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

by Josie Brown

  “What about one of the turrets at Lion’s Lair?” I ask.

  Arnie nods. “Sure, but how will you get access to it?”

  “Janie’s suite is located in one of them. It has a balcony and everything. Trisha will be over there tomorrow evening for a sleepover. Janie is screening the latest Pixar animation for my daughter and two of Salem’s daughters as well.”

  “That’ll do it,” Arnie says. “Hey, here’s a brilliant idea—I’ll camouflage it as a birdhouse!” He leaps up, excited. “The pole will be the signal tower, and the signal scanner itself will be buried in a false bottom of the house.”

  “Beautiful. I’ll drop it by as a thank-you gift for Janie,” Jack suggests. “For participating in the wedding. I’ll even offer to install it on the balcony.”

  I smile. “The kids will enjoy that. And when this is over, we’ll replace it. No one will be the wiser.” A revelation hits me. I bolt straight up in my seat. “Now that we’ve confirmed our target is not Lee, the person who contracted Xia may not know she’s dead! Granted, the target saw me, that is, ‘Xia’, enter the Georgetown mansion, and the four-alarm fire that followed, but there’s been no verification that she died inside the inferno.”

  “That certainly works in our favor,” Jack replies. “When the time comes, perhaps we should resurrect her ghost via text, and haunt her double-crossing client.”

  I turn to Ryan. “Speaking of Salem. I planted a microdot on his ring.”

  Ryan smiles. “Arnie, has the signal come in yet?”

  Arnie opens another screen on his computer. “The signal is live…but…”

  I roll my eyes heavenward. “But what?”

  “The audio works fine. But you must have adhered the camera facing into the crest, because the video is static. I’m reading some text or something.”

  I frown. “How could that be? The crest is onyx.”

  Arnie takes a closer look. “No, apparently it’s colored glass…and there’s a microdot behind it! Just like—”

  In unison, Arnie, Jack, and Ryan exclaim, “Pinky Ring’s!”

  I stare from one to another. “What?”

  “Not what, but who,” Ryan explains. “A couple of years back, Jack chased down a Quorum operative wearing a duplicate of the ring.”

  I nod. “I know. He mentioned it.”

  “What I forgot to mention was that the guy’s ring had a hidden compartment within the crest,” Jack adds. “It contained a phone memory card holding steganography. Arnie cracked the encryption. It was how we knew Carl had been turned by the Quorum.”

  “I see. And whatever is in Salem’s ring may also contain valuable intel,” I murmur. “So I have to meet with him after all.”

  Ryan looks at me sharply. “He asked for another liaison?”

  “Asked?” I shudder. “It was a command.”

  Ryan shrugs. “Great. Then you’ll go.”

  “No, she won’t.” Jack shakes his head adamantly. “He’s a sadist. Look at her face, damn it! And that was from being in the back of a limo with him for half an hour!”

  Ryan waits a good minute after Jack’s rant. Then, very quietly, he says, “It’s what she does.”

  There is nothing Jack can say to that.

  So, he doesn’t. Instead, he walks out of the room. And out of the cottage.

  Ryan turns to me. “I’m sorry, Donna. If we want to put a knife in the eye of the Quorum once and for all, we need Salem’s microdot. At the same time, if you can keep ours intact, all the better.” He pauses, then looks away before adding, “Do whatever it takes. You’ll report directly to me with your reconnaissance.”

  It’s called taking one for the team. Not that Jack needs to know that.

  I run out after Jack.

  We’ve pulled up to the driveway before Jack says a word. Make that four: “You don’t have to.”

  “I do. We both know it.” I stroke his arm. “Jack, I won’t let him touch me. He won’t have time. I’ll hit him with a Roofie—over and out! Then I’ll open the ring, take the intel, and I’m outta of there. Easy-peasy.”

  “Sure. Whatever.”

  “You sound like a sullen teenager.”

  “Speaking of which, Mary is sitting on the front stoop.” He nods in her direction.

