The Housewife Assassin's Tips for Weddings, Weapons, and Warfare (Housewife Assassin Series Book 11)

by Josie Brown

Chantal heaves an exasperated sigh. “Your timetable has put us in a box. Most of the acceptable venues have already been booked, or are at odds with POTUS’s or FLOTUS’s schedules.”

  The calendar morphs into a photo of a fancy hotel ballroom. “Our first choice is the Beverly Hills Hotel. It will easily accommodate the three hundred guests—”

  “Wait!” Jack’s brow furrows. “Why would we need something so large?”

  Chantal’s blank stare is followed by a sigh. “Besides the attending dignitaries, celebrities, and statespersons, I’m sure you’ll also want a table or two for your family and friends—if they pass the security clearance, of course. And then there’s the Secret Service detail. While they won’t be noshing with guests, they’ll be mingling—unobtrusively. But they count as attendees, since they’re made of ectoplasm and take up space too.”

  Smart ass. “Why would famous people show up at our wedding?” I wonder out loud.

  “You’ve got a point there,” Chantal conceded. “But, keep in mind—they’re not really there for you. They are there to bask in the glory of the first couple. You’re just…well, simply put: ‘icing on the cake.’” She’s trying much too hard to hide her smirk.

  I’m trying much too hard not to goosestep her out of my house. What she really means is that we’re the excuse for others to rub shoulders with Lee and Babette. For that matter, it might as well be some foreign dignitary’s funeral.

  With that in mind, I rise from the couch—

  But Jack holds tightly to my wrist and yanks me down.

  “Celebrities?” For the first time since Chantal entered the room, Mary’s frown disappears. “Who, exactly?”

  “Well, certainly George and Amal—”

  Aunt Phyllis and Mary squeak in unison. Okay, yes, I must have too, because Jack pinches me.

  Chantal rolls her eyes. No stardust there. “And Tom and Rita. Sean and Charlize, of course.” She frowns. “Matthew McConaughey has requested an invitation, but the president is sure to veto it. We don’t want to have a ‘Magic Mike’ moment at such a decorous occasion, now do we?”

  Aunt Phyllis nods adamantly. “Hell yeah, we do!” Noting Chantal’s stony silence, she asks, “But if he wants to co-host the bachelorette party with me, I’d agree to that.”

  “I’ve no doubt,” Chantal murmurs.

  “What about Prince Harry?” Mary begs. “Can you get him here, too?”

  Evan’s smile fades. “While she’s at it, why doesn’t she see if she can round up Jennifer Lawrence?”

  “Hey, don’t ball players like to come to these things too?” Jeff pipes up. “Mom, can we invite Steph Curry?”

  “This isn’t a ‘thing,’” I grumble. “It’s my wedding.”

  “Now, now, children, no promises, but I’ll do my best.” Chantal smiles conspiratorially. “So, it’s settled. The Beverly Hills Hotel it is—on the only day it still has open.”

  “But…but…” I’m stammering—not because I want to put my dibs in for the Duke and Duchess of Cambridge (okay, yes, maybe I wouldn’t mind having Wills and Kate tear up as Jack and I swap vows and spit)—but because this is turning into the wedding of the millennium—

  On Jack’s and my dime, since our Acme per diem ain’t gonna cover this shindig.

  Jack is on my wavelength. “Excuse me, but how much exactly is this event going to cost?”

  She rolls her eyes. “Money is no object.”

  “Says who?” he counters.

  “Why, the first lady, of course.”

  “Oh…well then.” Jack shrugs.

  Hmmm. Okay, but even if one of the Chiffrays is kind enough to offer the event as a wedding gift, if it turns out we can, in fact, pin a Quorum membership on one of them, the other is sure to renege on the promise.

  Hell, I know I would.

  I’d point this out to Jack, but it’s too late. Jeff, Mary, and Evan are exchanging high-fives.

  Perhaps this is a conversation Chantal and I should have in private. I can break the news about the smaller wedding to them later.

  “If I’m to understand correctly, Jeff will be giving away his mother, the bride, and Evan will be one of the groomsmen,” Chantal continues. “I’ve got this in mind for them.”

  Suddenly, the TV screen is broadcasting front-facing, full-body photos of Jack, Evan, and Jeff. All of them are wearing jeans and tee shirts, but it’s obvious that the photos were taken at different times, and in different locations.

