The Housewife Assassin's Fourth Estate Sale

by Josie Brown

  Jack winces. “Dominic will be heartbroken, to say the least.”

  Charlotte snickers. “Oh, somehow I doubt that. He sweats anytime I bring up the ‘m’ word.”

  I sigh. “Ah yes! Marriage.”

  “No, I mean money. Seriously, what kind of man makes the woman in his life pay for everything?” She glances skyward as if the clouds above hold the answer to her question. “Don’t get me wrong. The sex is sublime! But one has to jump out of bed sometime, right?”

  With a straight face, Jack replies, “He’ll be heartbroken.”

  “I’m breaking the news to him this evening. He’s stopping by for some ‘mourning sex.’ After Mikhail, I know he’s good for that, at the very least.” She smiles at the memory. “Dominic may be hung like a horse, but he’s still a cheap son of a bitch! Mr. Craig, do me a favor. If he needs a shoulder to cry on, be there for him, okay?”

  Jack dares not say anything. From the look on his face, he may burst out laughing.

  “Every politician in Washington is here.” She grimaces. “If you’ll excuse me, I must comfort those most bereft over my father’s passing and the end of his donations to their campaigns.” When satisfied that the grimace on her lips passes as a smile, Charlotte waves, exclaiming, “Ah! Governor Jessup! Senator Gannell! Thank you for your very kind condolence cards…”

  As we walk away, Jack nods toward the terrace. “The Chiffrays are here. Should we stop and pay our respects?”

  I shake my head. “Let’s wait. The reception starts in a few minutes.”

  By then, the Chiffrays will have left. An appearance means too many people asking too many questions.

  We both know it.

  Even a sixteen-bedroom home has only so many bathrooms. Before the crowd moves into the house, I’ll take my shot at one of them.

  The three lavatories on the first floor are in use so I climb the curved staircase to the second floor. Most of the doors are closed. An unused bathroom’s door would be left ajar so I keep moving down the hall.

  When I pass a door that is only partially closed, I peek in to see if I’m in luck. It’s not a bathroom, but a large office. It must have been Randall’s.

  Jeanette sits at the desk. She is downloading something off the computer.

  She doesn’t hear me come up behind her so she doesn’t realize that I’m reading over her shoulder.

  It’s an email, written in Russian.

  Well, what do you know…

  She must feel my presence because her back stiffens.

  I’m not carrying a weapon, but instead of taking a chance that she’s packing, I slam her with the largest book I can find. Such irony: it’s the latest edition of the U.S. Tax Code.

  She ducks instinctively. Still, I hit her hard on the shoulder as she stumbles to her feet. As she attempts to train her gun on me, I grab her wrist with one hand and jerk it up high. By the time her shot hits the ceiling, I’ve elbowed her hard in the face before pounding the fist holding her gun against the edge of the desk. She is stunned enough to drop the gun to the floor but still struggles for her life, charging at me with all her might. I don’t have time to move before she slugs me in the gut. As I fall back onto the desk, she scrambles for the gun. I roll off the desk in time to kick the gun beyond her reach. Angrily, she rises up, but my kick to her kidney puts her back on the floor.

  I then pick her up by the crew-neck collar of her dress (a true shame, since this ruin its lines) and throw a punch that finally renders her unconscious.

  By now, Jack has come to see what’s taking me so long. As he peruses the situation, I explain, “She was his Russian handler.”

  “Jesus!” he exclaims. "Is there anyone in this organization who isn’t a spook?”

  “Beats me,” I say as I wipe away the blood trickling from my mouth. “Hey, do you mind watching her for a minute? I still haven’t gone to the little girl’s room.”

  “Go for it,” he says with a wave.

  16

  Fake News

  Despite what one might be led to believe, the phrase “fake news” was not coined in America’s raucous political environment.

  This expression has been around for quite some time: at least, since 1890, when the Cincinnati Inquirer had a headline proclaiming “Secretary Brunnell Declares Fake News About His People is Being Telegraphed Over the Country.”