  “Oh…yeah. We…she found out that Babette has deemed herself my maid of honor.”

  “Take care of her. She needs you.” He pats my arm. “Donna, I’m serious: you don’t have to do anything you don’t want to.”

  I nod. I know he means kowtowing to Babette.

  And going to Salem.

  Or anything else that hurts the ones I love most.

  Mary sits still. Her eyes are red, but the tears have stopped.

  She waits until I’m seated beside her before asking, “Why did you say yes to her?”

  “Because…Ryan asked me to.”

  She nods slowly. “So, if you were to be honest, this has something to do with your job, and nothing to do with any obligation you feel to Babette.”

  “Yes, of course! Mary, I think it’s obvious I’m not friends with the woman. As much as she despises me, I was shocked she even asked to take it on—”

  “Wait…so she asked you, not the other way around?”

  “Of course, I’d never ask her! And I was a fool to mention it to Ryan. Had he not known, that would have been the end of it.”

  “I told Ryan about it.” Jack is standing behind us. Kneeling, he adds, “So blame me, not your mother. I knew how much she wanted you as her maid of honor, and how much you wanted to do it.”

  “Glad you’ve finally manned up,” Mary retorts. “I know just how you can make it up to me, too.”

  “Anything,” Jack promises.

  Mary rewards him with a devilish grin. “Driving lessons. And not in Mom’s SUV either. In the i8.”

  Jack’s eyes open in mock horror. “Anything…but that.”

  Mary crosses her arms. There will be no further negotiations.

  He sighs. “Great. But we start after the honeymoon.”

  Mary puts her arms around my waist. “If it has to be Babette, I understand. Thanks for leveling with me…finally.”

  I kiss her cheek.

  “And be sure to bring my driving instructor back in one piece from the honeymoon.”

  Jack and I howl with laughter.

  “There’s not much you can do to kill your partner in bed,” I sputter.

  “I’ll bet there are plenty of ways, and I’m sure you know every one of them,” Mary retorts. “And by the way—too much information.”

  Arm in arm, we walk inside.

  Chapter 16

  Giving Away the Bride

  The tradition of giving the bride away goes back hundreds of years. Usually, it was her father who did the honors by approving her betrothed and hosting a formal matrimonial ceremony. The bride was considered her father’s property (let’s bandy about the term “chattel,” why don’t we?) to be acquired by the husband, along with the added incentive of cash, land or both, serving as a dowry.

  Today’s bride is likely to have a job, and make her own living. Hopefully her fiancé does as well, and they can pay for their own wedding—although, considering the cost of weddings these days, help from one or both families may be needed, and will certainly be appreciated.

  The man who raised her—be that her father, stepfather, uncle, big brother, or mother’s significant other—will find it an honor to walk her down the aisle as a token of their mutual adoration. In other words, any very close loved one who takes pride in her accomplishments will do just fine.

  In the modern era, no father has to pay a man to take his daughter off his hands. Her personal and professional accomplishments are adequate proof that she can take care of herself.

  That being said, guests should feel free to peruse the blissful couple’s wish list of wedding gifts on their preferred online registries. Being a self-made woman doesn’t mean she would object to a little help in feathering her nest. />
  Look at it this way: anything you give them is a drop in the bucket on what they’ll spend, per guest, during the wedding. My God, do you know how much these things cost these days?

  “This is for you!” Trisha, my little Trojan pony, comes bearing a gift for Janie: a birdhouse in the design of a two-story Williamsburg cottage.

  After an ear-piercing squeal, Janie squeezes Trisha’s neck with a heartfelt hug.

  It doesn’t raise an eyebrow from Zeb and his posse.

  Jack, acting as heavy lifter, kneels so that Janie can see inside. “Can we put it up now?” she begs.

  Jack turns to Janie’s au pair, Frannie. “Perhaps I can set it up for her, on the playroom terrace?”

  She nods. “Yes, of course. Follow me.”

