by Josie Brown
Jack nods, helps me up, and holds my hand as we walk to the door.
Jenna greets us at the door. She is even paler than normal. Jason stands behind her. He eyes us warily.
“May we come in?” Jack asks.
Jenna steps aside. Jason thinks twice before doing the same.
“We’re truly sorry for your loss,” I say.
Jenna glances at Jason. His response is no more than a shrug.
“Is your mother available? We’d like to offer her our condolences,” I explain.
“Mom is stunned. She was still woozy from her pain pills. In fact, she took another pill and went back to sleep.” I try not to shudder as Jenna points down the vast hall. “The other kids went to bed. They’re…upset.”
I nod sympathetically. “I can imagine.”
Jason waits to see what Jack does.
Jack lowers himself onto the couch.
Jason, unsure of himself, does the same.
“I’m sorry your dad was such an asshole.”
Jason tears up. “Me too.” Furiously, he wipes away his tears.
“It’s okay to cry,” Jack assures him. “You’re not crying for who he was now, but for the father he could have been.”
Hearing Jack’s words, the boy sobs harder. Jason drops his head in shame, but he can’t stop the tears.
Jenna, dry-eyed, looks away.
I motion in the direction of the kitchen.
“Did the responders say it was okay to use the kitchen?”
Jenna nods.
“I’d like to get a glass of water. Would you mind if I—” Instead of waiting for an answer, I start walking toward the kitchen.
Jenna is too shocked to do anything but follow.
I stop halfway down the hall. “First, let’s check in with your mom. Where is her bedroom?”
Jenna points listlessly at the door.
I peek in. Patty snores gently.
I walk to her bedstand. Beside a glass of water is a vial of sleeping pills: Ambien. I pick it up to read the directions on the prescription and then I put it back down.
Jenna is standing on the threshold. Her eyes follow my moves, but she says nothing.
I smile reassuringly at her. “I’ll have that glass of water now.”
Except for the blood spattered on the table and wall, and pooled on the floor, the kitchen is neat as a pin.
Jenna walks to a cabinet, takes out a glass, and hands it to me.
I’m already standing at the sink. Before I reach for the faucet, I look down. The sink holds only four items: an empty beer stein, a plate with the remnants of a steak and mashed potato, a fork, and a knife.
I fill my glass but leave the water running.
I then take my time drinking the water.
Jenna is silent, but her anxiety shows itself by the way in which her chest rises and falls.
She’s been through enough hell for one lifetime, so I do her a favor. I empty the beer stein in the sink. Then I take the knife and scrape the plate of the steak scraps and the leftover mashed potatoes over the drain. When I’m done, I flip the disposal switch.
If there was any pill residue left, it is now down the drain.
I reach for a dishcloth. After I dry the plate, I hand it to Jenna.
As she reaches into the cabinet with it, she asks, “How did you know?”
“You cook the meals. From what I read on the directions of your mother’s prescription, it’s a pill short.” Actually, I don't know. I’m guessing.
Jenna confirms it with a nod.
“Also, the one word in his suicide note was written in the same hand as the one you sent Mary.” I turn to her.
Tears glisten in her eyes.
“I presume the police took the gun?”
Jenna nods. “It was…it was his favorite.”
“Against the temple?”
She nods again. “He’d already nodded off. I don’t think he felt the barrel against his head.”
Maybe not. If so, would he have welcomed it? My guess is yes.
“Did Jason wear gloves?”
Again, she nods.
“Did he press your father’s thumb and fingers against the grip and trigger?”
“Yes. He knows about gun residue—” Suddenly she stares up at the webcam left by the show’s producers.
She slaps her hand over her mouth and falls to the floor.
I take out my cell phone and call Arnie.
“You rang, my mistress of madness?” Despite his playful tone, his voice is husky with sleep.
“The Garrett footage for the last twenty-four hours: vaporize it—now.”
“Um…all copies?”
“Yep, archived in any clouds, and control room.”
“On it.” A long moment later, he adds, “Done.”
