by Josie Brown
“Okay, I get it. You did what anyone would have done: trusted Addison and his producers.” I grab my phone. “We’re calling Ryan and telling him game over—”
Jack lays both hands on my shoulders. “Honey, I’ve already talked to Ryan about it. He asked that we keep to the game plan.”
“No way! Not when our children’s wellbeing is at stake!”
“Donna, listen.” Jack always runs his fingers through his thick dark hair when he knows he’s got to convince me of something. I steel myself for what he has to say. “Arnie thinks he can isolate the ISP sending and receiving messages to ISIS, but he needs more time. If we pull out now, we may not get another chance. To assure that we’re comfortable with the situation, Ryan has given us his word that he will personally monitor the producers’ interaction with the children so that they will never again be put in another compromising position.”
I shrug. What am I supposed to do, shoot the messenger? If I’m sighting anyone in the crosshairs, it’s Brin and her odious henchwoman, Lucy. “So, the producers have accomplished their goal: they’ve got the children playing cruel games with each other, just like the adults.”
“Shouldn’t we tell the kids about the camera-free zones?”
Jack thinks for a moment before nodding. “But we have to warn them to keep it to themselves. If they share it with the other children, I’m sure it will leak back to Brin, and we’ll lose our secure spaces.”
“Agreed.” I take a deep breath. “I guess we should watch the video feed of our children’s nationally televised public humiliation.”
Jack kisses my forehead. “They’ve both been through worse—and survived.”
He’s got a point. When the mean girls on Mary’s high school basketball team decided that she threatened their positions on the team, they spiked her water bottle with a roofie. As for Jeff, the peril of being beheaded on national television was a life-changing event. No doubt, what was done to them tonight is unconscionable. But they are mature enough to put it in perspective.
On the other hand, I am now out for blood.
Jack flips on the video feed.
I watch as the children—Evan, Mary, and Jeff, as well as Cheever, Adam, Sami, Jenna, Jason, Jordan, and Jody—circle each other warily.
To Mary’s credit, her attempts to warm up Jenna are heartfelt and insistent, despite being met with flat one-word responses and indifferent shrugs.
Evan has been chatting up Adam, who, like he, has just started his senior year at Hilldale High. Adam’s way of convincing Evan to leave him alone is to leer at Mary and smirk, “You’re one lucky dude, living with her. I’ll bet you tap that thing every night.” Seeing Evan’s scowl, he adds, “What, she won’t let you? Don’t worry, I’ll warm her up for you.” As he says this, he looks directly at one of the three cameras in the room.
Why, that little creep!
Evan’s fists clench, but he manages to keep his temper in check.
Brin must have seen this too, because she grouses, “Some boyfriend! Damn it; maybe that Adam kid is right and they haven’t done the dirty deed as of yet. How boring is that?”
In contrast, Sami eagerly bonds with Jeff over fantasy sports stats. Jeff suggests, “Hey, why don’t we start a fantasy league?” To Cheever’s chagrin and Adam’s annoyance, Sami nods enthusiastically. “Sure, okay.”
I wonder, why would Adam want his brother to be ignored by the others?
Apparently, things aren’t happening quickly enough for the producers. About twenty minutes into the gathering, Lucy makes her way into the media room. She’s carrying two boxes. One is filled with liquor, whereas the other holds sodas. As she walks toward the bar, she asks Cheever and Adam to help her unload them. Unlocking the liquor cabinet, she adds, “Just put the hard stuff in here. You can pass around the sodas.” She leaves the key to the liquor cabinet and walks away for ten minutes.
By the time Lucy returns, the boys have set up a tray of drinks spiked with vodka. She must have already known this, since there is a webcam pointed directly at the bar. Lucy smiles, makes a big show of locking the liquor cabinet, pockets the key, and then motions them to pass the drinks around.
At this point, Evan is looking for any excuse to ditch Adam. He finds it in Mary’s exasperation with Jenna.
Unfortunately, his method—trying to draw Jenna out of her shell with a few flattering compliments—gets under Mary’s skin. Caustically, she mutters to him: “Why do you have to play Prince Charming to every charity case?”