  She includes me in the offer, but I shake my head. “I’ve got to meet with Babette. Is she around?”

  “Mummy is in the study. She has a headache.” Janie shrugs. Apparently, nothing new there.

  Trisha frowns. “There’s a mummy in your study? Is it all wrapped up in bandages? Can I see?”

  Janie shakes her head. “I meant my mummy—my mommy. She prefers I call her that.” She stops to think a moment. “But, yes, she had bandages on her back. I think they’re off now.”

  Interesting. But from what I now know of Salem, I’m not at all surprised.

  I trot off in the direction of Babette’s wing. Something tells me the next conversation won’t be as appreciated.

  “I don’t think Babette is expecting you.” Narcissa, who had been thumbing her way through the latest issue of Vogue, sits on a settee outside the door of Babette’s personal study at Lion’s Lair. Noting that her words don’t slow me down, she stands up in order to block me.

  “It’s important that I speak to her—now.” I’m smiling, but she can read between my fists: Don’t push me.

  Narcissa grimaces at my obstinacy. “She’s asked not to be disturbed. She’s seeing to some very important affairs of state. You can set an appointment.” She opens the calendar app on her iPad. “How about tomorrow? I can squeeze you in between seven-ten and seven-twenty in the morning.”

  “Nope, don’t think so, no. That’s my wedding day.”

  “Ah. Yes, of course. Which means that the first lady has a lot on her plate between now and then in preparation for it, since she will be its most important guest. Did you know that both Vanity Fair and People are bidding for the exclusive rights to Mario Testino’s photos of your wedding? Not just of the event, but Mrs. Chiffray’s preparation leading up to it. Everyone else is trying to climb the compound’s walls. There are already helicopters circling overhead! POTUS may insist the NSA deem it a no-fly zone. Still, between the paparazzi and the Secret Service, Chantal is beside herself.” Seeing my shock at all of it, she adds, “The proceeds will go to charity, of course. Babette has chosen supporting the local libraries—FLOTUS’s pet cause. So you see, that specific ten-minute window is the only one that works—”

  With my arm across her throat, she has nowhere to go but against the wall. “There are many ways in which I can imply my sense of urgency. Would you like me to show you?”

  “Not necessary.” Narcissa is gasping so hard that I can barely hear her.

  I may have bruised her hyoid bone. She got off lucky.

  She can barely breathe. Now she knows how I feel.

  The drapes are drawn. The room is so dark that at first I don’t see Babette. She is lying on the couch, her eyes closed. There is a cloyingly sweet smell in the air.

  Something is terribly wrong.

  I’m practically standing over Babette when she mutters, “I thought I told you to leave me alone.”

  “I think we need to chat.” I take the chair closest to her head. My God, she looks pale. “Babette, are you okay?”

  “Who the hell…” One eye pops open. “Oh, it’s you. What do you want now, Donna?”

  “I don’t want anything. In fact, I never did.” I take a deep breath. “Babette, I want you to bow out as my matron of honor.”

  “How dare you!” She struggles to right herself on the couch. “After all I’ve done to make it the wedding of the decade—”

  “That’s just it. I never wanted it to be ‘the wedding of the decade.’ All I wanted was for it to be my wedding—surrounded by those who love me most. No celebrities, no heads of state, no paparazzi in helicopters circling overhead—”

  “No. Sorry. It’s not your decision to make at this stage.” She glares at me. “Who do you think you are, anyway?”

  I lean in so that she hears me loud and clear: “I’m the only one who matters. I’m the bride.”

  “You’re also an ungrateful bitch!” She shoves me back into a chair. I let her. “All this time, I’ve been extending an olive branch to the very woman who is destroying my marriage—”

  “I’m doing no such thing!”

  “Oh, please, Donna, quit acting coy! Don’t you think I know what you’re up to? First, there’s your ongoing affair with my husband—”

  “That’s a lie!”

  From the despair etched in her face, she refuses to believe me. Why is that?

  Lee. “Is that what Lee told you?”

