The Housewife Assassin's Horrorscope

by Josie Brown

  “He didn’t have to.” I take a deep breath. “Periodically, Tommy shows up in Hilldale. He’s our town’s—well, to put it bluntly, he’s the town’s one and only homeless person.”

  “You make him sound like a pet.”

  “If only that were the case! The animals of Hilldale are treated better and get a lot more respect.”

  “So, go to the nearest homeless shelter and get him.”

  “I went there first. No one there has seen anyone who matches his description. Tommy is always foraging in Hilldale’s garbage cans. Jack and I are walking the town now, to see if we can find him. But we could speed things up if Acme could initiate an aerial search.”

  “Sure. Can you get me a photo for facial recognition cues?”

  “Arnie can pull it off Hilldale High’s surveillance footage from last night. Tommy was backstage with Aunt Phyllis, Talon, and me.”

  “And you didn’t detain him there?” Ryan is cross.

  “There was an emergency. Someone…caught on fire.”

  “Sounds like a heck of a prom!”

  “It’s become a local ritual,” I mutter.

  “So, you were backstage with a rock star, and no one took a selfie?” Ryan snickers.

  “Wait!…You’re right! Aunt Phyllis may have taken one, if for old time’s sake. She and Talon go way back. Apparently, she was one of his first groupies.”

  Ryan sighs. “Why am I not surprised? Okay, send it over as soon as you can, and we’ll program the search.”

  I knock on Aunt Phyllis’s door. No answer, but I can hear her snoring.

  In fact, she’s snoring in harmony.

  How could that be?

  I open the door:

  She’s got a man in bed with her.

  Oh my God! Is it Talon?

  First, he hits on Penelope—and then he sleeps with my aunt?

  What if they’re naked?

  Dammit, Ryan is waiting for my call. I’ll just have to avert my eyes…

  I sneak up to the bed. The covers are over their heads. From the curves of their bodies, I can tell they aren’t snuggling. Well, that’s a relief.

  Now, to decide which body belongs to Aunt Phyllis. Eenie, Meenie…

  Oh, the heck with it! The left side of the bed is closest. I walk over and, very gently, I lift the corner of the comforter. Thank goodness, I recognize Aunt Phyllis’ favorite flannel nightshirt. I nudge her—

  But it’s not her. The man wearing it lets loose with a blood-curdling scream.

  Oh my God—it’s Tommy!

  Phyllis leaps up from the other side of the bed. She too screams—an octave higher, but still ear-piercingly shrill.

  “Shhhh! Shhhh!” I raise my hands so that they see I have no weapons.

  Tommy calms down, but he’s still whimpering.

  As Aunt Phyllis comforts him, she glares at me and hisses, “What the heck are you doing in here?”

  “The more interesting question is, what is he doing here?”

  “When I got home, it was below forty degrees. What was I to do—just leave him beside your garbage can?” She wraps the blanket around the scared, shivering man.

  “No, of course not. You did the right thing.” I pat Tommy’s arm. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to frighten you.”

  He nods, and whispers, “I…I know you’re a nice person.” He points to his sweatshirt. It’s folded over a chair. “And…I heard you talking to Benny. I know you know about–about HER.”

  “You mean Lilith,” I reply.

  Tommy flinches at the very sound of her name. Finally, he whispers, “Yes.”

  “I’ll let you two talk.” Aunt Phyllis grabs her robe off the bedpost and rolls out of bed. Suddenly, she sniffs the air. “Do I smell bacon? Nah, can’t be. It’s burnt. I must still have the stench of Penelope’s hair in my nostrils.”

  She shuffles out to the hall, closing the door behind her.

  A man haunted by the shame of past deeds struggles to hang onto his soul.

  In a voice no louder than a whisper, Tommy Alston speaks slowly and precisely as he tells the tale of his fall from grace.

  “They tell me I was once a genius.” He says this with absolutely no guile. “If I was so smart, why did I think she cared about me?”

  “People will do anything, say anything, to get what they want from others,” I remind him.

  His nod is slow, weighted with his sadness.

  “How did you meet Lilith?” I ask.