I close my cell and crouch beside Jenna.
“You’re safe. The issue is gone—forever. Now, move forward.”
She nods as she scrambles to her feet. Hugging me tight, she whispers, “Thank you.”
I expect they’ll put the house on the market immediately. I wonder how long it will take for them to get a buyer? Peter won’t like having to disclose that a suicide occurred there, but seriously, the home has bigger issues—like explaining why there’s a military grade shooting range where the playroom should be.
Chapter 18
Say Yes to the Dress
—A direct quote from Randy Fenoli, show host
There are a few unspoken rules about choosing a bridesmaid dress:
Rule #1: Don’t look better than the bride. (I know, I know—with your ephemeral beauty and bodacious bod, it certainly presents a conundrum! Solution: potato sack! Assuredly, the bride will appreciate your sincere effort!)
Rule #2: Stick to the bride’s designated cut and color. (Agreed, yellow is no one’s color. And if you have too much pride for, and much prejudice against, the Empire-waist gowns worn in the 1810s, begin the task of talking some sense into the bride concerning her lack of sensibility toward style and taste immediately.)
Rule #3: You can always say “No!” to the dress that she’s picked out for you. But before you do, weigh your refusal against all the times she’s been there for you and comforted you over your petty dramas. I’ve no doubt you’ll come to the very reasonable conclusion that the only right answer is a stoic (and much appreciated) “yes.”
(Tip: talk her into an open bar. When you’re blitzed, even the ugliest bridesmaid’s dress looks like a 10!)
Just before sunrise, my phone buzzes with a text from Brin:
Good morning, Housewives! Your task today is loads of fun: bridesmaid dress shopping! The limo will pick you up at one o’clock. You’ll convene at the Housewives’ mansion at six o’clock for hair and make-up. For the live portion of the show, you’ll model your gowns for your men—and your audience! Happy hunting!
Jack opens one eye with a groan. “What hellish act has she planned for you today?”
“Dress shopping at one, and then back at the ranch by six o’clock for a modeling competition during the live show.” I bat my eyes.
He puts a pillow over his head—but not for long. Peeking out from under it, he asks, “So, she didn’t mention James’ untimely demise?”
“No. I guess she hasn’t gotten word of it yet.” I stretch. “Yikes! I don’t want to be in the room when that happens—”
Jack and my phones buzz simultaneously.
Jack stares down at his. “Uh-oh. Ryan.” He taps the line open. “Yes…yes, sir…Of course sir.” He glances up at me. “She’s reaching for the phone now.”
“I brace myself with a deep breath before clicking on and purring, “What’s cookin’, good lookin’?”
Ryan is either stunned or seething in silence. When he recovers, he growls, “Arnie just informed me that you asked him to delete twenty-four hours’ worth of video footage from the Garrett archive.”
“Sorry, Donna,” Arnie’s mournful apology is barely a whisper. “I just presum
ed that Ryan already knew.”
“No need for apologies, Arnie,” I chirp in my kindergarten teacher voice. “Ryan, yes, well let me explain—”
“No! Let me explain!” My boss sounds as if he’s hyperventilating. “The COMINT team picked up a text conversation late last night from the Garretts’ ISP—”
“What time, exactly?” Jack interjects.
“Just after three in the morning,” Arnie replies. “Why do you ask?”
“James was already deceased,” Jack explains. “It couldn’t have been either of them. Patty had taken a couple of sleeping pills. She was out cold.”
“Hey, wait a minute,” Arnie pipes up. “Something’s not right about these intercepts.”
“Come again?” Ryan asks.
Arnie sighs. “My guess is that the terrorist is playing it safe. He’s bouncing his ISP signal between all the contestants’ homes in case someone is on his tail.”
Jack sighs. “So, what you’re saying is that we’re being spoofed? All this time we’ve been on a wild goose chase?”
“At least we know that one of our contestants is dirty,” Ryan points out.
“And James’ death lets us narrow the field,” I point out.
“So does the Powells’ resignation from the show,” Jack adds.
