2 The Housewife Assassin's Guide to Gracious Killing

by Josie Brown

  I can’t believe my ears. “This is ridiculous! What are you going to do, suspend the whole eighth grade?”

  “A suspension is the last thing President Asimov would want.” Everyone turns when they hear Carl’s firm, authoritative declaration, but no one says a word. I guess they’re just as stunned as I am.

  “The president may not like what they have to say, but he respects their right to speak their mind.” Carl looks directly at Mary. “In fact, Mary, he hopes you’ll be kind enough to represent your class on a one-to-one discussion with him on the issue of human rights. Would you care to join him for tea this afternoon? Your mother is also invited to come along as your escort. I’ll pick you up at your home, at three.”

  Mary’s eyes open wide as she looks over at me.

  Please don’t say yes, I pray silently. Please tell him that you can’t stand the thought of being near that cretin.

  But no. Mary, ferocious soul that she is, nods her head. “Yeah, okay, if he’s willing to be honest with me, Mr…”

  “Mr. Stone.”

  At first, she doesn’t notice the coincidence in his name and ours. She and her girlfriends are too busy reveling in their good fortune on both counts: not getting suspended, and Mary’s invitation. A moment later, when it finally sinks in, she looks sharply at her father, whose eyes have never left her.

  I don’t dare look at either of them, for fear of tearing up.

  Instead, I grab Mary’s hand and hustle her out the door.

  “That man wasn’t Russian.” Mary isn’t asking a question, but making a statement.

  I nod. “You’re right, he’s an American.”

  “So, what’s he doing with that—that dictator?”

  “Technically, Asimov isn’t a dictator—”

  “Mom, duh, I know! Maybe technically. But the whole world knows the Russian presidential election was rigged, and that he put anyone in jail who had the nerve to run against him. A few kids write a protest song about it and they end up doing hard labor! You call that a democracy? So, why would that man—Mr. Stone—work for him?”

  “I guess he thinks it’s prestigious. And I’m sure he is well paid.”

  “I’d never work for a sleazebag like that, no matter how much he was paying me. I have too much respect for myself.”

  I reach over and pat her head. “Sometimes we do things we later regret. Maybe he’ll feel that way, too.”

  “Ha! I doubt it. He seemed so smug… or something. Like a player who thinks he knows it all.” She stares out the window. Hilldale’s streets in the early afternoon are quiet, but she’s still running on a champion’s adrenaline high. “And the way he looked at you—well, I’m just glad Dad wasn’t there. He would have been soooo jealous!”

  I shift uneasily in my seat. “You were imagining that.”

  “No I wasn’t! I know love when I see it. That was the exact same look Dad gives you. I think it’s hot.”

  Yes, Carl had love in his eyes: for her, not for me.

  It’s on the tip of my tongue to tell her what he wants when he sees me isn’t love but lust.

  Then I think better of it. How would I explain it?

  I guess I could say it’s as different as… well, as Jack and Carl. But then I’d have to come clean about Carl.

  Over my dead body.

  Better yet, over his.

  “You’ve done wonders with the place.” Carl walks slowly through the living room, taking in everything: the soft sage walls, the deep-seated couch in front of the stone fireplace. The Persian scatter rugs over the knotty pine floors.

  We picked out this house together. Up until he resurfaced last year, I’d kept its furnishings the same as the day he left.

  It was a cathartic experience, throwing out everything that reminded me of him.

  I shake off the compliment. “You know the saying. Life goes on.” Then I head toward the stairs and shout up, “Mary? Mr…. Mr. Stone is here! Let’s get a move on!”

  “Is Jeff around?” I see the glimmer of hope in Carl’s eyes at the thought that he’ll get to talk to his son without Jack standing between them.

  I almost want to yell out, Should you have the luck of getting to talk to Jeff, no matter what you say to him, Jack will always stand in your way, because you left Jeff.

  You left all of us.

  Instead, I shrug nonchalantly. “Nope. Right about now Aunt Phyllis is dropping him off at basketball practice.”

