The Housewife Assassin's Horrorscope

by Josie Brown

  Cheever watches his mother stalk off. He frowns anxiously.

  I shove my way through the crowd after her. I don’t know what kind of damage control I can do at this point, but if Penelope sends the band packing, we’ll have a riot on our hands.

  An extended drum solo is so not what we need right now.

  Unfortunately, it’s what we’ve got.

  Talon uses it as an opportunity to slip backstage and share mugs of the prom’s spiked grog with Aunt Phyllis and Mr. Red Sweatshirt, who can’t quit high-fiving the lead singer, as if they’re long-lost brothers.

  Seeing this trio of tyrants is more than Penelope can take. It gives her the strength to toss off Talon’s two bodyguards.

  I watch as she gives him a piece of her mind. To his credit, he takes it like a man. I guess she’s not the first mother who’s cursed him out for turning her child into a paint-sopped Mohawked hellion.

  But what may make Penelope unique is that she may be the first mom he’s shut up with a lip lock.

  When they resurface, he gasps, “Penny Pucker-Up! Wow! It really is you!”

  Penelope’s eyes open wide. Though in shock, she nods.

  He turns jubilantly to my aunt and Mr. Red Sweatshirt. “First Phyllis, then Tommy, and now Penny? Jeez! It’s like old home week!” Noting Penelope’s puzzled frown, he exclaims, “Babe, it’s me—Benny Gallo! Remember? Benny and the Erectors!”

  “Benny?…” She faints in a stupor.

  Thankfully, he catches her before she hits the floor. Cradling her face in his hands, he declares, “Girl, do you know how long I’ve waited to see you again? Hell, you’re the only reason I booked Mendocino all those years!”

  Mendocino? What the heck is he talking about?

  Hearing that, Penelope is suddenly laughing and crying at the same time. The next thing I know, she’s giving Talon mouth-to-mouth resuscitation.

  Among other things.

  Delighted, Aunt Phyllis throws up her hands. “My work here is done! Oops! Except for one thing. The grand finale!” She trots over to the backstage technical dashboard and pushes a button.

  Heaven knows why but the crowd has begun a countdown: “Ten…Nine…Eight…Seven…”

  Suddenly, the hard-fought but much anticipated fire-breathing dragon swoops down from the ceiling toward the stage.

  Penelope is wrapped around Talon like a vertical John-and-Yoko, totally oblivious to what’s flying over their heads. The pose is so damned passionate that even I turn away. Not Mr. Red Sweatshirt. He stands there, fascinated.

  Come on, guys! Get a room already…

  Suddenly, I see Cheever headed my way. “Mrs. Craig, we’ve got to stop my mom before she ruins everything!”

  Too late, kid…

  Before he can see them, I shout loudly, “Nope, doesn’t look as if your mom is in here, Cheever!”

  Sadly, I don’t think they hear me over the crowd, which is now shouting, “…Three...Two…ONE!”

  Unfortunately, that’s when the auction winner—Cheever’s girlfriend—chooses to light the cord to the dragon’s flame.

  As always, Penelope’s timing leaves a lot to be desired. Just as she’s disentangling herself from Talon, the dragon is directly over her—

  And an errant spark sets Penelope’s hair on fire.

  Talon does what any hero would do: dunks his grog mug over her head.

  Not a great idea, considering its alcohol content.

  In the hope that I come up with a better solution before she goes up in flames, I run to the backstage refreshment table, where I hope to find a pitcher of water. No such luck. There is, however, a cake designed to look like Game of Throne’s Winterfell Castle. It sits in snowdrifts made of powdered sugar.

  It’ll have to do.

  I toss the cake off of its stand. Then, taking the stand in hand, I run back as fast as I can in my smelly Kate Spade kitten heels—

  And toss the powdered sugar over Penelope’s head.

  As I’d hoped, the sugar puts out the flames.

  In the meantime, Penelope has fainted.

  Perhaps it’s a blessing in disguise.

  The EMTs are there in seconds. Hilldale’s fire chief has gotten into the habit of calling the school district to inquire up front if Penelope is expected at its events. By now, he’s quite aware that Penelope, proms, and pyrotechnics are a terrible combination.