  Jack’s eyes narrow darkly. “Where did you get these?”

  “At the first lady’s behest, the CIA secured them for us.” A second later, the clothes in the photos are replaced with tuxes. “Givenchy with satin-trimmed lapels for Jeff and Evan, and perhaps Dolce & Gabbana for Jack.” She tilts her head to one side, but then shakes it. “Nope, sorry. There’s that McConaughey connection again. Let’s go with Hugo Boss instead.” A new tuxedo flies onto the picture of Jack’s torso. “And John Lobbs on everyone’s feet.” Out go the sneakers, replaced by the brand’s Soirée Castilo model.

  “Do me next!” Trisha shouts.

  “Not so quick, little lady,” Chantal purrs, as she pats my Trisha’s head. “Age before beauty! Let’s take care of Aunt Phyllis first.”

  The next photo of my aunt shows her in a thong bikini, standing beside the Hilldale Country Club pool.

  Evan, Jeff, and Mary smother their giggles in my sofa pillows. Trisha covers her eyes.

  Aunt Phyllis holds her head proudly. “Since when are a few wrinkles so scary?”

  Chantal nods vigorously. “I agree with you emphatically! That’s why I think this gown is perfect!”

  Instantly, Aunt Phyllis’s body is clad in a cherry-red floor-length gown. It has long sleeves and a bateau neckline. It sparkles with strategically placed sprays of diamonds.

  Phyllis’s eyes gleam proudly. “Why, I look…wonderful!”

  She should—considering her head has been superimposed on Cher’s body in a Bob Mackie gown.

  Apparently, I’m not the only one who has noticed this. The children nudge each other. Trisha gapes, then blurts, “Aunt Phyllis, I don’t think that’s—”

  Before she can finish her sentence, Chantal declares, “And now, for our little princesses’ gowns!”

  Trisha doesn’t pick up on Chantal’s plural nouns. She’s too enthralled with the picture of herself, wearing a silk frock splashed with hand-painted lavender, turquoise, and fuchsia blooms. “I love it,” she whispers.

  “Well, of course you do!” Chantal bows to her audience of one. “Janie picked it out with both of you in mind. She’d like to wear it with a turquoise bow—to match her eyes. You’ll wear a lavender one—”

  Trisha’s tiny brow furrows. “Janie? Why would she be wearing my dress?”

  “Not your dress, silly girl! A dress of her own. Exactly the same, but you’ll have different bows in your hair—and matching shoes, of course. So that you walk down the aisle together—”

  Trisha’s stare shifts to me. “But…but Janie was already a flower girl—for her mommy’s wedding! I thought I was going to be yours.”

  Now, everyone is staring at me.

  “Of course you are! But then Janie’s mother asked if it were okay if Janie did it too, I told her I felt you wouldn’t mind—”

  Trisha runs out of the room, her cheeks damp from her tears.

  I can’t do this to my daughter.

  “Trisha—wait!” Mary reaches for my hand. “Mom, don’t worry, I’ll take care of this.” She runs out after her sister.

  I’m right on her heels. Only I can answer to Trisha.

  Chantal has the audacity to block my way. “We’re not done! I’ve yet to show you what I’ve got for the bridesmaids! Oh, by the way, Kim Kardashian says she’s available if you need another to fill out the wedding party—”

  “I’ll say,” Evan murmurs.

  I pull Chantal out of the room, into the foyer.

  “I don’t have time for this now! My little girl is upset!�
��

  Chantal scolds me with a wagging finger. “I can’t say I blame her. Donna, how could you do that to your daughter? You must have known I’d be bringing it up.”

  “For your information, Ms. Desmarais, I’ve been on a business trip for the past seventy-two hours, and you reached my home before me. So, why don’t you cut me some slack?”

  From the way she rolls her eyes, “slack” is not a word in this woman’s vocabulary. “Yeah, yeah, okay, whatever. Look, this is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity for the both of us: I get to plan a presidential wedding, and for whatever reason, you, Cinderella, have the most fashionable first lady in U.S. history as your fairy godmother. It’s a win-win, right? So why don’t we both just play nice-nice for a short while, at least until this shindig is over and deemed a rousing success?”

  Sure, by everyone except Trisha.

  I’ve got one foot on the staircase when Jack appears in the foyer. “Something’s popped up. Donna, they need us in the office just as soon as we can get there.”