  Mary practically flies down the stairs, but freezes when she notices Carl’s intense stare. “Oh! Hello, Mr. Stone. I thought you’d be waiting in the car.” She’s not exactly rude, but certainly cold.

  Carl seems to deflate in front of my eyes.

  My heart can’t help but break for him.

  Not Mary. He’s a stranger who plays for the wrong team. As if he’s not even there, she turns her back on him in order to face me. Mom, what do you think of this dress?” It is one of her favorites: pale blue, with a crew neck, cap sleeves and a pleated skirt.

  “You look beautiful,” Carl murmurs.

  “Oh… thanks.” She gives him a dismissive wave. “Hey, would you mind being a gentleman and carrying that for me?” She points to her backpack by the front door. She doesn’t even turn to him when she says this. Instead, she keeps her eyes on me. “Mom, Dad will be there with us, right? I miss him.”

  Satisfied with my slow nod, she heads out the door.

  Carl’s smile has disappeared altogether by the time he steps outside.

  Half of me wants to cry for him. But the other half wants to laugh and say, Welcome to parenting, dead-beat dad.

  Instead, I say nothing. Here’s hoping Mary’s cruelty convinces him to stay away.

  If she were to learn the truth, would she regret her actions, or feel it appropriate for a father who deserted her? The latter, I hope.

  In any regard, that’s the route I’m taking.

  Chapter 13

  Tea for Two

  A full silver tea service is a staple in every hostess’s dining room! Because one never knows who will be stopping in at the appropriate time (that is to say, four o’clock). One should polish the tea service weekly, and always have the following on hand: lumps of sugar, real cream, thinly sliced lemon rounds, a three-tiered silver tray laden with savories, such as crustless sandwiches (bottom), scones (middle), and sweets (top). Ideally, you’ll forego the tea bag for tea leaves and a strainer, and have several types of teas for your guest to choose from.

  This set-up is prepared prior to the guest’s arrival, as the hostess should never spend her time in the kitchen, but act as pourer.

  Should the need arise for you to step away from the table, you may leave your napkin on your seat. To signal the end of your gathering, place your napkin, loosely, to the left of your plate.

  Should you wish your guest to leave permanently and violently, leave a bomb under said napkin, so that it can’t be seen prior to setting it off by remote control, of course. True, it’s messier than a poison, but there is less of the body to dispose of—and it gives you the perfect excuse to redecorate!

  “You brought Mary here, even though you know there’s some assassin running around this mausoleum, waiting to take a pot shot at the man who invited her to tea?” Seeing Mary seated with Asimov, Jack can’t believe his eyes or ears.

  But yep, she’s right there, for all the world to see. Realizing this is his chance to get the egg—in this case a taco shell—off his face, Asimov has invited the media to watch him play nice with an eighth grader.

  I don’t know what’s in the satchel Mary lugged with her to the tea, but something tells me she didn’t get the memo that she’s supposed to be a star-struck acolyte.

  I nod to Jack. “Believe me, this wasn’t my idea.”

  “Oh yeah? Whose was it? No, let me guess. Daddy Dearest, trying to
score brownie points.”

  I open my mouth to say something, but nothing comes out because he’s right.

  “If it’s any consolation, she thinks Carl’s a sell-out, and a douche.”

  “Interesting. All that, and she only spent a few minutes with the guy. Good to know she’s smarter than her mother.”

  “You’ve already established how you feel about me, Jack.” I’m able to keep my tears from rolling down my cheeks. He blurs before my eyes, in more ways than one. What right has he to be jealous, when he admits he can’t commit to me, even if I were free of Carl? All it merits from me is a shrug. “Well, believe what you want. The truth is I did not invite Carl into the shower.”

  “Let’s say I believe you. Once he was all over you, did you at least try to put up a struggle?”

  “You know I did!”

  Okay, not at first. But yes, eventually.

  Like most fibbers, my first inclination is to glance away. Right now, I keep my eyes firmly on Jack. He’s got to believe me….

  He blinks first.

