by Josie Brown
While he’s off making the world a safer place, I’m relegated to the role of just another housewife in the OC.
Yep, it’s official. My services at Acme Industries are no longer required—
Thanks to November’s landslide victory for the ticket of Martin and Chiffray.
Perhaps changing their slogan from “Government: Pay Off!” to “Government Secure and Successful” had something to do with it. More than likely, the voting public hasn’t yet figured out that “secure” is short for “more spying on everyone” and that the word “successful” only describes those lucky enough to secure the government contracts to do the spying on the rest of us.
It’s been two months since the election. While there has been no further word from Major Reynolds of any impending arrest, it’s no secret that I, for one, am under constant surveillance. Anything can and will be used against me—albeit not necessarily in a court of law. Gitmo isn’t co-ed yet, but Catherine will see to it that I’m the exception to that rule.
I’ll admit it, orange does nothing for my complexion, so I plan on behaving myself. Maybe there’s no better time than now to convince Jack to move the whole family to Paris. From what I hear, the French don’t like to be wiretapped any more than I do.
My guess is siccing Reynolds on me was CeeCee’s way of punishing me for deleting her computer’s personal files. Hey, I know better than anyone that there is nothing more dangerous than a woman shorn of her famous apple pie recipe.
She’ll survive.
In the meantime, Ryan has informed me that my employment is terminated. If anything, he’s honest as to why. “Sorry Donna. Our biggest clients are POTUS, the CIA, the NSA, and the DOJ, in that order.”
Realizing I’m in need of some TLC, Jack pulls me into his lap. “You can’t just wallow away in a bottle of vodka. What do other ladies of leisure do?”
I laugh through my tears. “They do just that—wallow. Okay, maybe the libation of choice is vodka. Unless you mean I should make a pass at the neighborhood DILF.”
“You’ve already won my heart.”
“I’ve always appreciated your modesty.”
“And I’m always in awe of your tenacity. Perhaps it’s time you took up a hobby—something that matches your many excellent skill sets.”
“That being, spycraft and assassinations?”
He sighs and pours a drink for himself—a double. “I was thinking more along the lines of baking, or crafts. You know, take time to have a little fun!” He thinks for a moment. “Here’s an idea! Why not offer to plan Dominic’s housewarming party for him?”
“Good thinking! If there’s one thing I do well it’s throw a stellar soirée. But Dominic isn’t exactly talking to me these days.”
Jack raises a brow. “Don’t leave me in suspense.”
“Truth is, I’ve been banned from Chateau Fleming because I … well, I broke in last week, and re-arranged the furniture.”
Jack’s brows come together, perplexed. “That’s easy to spin. You were, I don’t know, testing his security system. And no doubt his bachelor pad could use a woman’s touch.”
“I thought so, too—in all thirty-four rooms, in fact.” Yes, I am that bored. “But apparently my kindness left him somewhat disgruntled.”
Seeing the look on Jack’s face, I stutter, “Okay, maybe I lost something he was particularly enamored with—a life-size portrait of Princess Catherine! Did you know he still calls her ‘Waity Katie?’ Perhaps it’s a good thing I’ve forgotten where I put it, considering that ship sailed long ago.”
“I’ll do what I can to work around it.” He winces. “So that I’m fully prepared before I enter the lion’s den, can you think of any other reason he may consider you persona non grata?”
I shrug. “And I guess he didn’t like the fact that I changed the workout grotto into a real torture chamber. But hey, it’s Dominic. As if listening to his jokes isn't torture enough, right? Other than that, I’m sure he’ll come to his senses soon and realize I’m the right gal for the job.”
Jack snaps his fingers. "Oh, by the way, Arnie found out that Penelope's volunteer wheel was in fact rigged."
"I knew it!" I slam my martini glass on the table.
"So, are you going to quit?"
"Heck no. Being the lunchroom lady is one of the few reasons I have to leave the house these days."