“That leaves Roger and Sienna, Cassandra and Gerald, or Penelope and Peter,” I reply.
“Penelope’s phone was vetted, but not Peter’s,” Ryan reminds me.
“I’ll get to it today,” I promise him.
Another phone beeps, this time on Arnie’s side. “Brin just texted Emma,” he explains. “She just learned of James’ death!”
“How? Who would have thought to call her?” Ryan asks.
I sigh. “Who do you think? Who knows everyone’s business, and has got the biggest mouth in town?”
Jack thinks for a moment. “Your Aunt Phyllis?”
I frown at him.
Jack slaps his hand against his forehead. “Penelope. Damn it!”
“Brin called everyone in for a staff meeting immediately,” Arnie explains. “Emma is leaving to go there now.”
“Tell her to wear her Acme eyes and ears,” Ryan reminds him.
A baby can be heard crying in the background. Arnie sighs. “I’ll be right back.”
We can hear him drop the phone on his bed. While he cuddles and coos at little Nicky, Ryan asks, “You never told me why you had Arnie destroy the Garrett video footage.”
“I only did it because it revealed a very personal matter for the family which is in no way relevant to our mission.”
Ryan grunts indignantly. “I would have liked to have had the opportunity to make that call myself. But if you can assure me that there was no obstruction of justice, I’m satisfied.”
My silence speaks volumes.
Ryan sighs mightily. “Oh, Donna.”
Finally, I say, “You’re right. I overstepped Acme protocol. Then again, I did it on my personal time, and I certainly didn’t act on our agency’s behalf.”
“No, you just used an agency asset and resources.”
“Is that your way of saying that I’m forgiven?”
“Depends.” Ryan retorts. “If you think that by dropping off a pie I’ll let you off, you’re mistaken—unless it’s cherry.”
I laugh. “Duly noted. One cherry pie, coming up.”
“Which of you imbeciles dumped the Garrett footage?” Brin’s screech has Jack and me wincing, even from four blocks away. I can only imagine how all that hot air feels up close. I feel for Emma and the rest of Brin’s staff.
“Don’t you get it? We may have caught him blowing his head off—and that would be ratings gold! …No, make that ratings platinum!” The sound of her voice ebbs and flows, indicating the fact that she’s pacing through the room. “Lucy, you were handling the Garretts. Didn’t you realize the footage was missing?”
“No! I saw it upload into the secure cloud last night, while I worked on the post-production of the footage we got of his meltdown on the set. I just didn’t have time to review it.” Lucy’s tone is frantic.
Brin snaps her fingers. “Wait a minute…Patty said Ariel saw Donna coming out of the Garrett house. Cuddly Mrs. Craig must also be our Housewife whore! Double-check the footage from the day before Ariel resigned…when was it again?”
“Day Three,” Lucy replies. “When the Wives had their operations. I’ll lay in the footage now…” A long minute goes by, then: “Oh, my God! The Garrett footage for that day is gone too!”
“What?” Brin growls ominously. “Why hadn’t you reviewed it before now?”
“Because…because…I had all the pre- and post-op production to edit for that night’s show! Besides, I didn’t think anything could be happening at the Garrett home. It was the one day James didn’t have Fatty Patty to slap around—”
“The operative phrase here is that you didn’t think!” Brin shouts. “The only way we’d know there was something wrong with the cameras or the upload is if you’d been doing your job and checking it every day! That’s it—you’re fired!”
“Brin, please…Don’t do this to me!” Lucy pleas. “This is my life…this is what I do!” Her sobs are louder now.
“Well, you don’t do it for me any longer. Get the fuck out!”
“Wait!” It’s Emma’s voice. Jack and I turn to each other, eyes opened wide.
“It was me. I did it,” Emma claims boldly.
“What?” Brin can’t believe her ears. “How?”