  Somewhere deep in the dustbin of time lays the bones of Master Brunnell, who shook his fist at the lies and innuendo that was spread from one part of the country to another, appearing in local newspapers, perhaps over a month’s time.

  Had he lived today, the same untruth that plagued him and his clan would have:

  1: circled the globe in a mere second;

  2: been created in some political backroom;

  3: been disseminated as a pithy soundbite to one or many talking heads;

  4: been attributed to some bogus news source;

  5: been quoted often by other journalists; and

  6: been re-Tweeted or Facebooked or Instagrammed by the rest of us.

  The twenty-first century’s news cycle is instantaneous and 24-7. When it comes to fact-checking, it is still every journalist’s cross to bear.

  All over the Internet, it is claimed that in 1919, Mark Twain said, “A lie can travel halfway around the world before the truth can get its boots on.”

  Fact Check: Mark Twain died in 1910.

  So, there you have it: FAKE NEWS.

  I am me again.

  Even before we left for Los Angeles, I’d gotten rid of the wig by tossing it into the Potomac.

  Watching, Jack roared with laughter. Taking a handful of my hair, he held it to up to his cheek and exclaimed, “I missed the feel of this bittersweet chocolate.”

  Gwendolyn’s field khakis and her sleek on-air dresses are already in a bag soon to be dropped at the local Goodwill. I need no reminders of this mission. I don’t view it as a failure but a temporary truce.

  Big Brother is always watching. Big Media’s mandate may be to dig out the truth, but it is always espousing half-truths, or leaving out pertinent facts.

  The truth may be out there, but do you really want to know it? Sadly, most people only want to hear what they already think they know.

  Right now, Jack sits at the dining room table, helping Trisha with her math homework. From the sound of things, she’s caught on to the tricks for measuring quadrilaterals. But from the sobbing I heard coming from her room last night, happiness now eludes her. Trisha’s grief over her decision to end her most treasured friendship pains her greatly.

  No one is spared this life lesson.

  Jeff sits beside his dad and his younger sister, editing articles for an upcoming issue of the Signal. Mary is going through online fashion websites, pulling up trends then matching her finds with the pithy editorials.

  And I’m doing what relaxes me most: I bake.

  Tonight, after a meal of rosemary-lemon roast chicken, garlic mashed potatoes, and string beans, my family will devour the cherry pie now baking in my oven.

  I love to watch their eyes widen as they sniff the scent of lush cherries. The first cut into the golden-brown crust will elicit wide smiles. The first bite will be accompanied by ecstatic moans.

  Then will come the accolades. “Sweet!” “Yum!” and, “Delicious, darling!”

  I live for their love.

  I’m checking the timer on the pie. It’s got another fifteen minutes.

  Suddenly, Jeff shouts, “Mom…Mom! You’ve got to read the newspaper!”

  “I thought your paper comes out on Monday.”

  “No, Mom! I’m not talking about the Signal! I mean The New York Times!” Jeff points to his iPad.

  My eyes go to the largest headline on the front page:

  * * *

  SPECIAL COUNSEL TO SUBPOENA THE PRESIDENT

  * * *

  The story includes a very large photo of Blake Reynolds.

  Trisha looks out the window. “Hey, isn’t that th
e man outside our front door?”

  Even through the sheers, I see she’s right. Blake is standing on our front porch.

  Ryan is with him. He presses the doorbell.

  Jack nods toward the great room. “Thanks for giving us some privacy, kids.”

  The children don’t waste any time picking up their notebooks and moving. They shut the door behind them.

  Before Jack makes his way to the front door, I reach for his arm. “You knew it was coming down, didn’t you?”

  “By Edmonton’s comment, I suspected as much,” he admits.

  I hold my head high. “Well, I guess now Lee will be forced to tell Reynolds what he knows about Babette’s connection with Eric Weber, not to mention Salem and Carl.”

  “You’re right. It should be interesting to see how Lee handles this.”

  I’m about to ask him what he means by that, but now our guests are leaning on the doorbell.

