2 The Housewife Assassin's Guide to Gracious Killing

by Josie Brown

  She may not find this in the Hilldale Women’s Club, but if it gets her out from under Breck’s thumb for a couple of hours, I’m sure she’ll be just as willing to fake a friendship or two.

  Chapter 7

  Dealing with Awkward Moments

  Despite a hostess’s attempt to assure her guests mingle well and have a marvelous time, someone is bound to do, or say, something, which makes everyone else feel a bit uncomfortable. Should that occur at your party, the best way to make amends is to laugh off the offense.

  Payback comes later. In a dark alley. With a lead pipe.

  At the next party, the loudmouth will behave as if the cat got his tongue (which may be the case, after you’re done with him).

  Supposedly, the best divorce lawyer in all of Orange County is Alan Shore, of the law firm Young, Frutt & Berluti. “Best” is another way of saying every ex-wife in the county swears by him, and every ex-husband in the county swears at him, or whenever Alan’s name is uttered out loud.

  This makes him the perfect attorney to represent me in my divorce.

  I hand him a copy most recent picture I have of Carl. Considering his ability to disguise himself, I’m sure this is an exercise in futility. Besides, the picture is tiny, taken from an antique locket I wear around my neck.

  Don’t ask me why I keep the picture in there. I guess it reminds of better, simpler times. When I was married to a man I loved and trusted.

  Those days are long gone.

  Obviously, I can’t divulge everything about our break-up. For example, since Carl was never legally declared dead, I can’t use that as the basis for a divorce. What I can do, is say that he deserted me five years ago.

  “Gone? For five years? Great,” Alan crows. “Abandonment makes it a slam dunk for you to keep the rug rats! Do you know where he is now?”

  Hmmmm. Trick question. The real Carl is on the FBI’s and Interpol’s most wanted list, so my guess is finding him is a long shot. The fake Carl, my Jack, is part of the Breck foursome at the Hilldale Country Club with Hans, Franz and Breck. Needless to say, I don’t want a process server anywhere near him, since I haven’t yet broken the news to him of my divorce filing. I’m waiting to surprise Jack with the news that I’m a free woman, when no one—specifically Carl—can stand between us.

  I bat my eyes, feigning hurt and innocence. “Let’s just say he’s long gone. I presume we can file in abstention?”

  Alan stops mid-happy dance. “What’s the fun in that? This can be a real booyah!”

  Um… no.

  “Look, Alan, here’s the thing. I want to fast-track this divorce. I don’t care if it’s not a fun thing for you. This isn’t some high-profile, he said-she said. There will be no ‘booyah’ moments. I just want you to file the paperwork and follow through.”

  Alan’s pomp deflates somewhat. “Yeah, okay, I hear you. But, lady, if you seriously want this to move at anything other than a snail’s pace, we have to at least make an attempt to find him.”

  “Sure, okay, tell you what, if by some miracle he shows up in the next seventy-two hours, he’s all yours.”

  “Booyah!” he shouts.

  How did I know he was going to do that?

  At four hundred bucks an hour, I don’t have time for this nonsense.

  Besides, I’ve got a ladies’ lunch to attend with my new bestie.

  “I don’t know why I said I’d join you. Truthfully, I should be finalizing the menus for the summit with our chef.” Babette sounds guilty as she slides into the passenger seat of my car. “But Jonah insists I go. He thinks I should take advantage of this opportunity to meet some of ‘the natives,’ as he calls you and the others down the hill. Besides, Edwina has everything under control. She always does.”

  “I’m sure the pressure has been incredible on all of you. You won’t regret it. The ‘natives’ are friendly, I promise.” Famous last words.

  I look behind me as I steer down the long driveway leading out of Lion’s Lair. Seems we have an escort. Although I could do it easily once we hit the mean streets of Hilldale, I fight the urge to lose Bettina’s security detail. “Besides, those kinds of business details are Edwina’s job, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, of course.” She sighs. “But Edwina takes on so much and never complains. I’d hate it if she ever left Jonah.”

  “Wow, I guess if she’s that efficient, he really is lucky to have her.”

  “No, I’m lucky to have her, too. His last three assistants were whores.”