  I wonder if she’s a fire sign…

  Talon looks heartbroken. “I’ve been looking for that woman all my life,” he murmurs.

  I can’t believe my ears. “Who…Penelope?”

  He nods slowly. “Best groupie ever! Those lips of hers could…” Suddenly, he realizes who he’s talking too. “Well, let me put it this way. She was worth the road trips to that podunk town of hers.”

  “I thought she grew up in San Francisco!”

  “Who…Penny? Nah! Mendocino!” He mimics taking a toke. “Mendo Goldilocks is what we used to call her! But then one day she just disappeared. That was, what…sixteen years ago?” He shrugs. “Eventually, they all grow up.”

  “Awesome,” Cheever whispers. “My mom was a groupie?”

  Talon chortles. “I don’t tell tales out of school, little buddy.” He wiggles his eyebrows. “But…hum…YEAH.”

  Oh, heck! Penelope is going to flip out when she realizes her deepest, darkest secret has been revealed.

  I pray I’m not around when that happens.

  “Why didn’t she recognize you too?” I ask.

  “Under all this goop, why would she?” To prove his point, Talon takes off his kerchief to wipe the crimson makeup from his eyes, revealing tiny spidery lines. “Besides, it was another era, and another band altogether. I only became ‘Talon’ eight years ago.”

  Onstage, thrusting in those tight leather jeans, I thought he was around my age. But now that we’re up close and in full light, it dawns on me that he’s in his forties, easy. I give him the once-over. “You’re in pretty good shape. How old did you say you are?”

  He chuckles. “I didn’t.”

  “I guess the makeup hides a lot.”

  “So does the blue mohawk. Otherwise, my fans would notice all the gray.” He snickers. “Trust me, no rock star can afford to act his age.”

  “I guess you’ve been doing some version of this gig for quite some time,” I say.

  “It was the best way to pay my way through college. Got a degree in financial management. Interned at Goldman Sachs. Then one day I just walked away from it all. This is what I wanted to do. Even now.”

  “You don’t say.” Suddenly I notice the tattoo on his neck: the Zodiac emblem for Leo.

  He’s also wearing a Stanford signet ring.

  Interesting.

  I point to the ring. “Stanford grad?”

  He nods. He shows it to me.

  He graduated nineteen years ago—the same year as Jonathan.

  “You didn’t happen to take an astrology class while you were there, did you?”

  “Ha! Funny question. But yeah, as it so happens.” He shrugs. “But it was weird shit—robes, masks, anonymity! Still, I learned a lot about people.”

  “Like what?”

  “Well, like I discovered we all have our dark and dirty little secrets.” He shrugs. “And that we create our own destinies.” He tosses a thumb toward his chest. “Hell, I’m proof of that! The class made me realize that what I really wanted was to play guitar, make out with groupies, and never grow up.”

  “But isn’t that the antithesis of astrology? You don’t believe your fate is written in the stars?”

  “I want nothing to do with that pseudo-science,” Talon declares adamantly.

  “Then why the tattoo?” Cheever asks.

  “To remind me of who I’m not.” Hearing Talon’s growl, Cheever recoils.

  “I think I met a couple of classmates of yours,” I say casually. “Did you know a guy by the name of Jonathan Presley?”

  “The name’s familiar.” Talon thinks for a m
oment. “Yeah! I’m pretty sure he was in a math class.”

  “He was also in your astrology class.”

  Talon’s eyes open wide? “No shit! Well, what do you know!”

  “Jonathan died recently,” I watch intently for his reaction.

  It’s a frown and a shrug. “That’s rough. Let me guess: heart attack. We’re all getting around that age. When I was thirty-five, my doctor told me I should quit either smoking, booze, or sex. I dropped the cancer sticks. When I turned forty, the ultimatum was drink or sex. Let me put it this way: I’m no monk.” He winks at Cheever.

  “Jonathan’s death was a hit and run,” I reply.

  Talon shakes his head sadly. “I want to die in my bed.” He smiles slyly at me. “Not alone, of course.”

  Cheever’s eyes open wide. “Surrounded by groupies?”

  Talon laughs uproariously. “There are worse ways to go, little bro.”