  I motion for him to open the front door before they break it down. Our neighbors have enough issues with us without having to witness yet another SWAT team raid.

  Ryan and Blake pass on my offer of coffee and pie. “We don’t plan on keeping you.”

  Well, that’s a relief. Any opportunity to avoid a perp walk works for me.

  Jack is warier. I can tell because he frowns when they pass on my offer to take a seat. “Now that we know it’s not a social call, what can we do for you, Special Counsel Reynolds?”

  Reynolds attempts a smile. “Acme did exemplary work in connecting the dots between the German law firm, Wagner Klein, and Russia. The fact that it also had the Quorum on its client list is a bonus because it proves that the organization is still alive and kicking, despite the deaths of its titular heads, Eric Weber and Carl Stone.”

  His eyes hone in on me when he mentions my ex-husband’s name.

  Instead of wincing, I stare back at him. I’ll never give him the satisfaction of shaming me for Carl’s acts of treason.

  “To the DIA’s great dismay, the Quorum’s financial trail seems to be intermingled with that of the President of the United States.”

  “You mean, through the corporation that he left in a blind trust, Global World Industries? I assure you that it’s clean as a whistle,” I retort.

  “Except for one subsidiary: Breck Industries.” Reynolds looks sharply at me. “But of course, you already know this.”

  “Yes. We reported this to the CIA and also to President Chiffray. When he found out, he cleaned house.”

  Except for one skeleton in the closet. Carl blackmailed Lee into giving him the position of Director of Intelligence—for a while, anyway.

  Until I killed Carl.

  “As it turns out, he didn’t ‘clean house.’ Otherwise, there would not have been a transfer of funds between the Russian accounts and Breck Industries.”

  Babette is still listed as its Vice President of Operations. More than likely, it is the position that controls the corporation’s finances.

  Once again, she has duped Lee.

  “We want you to get POTUS on record admitting to collaborating and financing the Quorum.”

  There it is: Reynolds now cuts to the chase.

  I snort. “Are you crazy? Lee was never involved with the Quorum! Bab—”

  Suddenly, Ryan is talking over me. “Donna, Special Prosecutor Reynolds already knows about Babette.”

  I relax with a sigh. It’s about damn time!

  “And because she’s turned state’s evidence—because she’s willing to testify against her husband—the Justice Department will be justified in charging Lee with treason.”

  “But he isn’t… She’s—”

  “You have his ear, Mrs. Craig,” Reynolds interrupts. “We’d like to reach out to him. You know, friend to friend. Offer to meet with him.”

  I don’t know who’s angrier, Jack or me. He’s on the move before I know it—nose to nose with Reynolds. “If you’re insinuating that my wife and Lee are—”

  “I have no idea what Mrs. Craig’s relationship is with President Chiffray!” For one second, fear flashes in Reynolds’ eyes. Then he remembers who he is, and stiffly, he adds, “It’s none of my business.”

  You can say that again.

  Emboldened, Reynolds declares, “And for that matter, I would imagine you don’t know its full extent either. For the record it’s not important. What does matter is that, for whatever reason, he trusts her—and loves her.”

  Glaring, I snarl, “Let me guess. Babette said that.”

  Reynolds blinks at the ice in my voice. “Yes, she did feel you’d be our best chance to persuade him. Of course, when you do, you’ll wear a wire—”

  “I’ll do no such thing!” I throw up my hands as I pace the room.

  Reynolds pulls three envelopes out of his inside jacket pocket. He hands one to Ryan, and another to me. Jack gets the third.

  “You’ve just been served a subpoena to testify in front of the federal grand jury. For that matter, all employees of Acme will also be subpoenaed. Needless to say, with the organization under such scrutiny, Acme’s standing with the U.S. Intelligence Agencies and its allies will certainly be damaged.”

  I don’t have to look over at Ryan to feel him deflate under the weight of my decision.

  I shrug. “I’ll think about it.”

  Disgusted, Reynolds storms out.