The camera zooms in as he pulls Mary to one side. “Don’t you see how sad she is? Grow up! Look outside yourself!” he chides her.
She’s hurt that he thinks she can’t do so.
Needless to say, when Adam flirtatiously offers Mary a drink, she takes it. “Down the hatch,” he exclaims as he tips his glass toward hers in a toast. As she downs her drink, he gives Evan a thumbs-up.
Evan frowns. He doesn’t know what just transpired; and yet, instinctively, he doesn’t like it.
Cheever, now in his cups, boasts, “My dad makes more money than anyone else’s in this room…”
Jordan—Jenna’s brother who is closest to Jeff’s age—is just as sloppy from chugging his ginger ale. He retorts: “So what? My dad has killed more people than anyone else!”
Mary shakes her head at Jeff. He winks back. He knows enough to keep his mouth shut about the real profession of his parents.
Cheever’s eyes narrow at the claim. “Oh, yeah? You’re from Nevada, right? What is he, a Mafia hit man?”
“No. He’s a drone pilot,” Jordan retorts.
Cheever shuts up—but only after a long loud burp.
Cute.
“He’s not that anymore,” Jason rebuffs his younger brother. “He’s just an asshole.”
Jody, feeling no pain, giggles at her brother’s proclamation.
“He retired, didn’t he?” Evan asks.
“Ha! He wishes,” Jason mutters. “He—”
Before he can finish his sentence, Jordan throws up on his brother’s shoes.
“Shit!” Jason shouts. Angered, he pounds his brother with both fists.
Cheever, revolted by it, upchucks as well.
Soon, Jeff and Mary are barfing out a duet.
Adam laughs so hard at them that he practically falls on the ground.
“Can you turn that off?” Jeff’s voice, sounding as if it’s underwater, comes from behind us.
I do so before turning around to get a good look at my son: his head hung low, his skin is as wan as parchment paper.
“I’m…sorry. I didn’t realize…that…”
“That your drink had been spiked with vodka,” I reply. “You’re not to blame. It was done to you—by Cheever and Adam.”
“I’m going to kill them—” Jeff hiccups loudly, unable to finish his sentence.
“No, you’re not,” Jack tells him firmly. “We’ve got it under control.”
“Oh…kay, if you say so.” Jeff winces, not entirely convinced. “Mom…there’s something I saw that seems odd…but…I can’t remember what it is now. About one of the kids.” He shakes his head, as if hoping this tidbit will be loosened from the fog now clouding his memory.
When it doesn’t reveal itself, he sighs.
I kiss his forehead. “Go on to bed. Maybe it’ll come to you in the morning.”
Jeff nods listlessly as he plods his way up the staircase.
Jack and I follow.
Our cell phones buzz with a text from Brin:
Gentlemen: On the agenda, tomorrow, 10 AM, GOLF, so dress appropriately! The winner doubles his audience votes. And at 7 PM, gentle ladies: there will be a potluck at Cassandra’s place: luau theme! Here’s a chance to show your culinary skills—and win over HHH’s audience. Again, we’ll double your family’s audience votes!
Jack sighs. "Just great. Four hours of watching Peter take mulligans while Roger and James try to one-up each other with macho asides about…never mind.”
&nb
sp; Never mind? Like hell. “About what?”
“They…are a couple of rude assholes. Let’s just leave it at that.”
I give him a sidelong glance. “And you? Are you doing your best to fit into the show’s model of DILFiness?”
“Yeah, sure, I’m doing my best to stay in the game—and keep a shred of my dignity.”
I snort. “Sadly, I think those goals are mutually exclusive.”
He takes my hand and kisses it. “Why don’t we let the Hot Housewives audience decide that?”
I nod, but I don’t think he gets the premise of the show. The audience isn’t watching to cheer us on; they’re waiting to see how low we’ll go.
From what I saw tonight, mud wrestling may be in my future.