  I tear up. “But I should be with Trisha.”

  “Mary texted me. She’s got things under control,” Jack assures me. “And Aunt Phyllis is ordering pizza for dinner.”

  Chantal slides her iPad into her bag. “My, my, what busy lives you lead! Are you sure you have time for something as insignificant as a wedding?”

  I’ve had just about enough of this bitch’s sarcasm. Jack grabs my arm before I can give in to the urge to wipe the smirk off her face with my fist.

  Well, Chantal has one thing right. This wedding will be memorable, but it may not be something she’ll want on her résumé.

  Chapter 5

  Three Reasons to Get Cold Feet

  Any time before the wedding, it’s natural to question whether your betrothed is right for you. But, wouldn’t it be a darned shame if you allowed irrational fears of the future to ruin your Happily Ever After?

  Use these tips as your litmus test as to whether you stay put, or hightail it out of there:

  Tip 1: He refuses to share—anything. Whether it’s a meal, a dresser drawer, an apartment, a bank account, or a bed, the fact that he can’t give freely means he’s hiding something—more than likely, a wife, so move on.

  Tip 2: He borrows everything of yours. You pouted when he used up your favorite shampoo. You winced when he roared off in your car. You were apoplectic when he borrowed your credit card. If you find him slipping into your Spanx and kitten heels, take off—perhaps to your old roommate. (She did the same, but at least she never stretched out your clothes.)

  Tip 3: You catch him in lies. He’s never where he claims to be. He fibbed to you about his past. You learned to take everything he says with a grain of salt. The best relationships are built on trust, demonstrated every day, in every way. If he can’t be true, he won’t be true blue, either. End it now, before one of you ends up regretting it. (That would be YOU.)

  “This wedding thing is bad idea.” There, I’ve said it.

  Everyone on the mission team—Jack, Abu, Dominic, Arnie, and Emma—look up from their computers, where they’ve been busy assessing dossiers on White House staffers sent over by my liaison, Todd.

  Even Ryan stops scribbling names of those most likely to have the ear of either Lee or Babette to hear what I have to say.

  Jack swallows a grin. “Don’t tell me you’re reneging on your proposal.”

  “You’re not getting off the hook that easily,” I assure him. “I just don’t think it’s necessary to have Babette plan my wedding in order to get to the root of the Chiffrays’ connection with the Quorum.”

  “Does that mean you’re going to tell the first lady to stuff it?” Ryan’s hand is grasping a dry ink pen so tightly that I’m afraid he might break it.

  “I think ‘stuff it’ is a bit harsh. I was thinking more along the line of, ‘Thanks, but no thanks.’ Or perhaps telling her that we’ve decided to elope. Or…” From the look on his face, nothing I say is going to get me out of this debacle in the making.

  Jack puts his hand over mine. “Why don’t you put little Miss Wedding Hitler on ice until Babette gets here? That way, the three of you can have a meeting of the minds. You know, give them the lay of the land, and tell them our do’s and don’ts—”

  I’m trying not to laugh. “‘Our’ do’s and don’ts? You weren’t exactly vocal in Chantal’s skull session. But if you care to join us, I’ll be glad to give you a chance to redeem yourself.”

  Jack grimaces. “That might be too distracting for Babette.”

  “You’re not joking,” I mutter.

  “Then, definitely, he should be there,” Ryan insists.

  “No!” Jack and I declare at the same time.

  “Do I have to make it an order?” He points to the whiteboard. “From the most junior janitor to the chief of staff, the White House has over four thousand employees.” Ryan rubs fatigue from his eyes. “What would it take to hack POTUS’s cell, let alone plant a bug in his office?”

  “The Russians hacked the last president’s email. Cell phones are a step up, but still doable,” Arnie admits. “All it takes is for him to download a Trojan from an app or a hyperlink, even if it comes from a known source.”

  Emma raises her hand. “Agreed. It’s just a matter of access.”

  “In that case, Babette would be a piece…of cake.” Dominic grins at the thought of what he really means by this.

  Ryan faces me. “My point exactly. Anyone with access to Lee, Babette, or the Oval Office could figure it out. Even with the twice-daily security sweeps, a live bug might hide in plain sight.” He shakes his head at the obvious.