  Her harsh words cause me to run a red light. Babette’s security detail sails through it, too. Unfortunately, Breck’s men in black SUV get pulled over by Officer Fife. I can’t help but smile at the thought of how they’ll try to bully him, and only make matters worse for themselves. He’s itching to use that one bullet he’s been issued for his pop gun.

  “I take it, then, you didn’t like them much.”

  “That’s an understatement! It’s hard to think well of someone when you find them in bed with your husband.” Babette’s voice shakes with anger. “It’s why I find it so difficult to make friends. If they don’t want something from me, they give freely of themselves—to him.”

  What can I say to that? Absolutely nothing.

  Babette shrugs off my silence. “Don’t worry, Donna. I know you’re different. Edwina showed me the security feed of my husband’s attack on you.” A glance over just in time to see her eyes tear up. “Since I’m sitting here now, I presume you’re not pressing charges, which would be the death of the summit—and my marriage.”

  “I… I know how important the summit is, Babette. I wouldn’t do anything to stop it.” Just the opposite, in fact. Not that I can say that to her.

  As if reading my mind, she pats my arm.

  So, Edwina saw the security feed prior to Arnie erasing me on it, and she showed it to Babette, as opposed to covering for her boss? Interesting, to say the least. I can’t wait to hear what Jack and Ryan think of this.

  I hit the gas. Now that I’m free to go the speed limit, we may actually make the meeting on time. The sooner we get there, the sooner we can leave.

  Something tells me Babette will be of like mind after a half-hour with the sure-to-be fawning Penelope and her Hilldale coven.

  A half hour? It only takes ten minutes for Babette’s worse fears to be realized.

  “We’ve all been dying to meet you,” Penelope gushes, practically pushing me out of the way as she takes Babette in hand. Immediately, she introduces her all around. The way the members of the women’s club are ooohing and ahhhhing at her reminds me of the Munchkins when Glinda the Good Witch arrives in her bubble.

  Or in Babette’s case, a Toyota Highlander Hybrid.

  Oh, what a world, what a world…

  Seeing that Penelope has already seated Babette in the chair next to hers and that the rest of the chairs around their table are already taken, I tap Hayley on the shoulder to point this out. “Where am I supposed to sit?”

  Hayley smirks as she points to an easel, which holds a bulletin board. “The seating chart is over there.”

  “Thanks.” For nothing.

  I walk over the board. I have to scan it twice before finding my name. I’m placed at a half-filled table, in the Siberia between the ladies’ room and the kitchen door. Figures.

  If this were high school, it would be branded the loser’s table—not that I’d say that to my tablemates. The way they’re sucking down their Mojitos, I’m guessing they’ve already figured this out.

  “My name is Carla Fontaine,” says a woman with a squalling baby. “And this is Lucinda Manley.” She points to a woman who tops at over three hundred pounds, a crime in a room filled the anorexically challenged. “And Tara Wills.”

  From the looks of things, Tara’s social faux pas is that she’s got the figure and the face of a human Barbie doll. Oh ye
ah, and her top is open to her navel. Tara tilts her head at me. “Carla’s sitter bailed on her, Lucinda is fine with her weight, and Penelope’s idiot husband once made a pass at me. So, what put you on Penelope’s shit list?”

  I flop down beside Lucinda. “So many reasons, so little time.”

  In order to kill the next couple of hours, I am tempted to stick my head in the pitcher of mojitos, but I’m stopped by the buzz of my cell phone. It’s a text message from Emma:

  Time 2 take out trash! UK hardy OK poolside at HD 4Seas!

  In other words, there has been a confirmed sighting of one of Asimov’s possible assassins. The Ukrainian hard man known as Oleksaner Kovalenko has officially been spotted in Hilldale, and he’s hanging at the Four Seasons. Should he die of natural (or for that matter, any) causes, no one would blink an eye.

  That’s where I come in. I’m his designated angel of death.

  “So sorry, family emergency,” I say to my tablemates. They toast my luck in having the only excuse to leave in which Penelope must forgive.

  I give the same excuse to Babette, murmuring in her ear, “It’s Jeff. He forgot to take his basketball uniform to school. I’ll be back before this is over. I promise.”