  Not Ryan. When our eyes meet, I see his concern. He lays a hand on my shoulder. “Donna, your point is well made. Still, one way or the other, Lee pays for Babette’s sins.”

  “He already has, over and over,” I counter. “Can you imagine how much more he could have gotten done, now that the Quorum is…”

  I was going to say, now that the Quorum is gone.

  But that’s the problem: it isn’t.

  Otherwise, the Justice Department would not be breathing down Lee’s neck.

  Ryan slides his subpoena into his inside jacket pocket. “We are scheduled to meet with the grand jury on Friday. The Acme plane will depart from Van Nuys at fourteen-hundred-hours on Thursday. However, if you wish to honor Special Prosecutor Reynolds’ request, I’ll pass forward the message. If anything comes of your conversation with Lee, I’m sure that Reynolds will then have our subpoenas withdrawn.”

  Request? Ha! More like a demand.

  Without another word we walk Ryan to the door.

  We are watching him drive off when Trisha cracks open the living room door. “I think I smell pie—and not in a good way!”

  By the time I run to the kitchen, Mary is already pulling the scorched pie out of the oven. But it’s so hot that it burns her through the mitt.

  Yelping, she slams the pie on the counter. Part of the pie slips out of the tin, leaving a hot mess over everything.

  It is an apt metaphor for my life right about now.

  Or maybe not.

  Case in point: when life serves up burnt cherry pie, scrape off the crust and make a cherry cobbler.

  After removing any part of the top or bottom crust that hasn’t turned to ash, I spoon it, along with the pie’s filling into a glass casserole dish, sprinkle the top with brown sugar, and cover the top with tin foil. I’ll warm it in the oven before serving.

  Trisha is duly impressed. “I thought my favorite pie was a goner!”

  “Everything in life is salvageable,” I declare.

  “Even friendships?” she asks.

  “If both people want to put the time and effort into making it work, then yes.”

  Without another word she walks away.

  A few moments later, she’s back. She carries a plastic bag in her hand.

  “What’s that?” I ask.

  “When Janie toured the school, I introduced her to Coach Middleton. Coach invited her to practice with the team. She was impressed enough with Janie’s moves that she ordered this for her.”

  Trisha opens the bag. It holds a Hilldale Elementary School girl’s soccer jersey.

  “Since you have to go to Washington, will
you make sure she gets it?”

  I nod.

  “And tell her…well, just tell her I’m here for her, anytime she wants to talk.”

  “I will.”

  As Trisha grabs me for a hug, tears dampen my cheeks.

  By the time she looks up at me, I’ve wiped them away.

  “What do you think I should do?” I whisper.

  From my bedside clock, I can see it’s after two in the morning.

  I hear Jack’s steady breathing. His knees are folded behind mine, like a second skin. Still, I don’t know if Jack is asleep or awake.

  Silence.

  Maybe it’s for the best. He’ll only tell me what I don’t want to hear anyway.

  Jack sighs as he wraps his arm around my waist. “This is politics, plain and simple. Edmonton and his band of merry politicians want Lee out because he doesn’t bend over and sign off on all the policies that their lobbyist buddies pay them to cram down the throats of the rest of us. As for Reynolds, the only thing that matters to him is getting another scalp under his belt. Lee’s would be the pinnacle of his career. With Lee out of the White House, both men have accomplished their goals.”

  “And with Babette willing to play ball, they win,” I reply. “I’ll bet there is something in it for her too.” I flip over to face Jack. I can’t see him in the dark but I feel his soft breath. It comforts me.

  “Donna, I’m not going to make up your mind for you. Here’s the thing: Whether you agree or not to entrap Lee, our testimony in front of a grand jury is a given.”

  “He threatened to blackball Acme with the DIA and U.S. allies,” I remind him.

  “Covert Ops will always be a pinball in political gamesmanship. And Acme will always land on its feet.” He strokes my cheek. “The only upside of playing ball with the Justice Department is that the questions you ask may not get the response Reynolds wants in the first place.”