  “It sounds like we’re trying to clear the Chiffrays,” Jack mutters.

  “Innocent until proven guilty,” Ryan counters. “You’ll have a better chance of finding out if you use what access you have to them. And considering how quickly this wedding is going down, you won’t have it for long.”

  He’s got a point there. Jack and I both know it.

  I entwine my fingers with Jack’s. “Okay, Ryan, convince me why the happiest and most personal day of my life is worth ruining. Why don’t you start with how this mission breaks down?”

  Ryan nods, pleased that I’m now toeing the line, but he and I both know that I’m waiting for the punchline.

  He uses his dry ink pen to write the number one on the whiteboard along with the words Archival Data. “Arnie and his Tech-Ops team need access to West Wing security camera archives, so that he and his team can pull a list of everyone—both on staff and visitors.”

  Arnie nods as he types away.

  Next, Ryan adds the number two on the whiteboard with the words Background Checks/Persons of Interest. “Those names will be given to Emma and her ComInt team, so that they can run background checks and look for behavior or financial anomalies within the past year. They’ll start with the staff members who work specifically in the Oval Office and POTUS’s private quarters. Remember, FLOTUS has her own staff. It includes a social secretary, a press secretary, a floral designer, and an executive chef. The woman you met, Narcissa Belmont, is her chief of staff. She’s high on our list, as is POTUS’s NSC liaison, Todd Courtland.”

  “On it, Chief,” Emma murmurs, as her fingers tap her keyboard.

  “Other POIs are any Oval Office guests whose visits took place within a certain time period: at least, since Salem’s first visit,” Ryan continues. “In other words, we’ve got a lot of ground to cover.”

  Ryan writes 3 on the board followed by Surveillance. Turning to Abu, he says, “In the meantime, we’ll also initiate some real-time surveillance. Abu, you’re getting a new job. I’ve pulled some strings with the Secret Service director. You’re now part of the president’s security detail.”

  “Secret Service? Cool! Does it come with a raise?” Abu asks.

  “You are much better paid here, trust me,” Ryan assures him. “But at least until this mission is over, you’ll be double-dipping.”

  Abu’s hap
py dance has a few gangsta moves. I’m impressed.

  “Dominic, I’ve done the same to put you on FLOTUS’s detail.” Even as he says it, Ryan winces at the thought.

  On the other hand, Dominic’s smile runs ear to ear. “Simple, as my forte is undercover work.”

  Ryan sighs. “We’re all well aware of that. Should you succeed, try not to get shot.” He thinks for a moment, then adds, “And, for that matter, should you fail, try not to get shot.”

  The number 4 goes on the board, along with the word Infiltration. It’s now my turn for a lecture. “Donna, no one here wants to take down the Quorum any more than you. And the timing couldn’t be better.”

  Okay, I’ll bite. “Really? Enlighten me.”

  “Emma, fill her in on the reason President Chiffray is heading to Los Angeles—other than out of his admiration for Donna…and, er, Jack.”

  Jack’s lip curls into a smirk at our boss’s faux pas.

  Thanks for nothing, Ryan.

  “POTUS is hosting a summit of Arab leaders at Lion’s Lair. The White House is trying to keep it under wraps, but Arnie used Todd’s initial correspondence with Donna to hack his email. Since Todd has access to POTUS’s itinerary, well, now we do too.”

  Arnie stands up and takes a bow before Emma jerks him back down onto his chair.

  Ryan ignores him. “The summit’s timing isn’t great for the president’s retreat, but he can’t postpone it. The Middle East is at a boiling point. There are so many sectarian conflicts and proxy wars that it’s hard to keep count. Too much of Afghanistan is now in Taliban control. As we all know, Pakistan has convinced China to play middleman with the two, seeing how it also shares a border with Afghanistan.”

  “Just what we need—China making waves in the Middle East,” Dominic mutters.

  “Add to this al-Qaeda’s attacks in Yemen. And let’s not forget that Iraq and Syria have been overrun by Islamic State militants. In fact, rumor has it that ISIS is making an end-run for the nuclear bomb Iran adamantly denies it has. Ha! As if it’s the lesser of two evils.” The implication draws a heavy sigh from Ryan. “As we all know, ISIS is heavily funded by its kidnappings of international citizens within its reach. And it is heavily armed, mostly with U.S. munitions confiscated from Iraqi government caches.”