  “And if she’s not, we’ll be happy to give you a lift home,” Hayley buts in.

  Babette winces. I’m leaving her with a den of wolves, and she knows it.

  That’s okay. If I don’t accomplish my mission, she’ll have a bigger reason to be disappointed in me.

  Arnie has no trouble breaking into the Four Seasons’ reservation software. The security feed, which shows Oleksaner going to his room on the second floor near the back exit, allows Acme to determine his room number and the alias with which he signed in.

  James Bond.

  In his dreams.

  The employee locker room in the Four Seasons is easy to find. What I’m looking for are the uniforms worn by the cocktail waitresses who serve the patrons sitting poolside. I find one. It’s short, sweet, and nautically themed. I put the hat at a jaunty angle on top of my short, blond wig, leave on my very tall heels, and head toward the sun and fun.

  It’s a good thing he’s decided to catch a few rays. Otherwise, his pasty complexion would stand out during the summit, since most of the power players attending will be sporting golfing tans.

  Oleksaner is easy to spot. Like most men from anywhere else but the United States (excluding the US Olympic Swim and Rowing teams) he’s in a Speedo. It’s so tight that I am reminded of a two-pound salami in a one-pound bag. Okay, make that a half-pound of salami in a quarter-pound bag. They say most hit men have something to prove. I think I can guess Oleksaner’s hang-up. Since he’s just gotten out of the pool, he can always claim shrinkage, but his waitress isn’t buying it. She shrugs when he tosses out a come-on line with his drink order.

  I watch as the bartender mixes his drink: a whisky sour. Perfect. He’ll never taste the concentrated aconite I’ll add to it from my pinky ring. This plant-based poison hits its victims like a heart attack.

  When the bartender turns to take care of three more orders, I make my move. The setting on my ring is flipped palm-side, allowing me to snap it open with my thumb and release the poison even as I saunter over to Oleksaner, who is scoping out the poolside cuties.

  But just as I’m about to set his drink on the table beside his chaise, he lowers mirrored Ray-Bans to give me the once-over. “What happened to other girl?” His Slavic snarl doesn’t mask his suspicion.

  “She got a headache, and I’m looking for tips.” To make my point, I bend down provocatively and squeeze my cleavage so that it practically bulges out of my uniform’s tight sailor top.

  He slips a fiver between my breasts. Wait a minute. I let him cop a feel, and I don’t even get enough tip money to get my car out of the Four Season’s parking lot?

  What a cheapskate!

  I don’t give him a backward glance when I hear him gurgling his last breath.

  By the time the hotel staff figures out he’s not sleeping, he should be nice and tan.

  Lucky me, I make it back to the Hilldale Women’s Club just as the luncheon is breaking up. Penelope glowers at me. I guess she was hoping I wouldn’t make it back in time, and she’d have the chance to see Lion’s Lair up close. Well, too bad. All I need is for her to barge in, what with all the chaos that may ensue.

  For some reason, the whole room is giving Babette a standing ovation. Seeing me, Babette walks over and gives me a hug.

  “You were right! They really aren’t so bad,” she seems relieved.

  “What just happened,” I shout to her over the clapping.

  “Oh, nothing, really. I just invited everyone to President Asimov’s welcoming reception. Jonah likes a packed house, especially when it’s filled with fawning female acolytes.”

  “Wow, that’s… great.” Yep, it’s just what Breck needs.

  And just what I need, a roomful of witnesses who can identify me, if and when I have to take out a baddie.

  Unless I can talk her into making the event a masked ball. Now, there’s a thought.

  Pleased the luncheon was more air kisses than unsheathed claws, Babette says,”You and Trisha are welcomed to accompany Jack through the duration of the summit. Jonah is so appreciative you’ve taken me under your wing. Please say yes.”

  She’s more right than she knows.

  Still, the way she says this gives me the creeps. I’m not some prize.

  Not for Jonah Breck, anyway.

  Certainly Babette’s invitation, coupled with Oleksaner Kovalenko’s sudden demise, will put me back in Ryan’s good graces. But the intel Emma is collecting still has him worried. The Russian dissident and Chechen assassin are still out there somewhere, and it’s odd to have all three after the same target. Something’s just not right.