Jack frowns. “Since you're spending so much time at home, why not ingratiate yourself to Penelope and her coven by throwing a party here? After your gracious intervention with Cheever’s election scandal, she needs another reason to hate you. Your party platters always get raves. Certainly that’ll do the trick.”
I hold both arms in front of me, palms up. “Let me see—” I lower the right one, just slightly. “I can make Penelope jealous—” I lower the left one, practically to my thigh. “Or I can exterminate a third-world dictator who orders the genocide of his country’s indigenous people while he hits the poker tables in Vegas. A weighty dilemma if there ever was one.”
“Okay, I’ll admit it. Acme could have used your help in getting to that target. Ryan realizes it, too. But Donna, in this political climate—”
“Trust me, I get it, Jack. The president-elect is looking for any excuse necessary to cut Acme out of the picture.”
“Ryan thinks it’s a matter of biding our time.” Jack has always been great at spin.
“Are you saying you’re optimistic that I’ll be able to shake the DOJ’s surveillance sometime in the near future?”
He winces.
Thought so. We both know the reality of the situation: Catherine Connelly Martin may be running the country for eight years.
Ergo, I’m as good as retired.
“I wanted to walk away from this profession on my own terms, not those dictated by Catherine. She won’t keep me from doing my job. I’m here to stay, and here to play,” I declare loudly and proudly. “If need be, I will bide my time.”
That alone is excuse enough for Jack to take another gulp, this time straight from the bottle. Then he passes it to me, and I do the same.
What the hell. No one likes to drink alone.
I’ve just taken a swig when I notice Mary in the doorway. I hide the bottle behind my back as she knocks hesitantly on the doorframe. Yes, she saw me, but she’s learned to cut me some slack. She’s quite aware of my tender state over the past few months.
The good news is that she has been flourishing in school. In fact, all my children have. And I’ve been happy to hear from Babs’ mother that her daughter is doing much better, too. Mary and Wendy have kept her close, reminding her, as only besties can, that they adore her.
The one joy I’ve had this winter was sharing with Mary some of my mother’s recipes.
I beckon her forward with a smile. But my look changes to shock when she steps aside and we see Evan.
His eyes are dark and red-rimmed, as if he hasn’t slept in days. I walk over to him and hold out my hand. “Evan, tell me—what has happened?”
He shakes his head. “I think my mother … I think my mother murdered my father.” His declaration weighs so heavy on him that he bows his head. He pulls a thumb drive from his pocket. “The proof is here. I don’t know what I should do with it, but I can’t live with knowing that she’d do something like this, and get away with it.”
Jack and I turn to each other. He nods at me, and I run into the family room.
Jeff is playing with my laptop. When I grab it out of his hands, he cries, “No fair!”
“This is a work tool, not a toy,” I scold him.
He frowns. “But you haven’t been working.”
He doesn’t need to remind me.
No matter. Something tells me that’s about to change.
When I return with the laptop, I see Jack looking out the window. “I don’t see your Secret Service detail,” he says to Evan.
Evan shrugs. “Mother is holed up out here, at Mr. Chiffray’s, having strategy sessions with some money
men. I walked through the front door of my school, handed the head of the school a fake note from my mother that said I was needed for some photo op, then I went out the back door with a friend. We caught the D.C. Metro to Dulles, and I hopped a plane here, using my friend’s driver’s license as identification. I put my airline ticket on his credit card, and paid him cash for it.” He turns to me. “It’s late enough that I guess everyone has figured out I’m gone and is panicking about now, but I had to get here, to you. When Dad realized he knew you back in high school, he told me that you were the most honest person he’d ever known. He said, ‘I’m glad she’s on our side.’ It’s the reason I’m here now. I had to share this with someone I could trust.”
The lump in my throat hurts as I say, “I felt the same way about him. Tell me, Evan, what's happened?”