  “In that class—astrology. But it wasn’t meant to be, you know? Because we weren’t supposed to talk to each other.” He looks down at his rough, blistered hands. “I was surprised when, one day, she walked up to me on campus. Even when she whispered, ‘Libra, right?’ I knew I should have pretended I didn’t know what she meant. But I didn’t. She was so beautiful.”

  “Did she explain how she figured out it was you?”

  Tommy nods. “She said she’d noticed the cuff of my shirt. I’d raised my arm in class, and my robe slipped away from it.”

  “Did you believe her?”

  “At the time, yes.” He frowns. “And that’s how it started with us. We’d meet up every couple of days, exchange notes about the class, and laugh at the fact that none of the others knew our little secret. I loved her laugh.” He pauses, as if hearing it now.

  “And then she seduced you.”

  “Yeah. I fell hard.” His voice is so low he sounds as if he’s talking underwater. “She was already engaged to be married and moving out of state. I was being courted by Northrup Grumman. It wasn’t meant to be anything more than just fun and games.”

  “How long did your affair continue?”

  “Years. Well over a decade. In the meantime, she moved away, and I tried to move on. But as far as I was concerned, no one could compete with her. And so whenever she came to town, she’d call. I’d come running. Always somewhere different. This hotel or that. Just like when we were in school.” He coughs, as if clearing his throat will clear his mind too. “Then one day she asked me to look at some software code. What she handed me was classified. I realized that right off. She wouldn’t tell me where she got it, just that I’d have to trust her that if it were left as is, something would go very, very bad.”

  “What could you tell about the coding?”

  “I don’t remember much…” He sighs. “A place…some location. The truth is, I didn’t want to remember it at all. I wanted to die. It’s…it’s why I jumped.”

  “Off the bridge.”

  He nods. “I lived. But at least I forgot.”

  If only he hadn’t.

  “Did you ever hear from Lilith again?”

  “No. But I did hear about her—from Jonathan. He'd also been duped by her. A few of the others had too! She’d been told who to…to seduce.” He ducks his head, shamed.

  “Told? By whom?”

  “Arthur.” The name comes out of Tommy’s mouth as a growl.

  “Which sign was Arthur?”

  Tommy shakes his head. “He wasn’t a sign. He was our instructor.”

  Bingo—Lilith’s handler.

  “Tommy, what was Arthur’s last name?”

  “Arthur…something.” He stares up at the ceiling in the hope of finding it there.

  “Please, Tommy, think hard! It would help me to know his last name.”

  “I forget a lot.” Tommy closes his eyes. “Strange name. Like the poet.”

  “Poe?”

  Tommy shakes his head.

  “Byron?…Shelley?…Keats?…Whitman?”

  “No, no, no, no!” With each name, Tommy’s head shakes decidedly. Then, as if awakening from a trance he says, “It’s…Yates…YATES! That’s it!”

  “Good, Tommy, good! Thank you!” I pat his hand. “One last question, Tommy: when was the last time you saw Lilith?”

  Fright fills his eyes. “I hadn’t seen her in a long while—until last week.”

  “Did she say anything to you?”

  His hands shake. “
I left as fast as I could. She was with someone—who would have killed me.”

  “Tommy, when you aren’t here in Hilldale, where do you go?”

  “There are other Hilldales. Safe havens. Edible garbage.” His grimace quivers on his lips. He may be cracking a joke. Or he may want to reassure me that he knows how to take care of himself. “Better than the shelters and missions, right? Or, like everyone else, I just head for the beach.”

  I force out a chuckle. “That’s nice. I’ve always wondered. Venice?”

  “Nah. Too many bums. Manhattan Beach.”

  I try not to frown. Manhattan Beach is memorable for me, but for all the wrong reasons. Jack’s first wife was killed there by Carl.

  It’s a small world after all.

  “Why does that make you sad?” Tommy has picked up on my uneasiness.

  With as much nonchalance as I can muster, I reply, “Nothing. I just know that the cops there aren’t so friendly with, um, non-residents.”

  “They don’t bother me. I stay with Cancer.”