“Last night, I was going to review the Bing footage to see if there was anything in there worth editing. I thought the viewers might be getting bored with Penelope’s S&M exploits. Maybe we’d catch Cheever doing something like, oh I don’t know—planning a bank robbery or something! But, by mistake, I keyed in the wrong archive code. When I realized I was in the Garrett archive instead, I got flustered and pushed the wrong button, I guess.” Emma lets loose with a nervous giggle. “My bad!”
“I’ll say it is,” Brin growls. “Everyone, get the hell out of here—now!”
We hear the sound of feet shuffling—
“Except for you, New Girl!”
Gulp.
Silence.
When I next hear Brin, it sounds as if she’s hissing in my ear: “You did it on purpose.”
“What? ...I—I don’t know what you’re talking about!”
“You’re sabotaging the show!” Brin declares.
“You’re delusional,” Emma retorts uneasily.
“Oh, yeah? Let’s see if Addison thinks so!”
It takes a long minute for Brin to get him on the phone. “Addison? Brin…Yeah, well, this is what it looks like at dawn—all bright and sparkly. Surprise! Look, we have a bit of a situation. It concerns your latest lap dancer…Yeah, New Girl. First the good news: James the Abuser put a bullet in his head—at the kitchen table! …Yeah, I know, tonight’s ratings will be even bigger than last night’s! But here’s the thing: Seems that New Girl somehow vaporized the footage of him shooting his brains out, so I told her she’s out on her ass.”
For a while, there is silence. At least, we can’t hear anything, but apparently, Brin is getting an earful because she starts stuttering: “But…But…That’s bullshit! ...No, I…Yes. I hear you, Addison!”
Brin throws something against the wall. My guess is that it’s her phone. Emma isn’t howling, so at least it didn’t hit her.
“New Girl, you must give incredible head. Otherwise, you’d be out on your ass,” Brin growls.
“You heard Addison,” Emma replies coolly. “You can’t touch me.”
“Sure I can,” Brin assures her. “Because Addison needs this show to survive.” Brin’s declaration drips with venom. “Okay, New Girl, time to make amends. You’ve got three hours to cobble together the first hour of tonight’s show. If it doesn’t at the very least maintain our ratings, you’re out of here; Addison be damned.”
“Okay, sure.” Does Brin hear the waver in Emma
’s voice? “Consider it done.”
During breakfast, Aunt Phyllis offers to do school drop-off. I take her up on it, since I’ve got a very short window in which to find Peter Bing and scan his cell phone.
Jack has been summoned to meet with Brin again. Apparently, there’s a bidding war between the networks for our show. We can do no wrong.
“We need Emma in play, but it sounds like Brin is going to make Emma’s life a living hell,” I point out. “Maybe you can use your influence with her to get her to ease off.”
“Sure, I’ll see what I can do,” Jack promises, “but the last thing I want is to have her think we’re in cahoots.”
He’s got a good point.
We part ways with a kiss.
Peter is nowhere to be found.
I leave a message on his cell phone, claiming that we may be upgrading to a new abode and would like him to show us a larger house in Hilldale.
Two hours later, no response.
I stop by Peter’s office. His assistant says he’s been out all morning. I tell her I’ll wait anyway.
While she runs to get me a coffee: a caramel macchiato, sweetened with coconut sugar and lightened with almond milk. (You see, I’ve learned something from Brin: how to keep someone out of your hair.) I search his office, but he must have his laptop computer with him, and his phone because they’re not here.
I’m out the door before the assistant comes back.
Where the hell is Peter?
I ask Arnie to hack the GPS system in Peter’s car.
“It’s parked in Hollywood—on the Warner Brothers lot, of all places,” Arnie exclaims.
Indeed interesting, but of no help to me, since the Housewives limousine will be pulling up to my house any moment to whisk me away in search of a dress that I’ll probably only wear once to a wedding I couldn’t care less if it happens at all.
As much as I can’t stand Roger or Sienna, a terrorist is the worst kind of wedding crasher.
Sienna has decided that all of her bridesmaids will be decked out in peach crinolines. “It goes with my theme,” she insists. “‘Southern Comfort.’”