  Chapter 8

  How to Keep a Sleepover from Being a Yawn

  Popularity has its price: you are wanted and fêted at all hours of the day and night! When invited to a sleepover, be sure to pack all the essentials: jammies and slippers, toothbrush and toothpaste, face cream and night mask, shampoo and hot iron.

  And most importantly, a plastic mattress cover and stun gun. By covering the mattress, you’ll stop any unwanted critters from hopping onto you. However, should the critter be human, stun first, ask questions later, and conveniently remove in the plastic bag. Remember to zip it good and tight!

  “If it’s okay with Aunt Phyllis, can Cheever and Morton stay over on the first night you and Dad and Trisha are at that big shindig up the hill?” Jeff’s question is delivered with his secret weapon: puppy dog eyes.

  He looks just like Carl does—I mean did—after we had sex.

  How can I say no to him?

  The least I can do is try. The last thing Aunt Phyllis needs while babysitting Mary and Jeff is two more ten-year-old boys raising all sorts of hell around the house.

  I shake my head. “ No. Absolutely not.”

  “But, Mom, why not?” Jeff whines. “Trisha will be gone, too, so it shouldn’t be any trouble for Aunt Phyllis.”

  “I’m sure Aunt Phyllis will welcome more bonding time with you and Mary.”

  Aunt Phyllis shrugs. “Nah, I’ll be bored out of my gourd. All Mary does is yap on her cell phone. Besides, how many times can I whup Jeff at Diablo III?”

  Jeff winces when he hears that. “Oh yeah? Well, I bet you can’t beat Morton.”

  A devious smile lights up Aunt Phyllis’s face. “You’re on. In fact, I’ll bet a five note, from each of you.”

  I’m outnumbered again. Why am I not surprised?

  This turn in the conversation is enough to tear Mary away from her ceaseless texting. “If Jeff is having a sleepover, can I have one, too?”

  I shake my head adamantly “No! Absolutely, positively not!”

 
; “Jeff gets to have his dweeby friends over, and I can’t? Dad, please tell Mom she’s not being fair!”

  Jack looks up from his computer. He’s been trying to bone up on the latest catchphrases being tossed around by the international financial community. Last night he tried a few of them on me. I got him to stop when I pointed out that terms like “financial repression” and “quantitative easing” weren’t exactly the kind of naughty talk that put me in the mood. To minimize any risk to hot hanky-panky, he quickly shut his yap, and instead we engaged in some high-frequency trading of kisses and foreplay maneuvers. In no time at all, the velocity of interconnection between us led to a thorough and fully satisfying systematic inclusion, which left us both panting.

  “Now, that was one insider trading violation,” I gasped.

  I guess I’m picking up some of the lingo after all. Pays to stay after school with teacher.

  Until teacher sells you out.

  “What… a sleepover? I don’t mind, Mary, honey—if it’s okay with Aunt Phyllis, of course.”

  Aunt Phyllis gives Jack a thumbs-up. “Sure, the more, the merrier!”

  I give up. Time to pack my overnight bag.

  As I walk past him, Jack murmurs in my ear, “Hey, I don’t know about you, but I could use a little hyperinflation.”

  I wave him off as I head toward the stairs. “After that selloff? Dream on.”

  By the time we get to Lion’s Lair, already twenty-two of the twenty heads of state have arrived, as well as CEOs of the five largest international media conglomerates, and representatives from eight of the world’s largest financial institutions.

  POTUS won’t be arriving for another three days, whereas Asimov’s helicopter will be here any moment now. Everyone is getting ready for the black-tie dinner to welcome him.

  Hopefully, the other two assassins won’t be in attendance, too.

  The sooner we find out where they are, the better. Arnie has been able to download the summit’s guest room manifest. Audio bugs are in the floral bouquets that have been placed in the rooms of guests who are staffers of the heads of state. Despite the guards’ face-to-eye scan vetting of all guests, vendors and staff, Acme’s facial photographic analysis software has yet to make a match to the visages of the two hard men still on the loose.