  “Cancer—from your astrology class?”

  He nods.

  “What is his address? I’d like to talk to him.”

  Thunderclouds of anxiety cover his eyes. “I don’t know. She gets upset when I mention…back then.”

  Cancer is a woman.

  “Please, Tommy. It’s critical. The lives of others depend on it.”

  He wraps his arms around his waist, as if willing himself to hold back from this secret. Finally, his arms flop down. “On the Strand, all the way north. It’s the smallest house. Yellow, with bright blue trim.” He grabs my arm. “Please…promise me you won’t hurt her!”

  “I swear.”

  Once again, trust clears the clouds in his eyes. “Without her, I’d be dead.” His head falls onto his chest. “I should have listened to her back then. Jonathan too.”

  “Cancer knew Jonathan?”

  It’s his turn to laugh. “He was her brother!”

  My God.

  As I cross to the door, his wistful soliloquy haunts me:

  “Love, whose month is ever May,

  Spied a blossom passing fair,

  Playing in the wanton air:

  Through the velvet leaves the wind,

  All unseen can passage find;

  That the lover, sick to death,

  Wish'd himself the heaven's breath.”

  Jeff looks up from his texting to report dutifully: “Dad and Mary took Evan to the airport.”

  “Darn it. I wanted to say goodbye to Evan,” I reply.

  “At least you wouldn’t be crying your eyes out, like Mary.”

  “I have to run an errand. When your dad gets home, tell him. I’m headed over to Manhattan Beach. I…I found Cancer.”

  Jeff’s mouth drops open: “You found the cure for cancer?”

  “Ha! If only!” At the very least, it may be the cure for our current problem.

  Before I leave, I take a moment to search for Tommy's verse. Ah! He was quoting Love’s Labour’s Lost by Shakespeare.

  The first line breaks my heart:

  * * *

  Love, whose month is ever May

  May is Taurus.

  May is Lilith.

  Despite everything, he still loves her.

  15

  Cancer

  You would be Cancer if you were born between June 21st and July 22nd.

  Friends and family appreciate your sensitivity, desire to nurture, and your hospitality. However, take note! You may also be moody, pessimistic, and clingy.

  Perhaps you've noticed that your friends no longer accept your invitations to hang at your place, even when you try to entice them with your vegan specialties or offer to treat them to mud facials. (How healthy! How nurturing! Such a great friend you are!)

  Reality check: They’d change their minds if they weren’t afraid you’d also chastise them for “being strangers” or “forgetting to return your calls.”

  In other words, a true friend doesn’t have to cajole or bribe others to play with her. She just accepts their schedules (even if you aren’t penciled in as often as you’d like), their decisions (even if they didn’t take your advice), and their optimism (which you may not share).

  Real friends accept each other’s foibles. Otherwise, they’re just “acquaintances.”

  The Strand—a greenbelt between Manhattan Beach’s homes and its shoreline—runs north of the pier for a couple of miles.

  I park on the block that parallels its full length: Ocean Avenue.

  Cancer’s house is on one of the many footpaths running perpendicular to the Strand. Thankfully, by initiating an aerial scan, Emma located my destination—a small, yellow cottage trimmed in blue—saving me an on-foot search that would have taken at least an hour.

  Public records show that a woman named Mary Ann Harrison owns the cottage. Since her last name is not Presley, I assume it’s a married name.

  I give Emma her next task: finding Arthur Yates. “I’ll pull up anything I can find in Palo Alto, circa the early 1980s,” Emma promises.

  Mary Ann Harrison’s tiny front yard is neat as a pin. The windows are shuttered, so I can’t look inside.

  No one answers my repeated knock.

  I walk around to the side of the house. It is blessed with a straight-on view of the Pacific Ocean.

  In the tiny backyard, a woman is waxing a surfboard. Her slim frame is gloved in a wetsuit. Her white-blond hair, cut gamine short, clings damply to her skull.

  Because I’m out of her peripheral vision, she doesn’t see me as much as feel me. I know this because she stops rubbing the board, shifts her shoulder slightly to pick up something, then straightens up and declares without turning around: “Who are you and what do you want?”