  “Do you remember any of the women in the class?” I ask. “I heard there was one named Lilith.”

  Talon’s grin fades. “That bitch? Yeah, I knew her.”

  I snicker. “I take it you didn’t like her.”

  “You got that right! The slut did quite a head trip on poor Tommy.”

  “You mean…” I look around for Mr. Red Sweatshirt, but he’s nowhere to be found.

  Tommy.

  He’s Libra!

  Talon chuckles. “Yeah, you know, the dude who was just here. I guess he split when the fire department showed up.” He taps his forehead. “If Tommy hadn’t fallen for Lilith, he’d have been something great. He was also in our math class. He was a genius!”

  “What was his major?” I ask.

  “Physics. He minored in Ethics. All he wanted was to make the world a better place.”

  “What do you think happened between him and Lilith?”

  Talon frowns. “I don’t think. I know. She wanted him to convert.”

  “To her religion?”

  “Of a sort. Communism. Back then, it was called the KGB.” Talon rolls his eyes. “When Tommy refused, she dropped him. He was so depressed that he jumped off a bridge. Broke his back. He’s never been the same since.” He stares off. “Penny of all people! I still can’t believe it.” He leans in so that I’m the only one who can hear him. “Which hospital do you think they took her to?”

  “Hilldale Medical. It’s about five miles from here.”

  Talon nods. “We’re here for a few nights. I think I’ll stop in tomorrow, see how she’s doing.”

  “I’m sure she’d appreciate that.”

  Talon hands Cheever his makeup-stained kerchief. “See you around, kid.”

  He walks off toward his band’s bus.

  Jack, Mary, and Evan hang around to help Aunt Phyllis and a group of student volunteers to do clean-up.

  When Jeff asks Cheever what happened to his date, he admits she dumped him for another Muggalo despite Cheever having bought her the right to light the dragon’s flame.

  He blames it on his mother catching on fire. “She always pulls that stunt to get attention!” he opines to Jeff. “Why can’t my mom just be normal, like yours?”

  Jeff rolls his eyes at that line.

  I can’t say I blame him.

  Cheever takes me up on my offer for a lift home. After he climbs into the front seat, he pulls down the passenger-side visor. “Cool, a mirror! Now I can watch Romeo’s backseat action.”

  Jeff warns Cheever against this terrible idea with a punch to his shoulder.

  As I drive, none of the kids say a word. A quick peek in the review mirror confirms my suspicions: Jeff and Felicity are necking.

  Oh boy.

  As for Cheever, he’s still in awe of having been in the presence of his idol. Every now and then he’ll stroke Talon’s kerchief, as if it holds some secret power.

  As we’re hit with the headlights of a passing car, I glance over at him. Suddenly, he doesn’t resemble Peter in the least…

  Nah. My eyes are just playing tricks on me. Everyone in red makeup and sporting a blue mohawk looks the same, right?

  Still, I do the math. “Penny” had Cheever fifteen years ago. If she were my age, when I had Jeff, she’d be—

  I don’t want to go there.

  It’s none of my business, anyway…

  That’s never stopped me before.

  14

  Libra

  One of the wonderful traits about Libra—those born between September 23rd and Oct 22nd—is that they are tactful. They are also romantic (but of course! After all, their ruling planet is Venus), charming, diplomatic, and seek balance in every part of their lives.

  If there were any flaws inherent in this sign, it would be that Libra can be superficial and somewhat detached from others, as well as reality.

  Here’s the bottom line: if you can live with these few niggling issues, you’ll still have a partner who will strive to make you happy.

  Let’s just say this guy’s a keeper.

  As long as he holds onto his marbles.

  “Where were you all night?” Jack looks up from his iPad, where he’s reading the morning’s news.

  I’m up so late that Mary and Evan are making the family’s breakfast. They make a great tag team. As she whips the scrambled eggs into a frenzy, he lays strips of bacon on the griddle in perfectly straight lines. When he’s done, without a thought he reaches over to wipe his hand on her apron. Smiling up at him, she uses her free hand to smooth his cowlick into place.

  The prom was so crowded that I only caught glimpses of them. Ah, well, maybe Ryan is right: all’s well that ends well, even without an assist by me.