I’m glad the day is over, but I don’t look forward to tomorrow. The best thing that can happen is that my break-in to Ariel’s home provides us with our terrorist so that my family can pull out of this damn TV show.
It’s also the worst thing that can happen—for Ariel.
Well, on the upside, I may be proving her right that he’s just a sweet husband and father with a heart of gold—and they’ll live happily ever after—
A much better reality than living with a terrorist and never knowing it.
Been there, done that.
Chapter 9
Californication
“Despite all evidence to the contrary, I am a gentleman.”
—Hank Moody
The term “Californication” refers to the influx of the state’s former residents to other western states. (So get your mind out of the gutter. Yes, I mean YOU.)
Afraid that these hot tub-hopping free-lovers may be seeping over the borders of your fair state too? Not to worry! California’s population keeps growing at a rate of least five percent every ten years. This has something to do with its free beaches, beautiful vistas, clean air, mountains, lakes, tech jobs, the entertainment industry…
Does any of this entice you to move west, young woman? By all means, go for it! Don’t let these urban myths scare you away from being a California Girl:
Myth #1: It never rains there. (Granted, it happens only in certain months. And yes, when it rains, it pours.)
Myth#2: Earthquakes will reduce it to rubble, or will eventually untether it from the North American continent. (Like ants and Cher—both of which you’ll find here—the odds are in your favor that you will survive a shake. And no need to worry about floating off anytime soon. Should that ever happen, the Human Race will be long gone from the face of the Earth.)
Myth#3: Everyone owns a hot tub. In fact, according to the Hot Tub Availability Index, Nevada and Arkansas have far more of them per one thousand households, followed by the states of Utah, Colorado, Wyoming, and Idaho.
Myth #4: The guy standing behind you only sort of looks like Jake Gyllenhaal. Nope, he doesn’t just look like him; he is him.
Yes, while in the Golden State, you will spot a movie star at least once. Eventually, you’ll notice this happening so often that it will not matter. (Hint: In other words, prepare to be underwhelmed.)
Myth #5: Dying is optional. Ha! If that were the case, it wouldn’t just be the most populous state in the union; it would be the only state.
As lovely as Trisha’s voice is when singing in harmony with Katy Perry’s latest single, I don’t blame Mary at all for covering her ears and grousing, “Aagh! Why couldn’t we sleep in today?”
I prod her gently with one of the two glasses of tomato juice that has been blended with raw egg and paprika. “Sweetie, please! Take one more sip. That’s my sweet girl! You too, Jeff.” There is a smile in my voice and on my face, but not in my heart. Having had hangovers myself, I feel for both Mary and Jeff. Hopefully, this experience will stay with them through their college years. When they’ll both reach drinking age, I pray they are smart enough to practice moderation in any and all vices.
Jeff groans but does as asked before ducking below the seat in front of him.
Because Ariel’s mommy meet-up is from ten to noon and Jack’s golf game doesn’t start until eleven-thirty, he’s driving everyone to school today so that I can get ready for the task at hand: snooping around the Powell residence. And because he doesn’t need Mary and Jeff throwing up on the way to school, maybe I should take Jack’s advice and not push so hard about this sure-fire hangover remedy.
Any other day, Evan would have driven to school. But yesterday a jealous enemy scratched the word PLAYER on Evan’s car. He’ll take it to Hilldale’s automotive repair shop this afternoon to get it rubbed out and repainted: not exactly an expense he’d wished to incur, what with college looming in his future. I insist that he do so. We will pay for it, and he can pay us back when he feels the time is right.
As they drive off, I glance down at my watch: eight forty-five.
“You ready?” Arnie asks through my earbud. He’s watching via my webcam lenses and satellite. Whereas the Bings’, Farnhams’, and our household were made camera-ready yesterday, Arnie informs me that the Powells will be getting the same treatment later this afternoon, as well as the Garrett and the Pembroke homes. That way, my break-in won’t be seen or heard.
“Let’s take a hike,” I murmur back.
And I’m off.