  It’s easy to figure out what she now holds in her hand: a gun. By the time she turns around, sights me, and fires, I will have already put a hole in the back of her head. But since a footpath leading to a popular beach on a beautiful Sunday should not be the scene of a needless murder, I say instead, “I want to stop Taurus, and I think you can help me.”

  This gets her attention. She drops the gun in the sand before turning around and saying, “Would you care to join me inside for tea?”

  While Mary Ann strains the tea into two mugs, I scan the photos intermingled with the rows of books on her wall-to-ceiling bookshelf.

  She has her brother’s cornflower blue eyes. She also has his slight overbite and the spray of freckles across his nose. In the photos of them at all ages and standing arm in arm, they seem to also share a fierce love as only siblings can.

  When she sets the tray on the coffee table, I join her on the sofa. I sip my tea. She holds her mug between her hands, taking in its warmth as she sizes me up.

  Finally, she asks, “How did you find me?”

  “Tommy Alston. I live in Hilldale. I’ve seen him for years, foraging in the alley behind my home. Sometimes I leave food. Sometimes it’s clothing.”

  “The red sweatshirts,” she acknowledges. “He appreciates them.” As she reaches for a teaspoon, I notice her hand is shaking. “I’m surprised he told you about Taurus—or for that matter, about me.”

  “Just so you know, he never gave me your name. He described your home as a safe haven.”

  She acknowledges this with a slight nod. “I don’t think he remembers my name anymore. His mind…it goes in and out of focus.”

  “He mentioned a fall from the bridge,” I reply.

  “You know, he and my brother were best friends.” She wipes away a tear. “I haven’t yet told him that Jonathan…that he’s dead. If Tommy knew that…” She sighs.

  “I haven’t mentioned it to him either,” I reassure her.

  She nods gratefully.

  “Mary Ann, what did Tommy tell you about Taurus?”

  “I know she was the one who brought him to ruin if that’s what you’re asking.”

  “And yet, when he thinks of her he quotes Shakespeare,” I p
oint out.

  “That’s prophetic, somehow.” Her voice is barely a whisper. “She broke him.”

  “Stanford has no record of the horoscope class in its archives. Why is that?”

  Mary Ann shrugs. “I’m not surprised. We only learned of the course on the first day we went to work for the corporation sponsoring our senior projects. It was taught at the company’s headquarters.”

  “What is that company?”

  “Dartmouth Analytica. It makes census and social media software.” She rolls her eyes. “I should say, ‘made.’ It’s now out of business. It got caught up in those international voter influencing scandals a few years back.”

  “Yes, I remember it.” Only because Dartmouth Analytica was one of the Quorum’s shell companies. It was using social media to influence elections in democratic countries. Much of its funding came from the Russians. No surprise there.

  To draw her back to the here and now, I reveal, “The organization I work for is charged with solving Jonathan’s murder.”

  Mary Ann’s eyes narrow. “It was a hit and run.”

  “You and I both know better. He was targeted and killed because he gave intel on Project Horoscope to the Russians.”

  Mary Ann’s mug shakes ever so slightly in her hand.

  “Around two years ago Lilith approached Jonathan about altering some code inside one of Blacktech’s military projects: Operation Horoscope,” I explain. “He refused. Later, she circled back around and let him know that someone else did it for them.”

  Slowly she nods. “Tommy.”

  “Did Tommy ever mention what he changed for her?”

  “GPS coordinates.”

  Shit.

  “Knowing what he did made him a shell,” she continues. “Afterward, he gave away whatever money he made that didn’t go toward booze, or up his nose. It’s why he disappeared.”

  “Tommy wouldn’t have known it, but his code sealed Jonathan’s death sentence,” I explain. “When Lilith taunted Jonathan with this information, he was smart enough to realize that the moment Horoscope is initiated, he’d be exterminated. It’s why he put his confession on a thumb drive—the one he left with you, so many years ago, in case of such an ‘accident.’ And he had already addressed the envelope: to Robert Martin, the owner of BlackTech.”