  I guess it’s time that I accept this new reality…

  As if.

  Trisha is still at Janie’s. Aunt Phyllis is nowhere to be seen. That’s okay. She’s earned the right to sleep in. Jeff is texting furiously. My guess: it’s with Felicity, and no math equations are being exchanged.

  Hopefully, her hickey isn’t as prominent as his.

  Still bleary-eyed, I drop down on the kitchen banquette beside Jack. “I spent the bulk of last night walking all of Hilldale in search of Mr. Red Sweatshirt, a.k.a. Libra, a.k.a., Tommy Alston.”

  All actions cease. All eyes turn in my direction.

  Mary’s whisk drops into the bowl. “You learned his real name?”

  I nod. “Thanks to Aunt Phyllis. She was kind enough to invite him backstage at the Muggalos concert.”

  “Why weren’t we invited too?” Evan, Mary, and Jeff form a choir of hurt and condemnation.

  I shiver. The thought of Penelope wrapped around Talon still haunts me. “Trust me, you did not want to be there.”

  Mary shrugs. “No biggie. We’ve all seen Mrs. Bing on fire before.”

  She’s got a point. For Mary, this tradition began with her Father-Daughter dance in middle school.

  Ah, good times.

  Maybe out of habit I sniff the air. “Speaking of which, how’s that bacon coming?”

  Mary and Evan turn to stare at the stove. Grease dances gleefully on the charred remains of our bacon strips.

  Instinctively, Evan grabs for the pan’s handle—without a potholder. By the time he tosses it into the sink, he’s scalded his hand. His groan rocks the room.

  Mary turns on the cold water and holds his hand under the faucet. She yells, “Jeff! Get a sterile bandage from the downstairs bathroom!”

  As Jeff takes off, Jack turns to me. “I take it you didn’t find Tommy.”

  “No,” I admit. “But Talon—that is, Benny Gallo—gave me some interesting insights into him.”

  “Such as?”

  “Turns out that they knew each other in college. Can you guess where they went?”

  His jaw drops. “Stanford?”

  I nod. “And they were in Jonathan’s astrology class. At the time, Talon majored in finance and Tommy was a Physics major. They also shared a math class with Jonathan, which is why Talon recognized Tommy in astrology.”

  �
�Did either of them have run-ins with Lilith?”

  “Tommy. Sadly, she made him the shell he is today. Talon hated her for that. He knew she was bending Tommy’s ear about sympathy for Russia.”

  “Maybe she used Tommy to make the change in Horoscope’s coding. If so, he may know how, when, and where Horoscope is launched,” Jack reasons. “We need to find Tommy, pronto! Let’s get moving!”

  I groan. “That’s easy for you to say! You’ve had your coffee, and you weren’t wandering the mean streets of Hilldale ’til the crack of dawn doing just that!”

  Jack moves to the coffee pot, pours a cup, and walks it over to me. “Sit. Sip. You’ve got as long as it takes for me to scramble those eggs Mary has abandoned while not burning what’s left of the bacon.”

  As he heads to the stove, he grabs an apron off the pantry hook. It is embroidered with the phrase:

  HOT STUFF COMIN’ THROUGH

  Indeed.

  Perhaps I should sleep in more often.

  As Jack and I walk block by block through the alleys of Hilldale, I put in a call to Ryan. “We’ve identified two more sun signs.”

  “Between now and when you left the office?” He sounds dubious.

  “Hard to believe, but yes. Leo is now a rock musician known as Talon. He has a cult following—many of which showed up at the prom last night.”

  “Don’t tell me he’s recruiting for the Russians too.”

  “That’s a resounding ‘no.’ Lilith’s attempt at recruiting him backfired—with him, anyway. But she did snare a good friend of his: the one and only Tommy Alston.”

  “Ah, Libra!” Ryan declares. “But, sadly, he’s dead. At least, that’s what Capricorn told you.”

  “Carlton Miller assumed he was dead—that even perhaps Lilith had killed him—because he couldn’t find a trace of Tommy anywhere, online or off. As it turns out, Tommy is alive, if barely. For the past several years he’s been homeless.”

  “Did Leo tell you where you might find him?”