  That’s a good sign.

  At least, I think so, until he mutters, “First Breck, now Carl. Maybe I should move out of the bedroom so you can do your job properly.”

  “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

  “I’ll be glad to tell you, Mrs. Stone. The confab I had with Jonah was about one thing: he asked me how I’d feel about you becoming his mistress whenever he came to town. To be honest, the term he used wasn’t so eloquent. He asked me if you were a hot fuck, and if I’d allow him to find out for himself, he’d throw a lot of business my way.”

  I’m so angry that my heart is pounding a hundred times a minute. “What did you tell him?”

  “That you had a mind of your own and if you decided to have sex with him, I wouldn’t stand in your way.”

  But of course. All in the line of duty.

  We stand together, silently as Mary gives Asimov a photo op that, I’m guessing, he’ll always regret.

  “President Asimov, I don’t get it.” Mary’s tone is innocent, but I know her well enough to recognize the cat and mouse game she’s playing. “How can a two-year sentence of hard labor be considered fair for students who are only seeking a corrupt-free election, in Russia’s so-called democracy?”

  Asimov frowns at her audacity. “Mary, my dear, the people voted. That makes Russia a democracy. And there is a law in Russia against hooliganism.” He leans forward. “In fact, what you and your classmates did to me this morning might have earned you the same sentence.”

  Mary folds her hands in her lap. “I enjoy free speech. You’re making me happy I don’t live in Russia.”

  Anger flashes in Asimov’s eyes. Through his attempt at a smile, he murmurs, “I want to make it clear that the sentence they received was not mine, but Russia’s courts.”

  Mary smiles back at him. “But according to Russian law, you have the power to commute all sentences. Isn’t that so?”

  His pause is too long. Finally, he shrugs. “I have given it some thought, and I will continue to do so.”

  “That means a lot, to so many of us. Two million so far and counting!” Mary lugs her heavy satchel onto the table, opens it and pulls out a ream of paper. “Here are our signatures. Young people all over the world, just like me, believe you’ll do the right thing! Right now, you have our trust. And trust is what makes a statesman great. Don’t you agree, President Asimov? But if your own people can’t trust you to provide a fair election process, why should those attending this summit believe you when you say you’ll quit making Weapons of Mass Destruction?”

  As she reaches out to shake his hand, he is hit between the eyes with the obvious: Mary has him over a barrel.

  At least one Stone has the nerve to speak her mind.

  She’s an inspiration to me. I grab Jack by the hand. “Jack, I told you I’m divorcing Carl, and I meant it. In fact, a process server hit him with the summons this morning. He may not like it—for that matter, Ryan may not like it, either, because he’ll feel it will jeopardize the mission—but I can’t go on pretending.”

  He starts to say something, but stops himself. I’m hurt by the sadness in his eyes.

  “Donna, if you divorce Carl, you do it for you, and you alone. What we have—it will prove itself over time.”

  Time. The one commodity assassins never have enough of.

  We both know this.

  If this is his out, so be it.

  I’m divorcing Carl no matter what. And now that Jack has made it clear I have no future with him, I’ve got nothing.

  Wrong. I have my job.

  And it weren’t for the men in my life, I wouldn’t be where I am today.

  Someday I’ll point this out to them.

  Most likely in a dark alley, where they’ll have no place to hide.

  “Your daughter has put our honored guest’s visit into a tailspin,” Jonas Breck murmurs to me just as our dessert, strawberry dumplings, is being served.

  Up until now, he’d been ignoring me, despite having me seated to his right during our sumptuous dinner. Instead, he’s been trading asides with the South Korean defense minister, leaving me to swap pleasantries with some third-world dictator cursed with bad breath from an abscessed tooth. When this Idi Amin wannabe mentions he’s having oral surgery here in Los Angeles, I wonder if he’ll balk at the price tag. Then I remember he personally pockets all the aid money the United States sends his country. That should more than cover the bill.

  Asimov sits to Babette’s right, and Jack to her left. Carl stands against the wall, directly behind Asimov. Three others in his security detail are covering doors that go in and out of the grand dining salon.

