage. Catherine feigns modesty by placing one hand demurely on her clavicle while she waves at the adoring crowd with the other. Any moment now, they will take a step back, so that she has the podium by herself. When that happens, her assassin will have his money shot, and there will be nothing I can do to stop him.

  Nodding at Beverly and Robert, she seals her fate.

  The crowd finally grows silent. I know she is talking, because I can hear her. Despite the warmth of her tone and the stridency of her speech, her words never register. Instead, they flutter around my brain. Her voice triggers memories of the CeeCee of my youth.

  All the pinky swears we shared. All the broken promises she made.

  All the heartache I experienced because of it.

  All of my silly, unfounded hatred.

  I was my mother’s favorite. I’ve known this, all my life, despite trying to convince myself otherwise. She was sick and drugged when she called CeeCee by my name.

  In answering her back, perhaps CeeCee granted her a kindness.

  It’s time I admit to myself what I really hated was that I felt guilty that I wasn’t at my mother’s bedside that afternoon.

  I was with Bobby.

  Because of the silencer on the assassin’s rifle, no one hears the shot.

  It takes a moment for the blood to appear.

  Soon, screams echo through the hall.

  Finally the body stumbles and falls—

  Robert’s body, not Catherine’s.

  I’m just as stunned as everyone else.

  I freeze, but not the assassin. He leaves everything—leaves me—and walks out the door.

  I’m sure he knows the fire door will give him safe passage out of the building. He’ll strip himself of his ski mask first, and tuck it in under his jacket. As soon as he’s opened the exit door and noted that the coast is clear, his latex gloves will go into his pocket.

  He’ll whistle as he goes down the street, as if he doesn’t have a care in the world.

  I know all this, because it’s exactly how I would have handled this hit.

  The building’s security team will figure out soon enough where the shot came from. I should be readying myself for the questions, the accusations, the tears and the shame that comes with failing at your job.

  But I’m not. Instead, I’m thinking of Bobby and the one kiss we shared, oh so long ago.

  May he rest in peace.

  Chapter 15

  Bleeding Hearts

  A term describing people whose hearts "bleed" with sympathy for the downtrodden. This description is used primarily to criticize liberals who favor government spending for social programs.

  And for your information, you do not qualify for a bleeding heart if you (a) give a homeless person a dollar, then take it as a tax write-off; (b) spend your grandma’s Social Security check on a “Sign Up with a Friend” gym membership; or (c) write the local police chief a letter protesting deplorable prison conditions, just because your boyfriend was coerced into “giving” his new John Lobb loafers to a fellow inmate, the one night he slept in the drunk tank.

  Roasted Artichoke Hearts

  (from Darien Coleman, Raleigh, North Carolina)

  Ingredients

  3 (15-ounce) cans of artichoke hearts

  4 garlic cloves, quartered

  2 teaspoons extra virgin olive oil

  Salt and Pepper

  1 tablespoon lemon juice

/>   Directions

  1: Preheat oven to 375 degrees Fahrenheit

  2: Drain artichokes in a colander and rinse to remove brine

  3: In a bowl, mix gently with garlic and olive oil.

  4: Pour artichoke mixture into a metal roasting pan, and roast for about one hour, tossing a few times to roast evenly.

  5: Sprinkle with lemon juice and salt and pepper, to taste.

  The funeral is to be held in their hometown of Libertyville, Massachusetts, in the cemetery of the Pentecostal church where Catherine worships.

  “It’s going to be a three-ring circus,” Jack predicts. “The media is split into two camps—those who feel she’s too grief-stricken to go on with the campaign, and those who feel she’s been catapulted into the presidency because of her loss.”

  “I hate to say it, but agree with the latter,” I murmur.

  “You and me both,” he says. He holds me in his arms, as if he’s afraid to let me go.

  He was so worried that the assassin killed me first that he left Dominic with Catherine after the shooting, in order to join Abu and Arnie in finding me. The operations manager of the ballroom was so nervous that he forgot the code to open the auto-lock on the stairwell to the tech room, where the assassin set up. Thank goodness Arnie had a laser knife on him. Otherwise, I would have been up there all night. When Jack ran into the room, he bundled me up and got me out of there, fast.

  Ryan called Jack on the carpet for leaving his post, but he is still so angry at me that I’ve yet to be called into the office. With my fingerprints on the rifle I’m sure I’ll be hearing from someone soon. Better it be Ryan than the Feds with a one-way ticket to Gitmo.

  Been there, done that.

  Since the incident, Mary has been comforting Evan—lately, by phone, since he’s flown home to Massachusetts with his mother and his father’s body.

  I find Mary sitting in the hammock in the back yard. Her cheeks are damp with tears.