I've dressed for a jog. In a hidden pocket of my yoga pants are tiny scanners that I will insert into any and all computers and cell phones I find on the premises. When connected to the device’s audio port, it reads the phone’s passcode, opens the device, and releases a Trojan virus that accesses any secure cloud. Acme will then be able to trace all emails, texts, and voice correspondence.
Also, strapped to the small of my back is a tiny device that will detect bomb-making materials, should any be present.
Just in case someone is watching, my route takes me up and around Hilldale Park, before I duck into one of the back alleys used almost exclusively for twice weekly refuse pick-ups. The first of these back alleys puts me directly behind the Powells’ large Italian villa-style mansion.
Before coming here, I was able to scrutinize the home’s floor plan because Peter Bing was too lazy to take down these schematics from his website after the sale of the house closed. Franklin’s office is downstairs, as is the kitchen, a guest powder room, formal living room, formal dining room, and the media room. Upstairs there are four bedrooms, each with an en suite bathroom. There is also an upstairs hall powder room. The bedroom used as a nursery is next door to the master suite, which is at the end of the hall. Two other guest rooms are closest to the magnificent double staircase.
Ariel has turned the bonus suite over the garage into her private workout room and home spa. Her husband’s handiwork gave her a face and figure that is the envy of every woman who knows her and the fantasy of every man who sees her. She wants to keep it that way.
I put on latex gloves before picking the lock on the door between the alley and the Powell estate. It opens quickly.
The lock on the back door into the kitchen is also a cinch. I step inside—
Only to hear a guttural growl.
I lock eyes with a young mastiff. The dog bares its teeth.
“I didn’t know they had a puppy,” I mutter to Arnie.
I hear the click of his fingers on his computer keyboard. “Ah…sorry! They got a mastiff when they moved in. A male named Caesar. He’s only three years old…but he’s been obedience-trained, so…”
In other words, run.
But then I notice the dog door. The flap is exposed so it can go in and out. The wood slat that slides over it is up against the wall beside the door.
I look around. The kitchen counters are spotless. The only food on it is a bowl of fruit. I grab a pear and hold it out to the dog.
My action confuses him. I guess it’s not used to Ariel feeding him human food, let alone anything off the counter.
“Caesar! Fetch!” I toss it through the dog door.
Tail wagging, he leaps out after it. I slide the wooden slat over the
door’s plastic flap.
“Well done!” Arnie’s enthusiastic approval makes me smile.
I take a moment to walk the bomb detector through the kitchen. Its alarm stays silent.
I then do the same in the garage, which flanks the alley. Again, nothing.
However, there is a car in the garage. “It has a baby seat in it, but I don’t know if the vehicle is Ariel’s and she strolled Connor to the mommy meet-up, or if it’s the good doctor’s. Any idea, Arnie?”
“They both drive the same make and model, and it’s the same color as well: a black BMW SUV, which doesn’t help matters,” Arnie explains. “We stayed with Franklin’s vehicle until he cleared the Hilldale entrance gate. By now he should be at his surgery center, or doing hospital rounds before making it back to Hilldale Country Club for the show’s golf game later today.”
Silently, I make my way to Franklin’s home office. The door is shut. I put my ear up to it: again, I hear nothing. I take a moment to look through the keyhole. From what I can tell, the room is empty.
The knob turns soundlessly. I make sure to close the door behind me, just in case Ariel or Franklin comes home unexpectedly.
I’m not at all surprised at the tidiness of Franklin’s sumptuous office. The walls are a honey-toned mahogany. There is not a speck of dust on any of the surfaces, let alone the floor-to-ceiling built-in bookcases. They hold medical journals, Franklin’s framed university degrees, and photos of him with several celebrities, whom, I suppose, were beneficiaries of his often-touted surgical skills.
One of the pictures has me looking twice: Franklin stands beside the nation’s First Lady, Babette Chiffray. At the time it was taken, she wasn’t pregnant, and from the way she wears her hair, the photo is at least a couple of years old: more than likely during her widowhood and before her relationship with Lee. It would make sense for a wealthy thirty-something socialite to get a little work done before going back on the market.