  One servant may not yet know it, but he’s certainly on Carl’s radar. He hesitates every time he serves Asimov. Just now, when Asimov declares he’ll be tossing every activist in Russia into his country’s newest state-of-the-art prison (“It’s like your Gitmo, but with an arctic ambiance as opposed to a tropical one,” he proclaims with a laugh), the butler, a surfer blond dude with a slacker tan and obviously not well-trained in butler etiquette, lost what little cool he possesses, and dropped a champagne glass on the marble floor. When it shattered, all eyes turned toward him.

  Carl’s nod to one of his goons does not bode well for the boy.

  When Carl is not watching the comings and goings of the servants, he glares at me. I’m sure he’s angry about the divorce papers, but too bad. I just hope Bulldog doesn’t become the very first name on Hilldale Police Department’s Missing Persons roster.

  Between Carl’s steady gaze and my proximity to Breck, any appetite I may have had for anything, let alone strawberry dumplings, is long gone.

  Still, if Breck supposes his statement will get a rise out of me, he’s wrong. Instead, I give him a pleased smile. “She’s not afraid to stand up for herself, or for others. I’m very proud of her.”

  “Mary is naïve about the world. In countries like Asimov’s, if a girl doesn’t fall into line and do as she’s told, she’ll be put into prison, where they’ll break her spirit.” He examines his hand as he flexes it. “Albeit, the pretty ones like her are sold to someone who can do so without harming the charms of their flesh. It’s an interesting process. I’ve seen it done firsthand.”

  “Sex slavery is ‘interesting?’ I can think of better descriptions: Vile. Sick. Reprehensible. And that’s just off the top of my head.”

  Breck laughs. “I hope you show more discretion than your daughter in broaching that particular topic with Asimov. It’s one of his country’s greatest exports.” He shrugs. “There’s big bucks to be had in flesh peddling. Granted, it’s time consuming, but one can imagine the sense of accomplishment one has when successfully forcing someone to bend to your will, not only without a struggle, but obediently. Even eagerly.”

  “Yo
u talk about it as if it’s an equestrian sport.”

  “A perfect analogy, my dear Donna. With the right whip, and bit in her mouth…” He gazes at me, intently. “Has anyone ever told you what a pretty little mouth you have? It looks so… pliable.”

  That wipes the smile off my face.

  “Mary reminds me of you: so proud, so sure of herself.” He leans in close. “Her mouth is pretty, too.”

  If I were to kill him right now, the Breck’s sterling silver cutlery would give me several weapons to choose from. Besides the dinner fork and the steak knife, we were also given chopsticks in honor of our Asian guests. But by the time the fog of rage has cleared my eyes, I have quit toying with the most ideal one of all: the lobster pick.

  Breck doesn’t know how close he came to being carved up at his own dinner table.

  He smirks as he adds, “I can only hope Janie proves to be just as outspoken as your Mary. But she doesn’t have much of a role model. Babette isn’t as—I guess the term is ‘feisty’—as you.”

  I lean back, as if assessing his slight toward his wife. “You have a beautiful wife who loves you. What more can a man want?”

  “What men want most is what they can’t have.” I feel his hand in my lap. “And they’ll go after it until they get it.”

  It’s my turn to for a little under-the-table shenanigans. I take my stiletto heel and grind into his ankle, right above his $1,600 bespoke patent leather John Lobb derbys. “No pain, no gain, right?”

  I’ve got to give him credit. He doesn’t scream. In fact, he’s actually smiling, albeit gritting his teeth. “So glad to see you’re into a little rough stuff. We’ll make quite a pair.” He points down to the other end of the table, where Jack is sitting to Babette’s left. Tonight Asimov has the guest of honor seat, on her left. “I wonder if Jack will think the same of Babette.”

  Hearing Jack’s name coming out of Breck’s mouth makes me blush. Involuntarily I shift my leg, releasing him of my heel. “Jack thinks well of her.”