“Since Dad’s death and then the election and all, my grades have slipped. I’ve had a hard time focusing on anything but … him.” Evan glances away, ashamed. “The last thing my mom needs to hear is that I’m flunking trigonometry and physics. She’s got too much on her mind, what with the inauguration next week.” He frowns. “Unfortunately, last night I left my iPad at school, and they’d already locked it up for the night. Since my homework is in my iCloud account, I thought I’d sneak onto Mom’s computer, access it there, then download it onto a thumb drive in order to move it onto my computer. She would have been angry, had she known. She’s got a lot of confidential files on it—stuff that no one but members of the House are supposed to see.”
“She’s on the Intelligence, Foreign Affairs, and Energy committees as well as Armed Forces,” I remind Jack
Evan nods first, then shakes his head. “You’re right, but I swear, I never looked at any of those files. I just downloaded my homework and moved it onto a thumb drive I found on her desk. When I opened the thumb drive, I realized it also contained this video clip. It was taken from the security webcam at our Libertyville farmhouse. Here, let me show it to you.”
He downloads the clip into my laptop.
The camera’s point of view is the home’s library. Catherine sits on the settee. A man sits on a chair, with his back to the camera. He wears a bulky coat, khaki pants, and a wide-brimmed fishing hat. His hands are gloved.
The man is Robert’s shooter.
“I hear you’re a crack shot,” she says solemnly. “That you make no mistakes.”
“I won’t miss.” The man assures her. He pauses then adds, “And don’t worry, it’ll be so quick that he won’t suffer.”
Once again, he’s speaking through the voice changer software, but the cadence is the same.
In response, she closes her eyes and murmurs, “Good, yes. Painless.”
She raises her hand to her face. Is she wiping away a tear? It’s hard for me to tell because she drops her hand just as quickly.
“Afterward, you’ll be a shoo-in.” The man stands up, but all the while he keeps his back to the camera. “Isn’t that what you want?”
She hesitates, then nods. “I just never thought I’d have to make … the ultimate sacrifice.”
“Don’t be so melodramatic, Congresswoman. You said it yourself—he’s standing in our way. He didn’t want you to run in the first place! Now look at you—your party’s frontrunner! Well, almost. Who knew Randy Jennings would be last man standing against you? No one does ‘stiff upper lip’ like, you, lady. It’s time to put it to good use; give the voters a reason to see your mettle in a time of adversity. That way, we all get what we want, including you—power, prestige, and a Swiss bank account filled with more money than you and your heirs can spend in six lifetimes.”
She bites her lower lip, still not convinced.
“He’s thinking of divorcing you.”
“What?...You’re—you’re crazy!” Catherine's anger is tinged with doubt.
“Trust me, we’ve been monitoring his calls. He’s already talked to one divorce attorney. If he follows through, you won’t be able to get elected dogcatcher, let alone president.”
She sits there for the longest moment. Finally, she nods.
The man disappears though the French doors leading to the garden.
Catherine turns toward the mantle. A framed photo of Robert catches her eye. She stares at it for a long time. Laughter can be heard. It's coming from another room. Robert's deep chuckle is echoed by Evan's belly laugh.
She lays the picture face down and sets a smile on her face before walking out the door, her head held high.
I turn off the tape then look up to see Evan’s reaction.
His face looks set in stone. “We were laughing at some picture of Mom and Dad when they were in high school. When I saw the tears in her eyes, I thought she was sad because it reminded her of a time they were actually happy together. Now I know the truth.” He looks up at me. “I’m not mistaken, am I? She knew what would happen to Dad, didn’t she?”
I nod. “It was the same man, yes.”
Tears roll down Evan’s cheeks. “Then I’ve got to hand this over to the police. I didn’t want to do it until I was sure.”
“As it turns out, the Federal investigator who is in charge of the shooting is still in touch with me—sort of. Would you mind if we call him now, so that he can see it, too?”
Evan nods, as if in a trance.
Jack reaches for his cell phone. “Ryan, can you get Major Reynolds over here? We’ve got some evidence that may make a difference in his investigation … Yes, then we’ll be expecting both of you.”
The realization of what he’s set in motion weighs so heavily on Evan that he collapses onto the couch. Mary sits beside him, cradling him in her arms. His life will never be the same. She knows this, too.
I want to hold my daughter; to tell her that love is stronger than hate or ambition or desire.
But Catherine has shown her the opposite.
Once again, Catherine proves she is unique: as a spouse, as a lover, and as a mother.
As for what she’s done, and how she justified it to herself? It’s just politics as usual.
Chapter 19
Lame Duck
Someone holding public office whose term has expired or cannot be continued, and who therefore has less power to affect legislation than when his term started.
You may liken it to the power you have over your children, before they learn how to drive and can solo on their own. Once they have that driver’s license, it’s, “Mom Who?” and you’re whistling in the wind created by them as they peel out of your driveway at breakneck speeds.
Speaking of the wind beneath wings, the lamest duck of all is one with a crispy-on-the-outside-but-tender-on-the-inside skin glazed in a delicious orange sauce, like so:
Honey-Dipped Duck
(Adapted from AllRecipes)
Ingredients
One Whole Duck
Chopped Basil
An Orange, quartered
Teaspoon of Ginger Root
1 TSP Salt
1 Cup water
1 Cup Honey
1 Cup Orange Juice concentrate, thawed
1 TSP Lemon juice
One stick Butter
Directions
1: Preheat oven to 350 degrees F (175 degrees C).
2: Mix the basil, ginger and salt in a small bowl, then sprinkle mixture on inside and outside of duck.
3: Stuff duck with orange quarters, and lay breast side up in roaster.
4: Add water to bottom of roaster.
5: In a small saucepan combine the honey, butter, lemon juice and orange juice concentrate. Simmer together over low heat until syrupy, then pour a little of the mixture over the duck, saving the rest for basting.
6: Cover roaster, and roast the duck in the preheated oven, for 30 minutes.
7: Turn duck breast down, reduce heat to 300 degrees F (150 degrees C) and roast, covered, for another 2 to 2 1/2 hours, or until very tender.
8: If desired, turn duck breast-up during last few minutes of cooking, to brown.
&nb
sp; “How dare your daughter coerce my son to leave his school!” Catherine’s voice thunders through my house. “Ha! Figures that she’d turn out to be a conniving hussy, just like you.”
Behind the shelf holding my good china is a secret compartment, which holds a SIG P22k DAK. While I am sorely tempted to flip the switch that accesses it, I temper my desire to do so with the knowledge that (a) the Secret Service detail assigned to Catherine would take me out quicker than my kitten heels will allow me to flee; (b) it’s much better to keep Catherine alive, in order to get her to admit to her role in Robert’s murder.
Unbeknownst to her, this little tête-a-tête is being watched and video-recorded by Ryan, Major Reynolds and Jack, from our panic room, which wasn’t picked up in the Secret Service’s threat assessment of my home.
In other words, I am the decoy that will make her a lame duck before she takes her first step into the Oval Office.
So yes, I keep my cool. “Catherine, Evan wasn’t here to see Mary. He was here because of something he felt he should pass along to me. You see, like Robert, he trusts me more than he trusts you.” I acknowledge her wince with a smile. “I felt you should see it first, since you’ve got the most to lose.” I nod toward her Secret Service detail. “In private.”
She hesitates. By now, she’s used to living her life in the public spotlight. But she’s still wary of sharing it with spooks who don’t always take your secrets to the grave with them.
Finally, she motions them to leave us alone.
I wait a long moment after the door shuts behind them. Then I walk over to the coffee table and hit the button on my computer that starts the recording of her discussion with the assassin.
She gasps when she realizes what she’s watching.
As each of the six and a half minutes ticks by, she doesn’t say a word, but her face hardens with the realization that she can’t hide behind a mask of ignorance, let alone one of innocence.
Finally the video stops, freezing on her heading out the door and to her fate.