  “He doesn’t have to! I’m no fool! I see how he looks at you!” She practically spits in my face. Her breath is rancid. “And now you’re going after my…my very close friend—”

  Enough of this crap. “Don’t you mean your lover?”

  Realizing I know her secret, she blanches. She can’t deny it.

  All she can do is throw up—

  On my shoes, no less.

  Groaning, she leans back on the couch.

  Then it hits me: “You’re…pregnant.”

  She nods. A long sigh is followed by wracking sobs.

  “Is it Lee’s?”

  She throws up again. This time, I’m able to move quickly to avoid the last vestiges of her breakfast.

  She sobs even harder. I move onto the couch beside her. I lay my hand on her arm.

  She acknowledges it by taking it in her own. “I hate my life! It’s…it’s like living in a fishbowl!” She chokes out her words in fits and starts. “I can’t breathe, I can’t think…I can’t hide…and now this.”

  “When will you tell Lee?”

  “I don’t know. I was thinking about waiting until after the summit.”

  “Will he…know?”

  “Know what? That it isn’t his?” Her upper lip lifts into a snarl. “Dear Donna, if there’s one thing Lee Chiffray can do, it’s count.” She closes her eyes, as if the thought of his reaction exhausts her. “He’ll want to pretend it’s his, if only to save face. But I won’t let him. Salem needs a male heir to continue his legacy and enjoy his family’s largesse. If I’m carrying a boy, he’ll banish all of his other wives at my behest. I’ll be his one and only princess. And my son will be prince.” She smiles at this fantasy.

  Stupid Babette.

  Poor Lee.

  Neither of us says anything for a long while. Finally, she whispers, “Can I trust you to keep your mouth shut until then?”

  “I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, Babette. I have no desire to involve myself with Lee’s personal affairs, or yours.”

  She nods grudgingly. We both know she will never trust me.

  Well, it’s her problem, not mine. “And I meant it when I said I’d prefer that you withdraw as my matron of honor. It was kind of you to take on the wedding planning—far beyond the call of our…friendship.” I wince when I say that word. “But even before you insinuated yourself into that role, I had already asked Mary. I cannot go back on my word to my daughter. Surely, you understand that.”

  “Turning me down, for a brat teenager who will probably embarrass you? I think you’re a fool.” She shakes her head in disbelief. “But if you’re set on doing this, so be it.” She flicks her wrist toward the door. “Just be prepared: the minute Chantal puts out the word that I won’t be attending your quaint little shindig, don’t
expect anyone of importance to show up either.”

  Boo hoo hoo. “Duly noted.” I turn my face so that she doesn’t see my relief.

  “That goes for Lee too.”

  “If that’s his decision, I understand perfectly.”

  As I start toward the door, she calls out, “Oh, and Donna, when you see Salem today, for your own sake, I hope you don’t blurt out my news. It may earn you more pain than you bargained for.”

  Her warning stops me cold. Salem told her about me? What a romantic guy.

  She drops her robe off of one shoulder so that I can see her back. It is crisscrossed with belt buckle welts.

  Noting my shock, she giggles. “Never mind. The moment he puts the ball gag in your mouth, you won’t be able to say anything about it anyway.”

  I walk out before I’m tempted to give in to the urge of also throwing up.

  “Don’t go.” From Jack’s tone, I know it’s a demand, not a request.

  He’s on the bed, watching me put on my makeup as I get ready for my date with Salem. I don’t feel the need to dress for the role of submissive: that is, as demure schoolgirl, or in flowing virginal white. And certainly, the last thing I have to do is look like a call girl. Instead, I’ve chosen an outfit of elegant simplicity: flare-leg dark gray pants and a matching fitted long-sleeved jacket over a burgundy long-sleeved crewneck top.

  “Let’s go over your fears, one by one.” I am using my kindergarten teacher voice. It is soft and slowly modulated. There is no emphasis on words that may cause alarm—the primary word being, fears.

  He holds up a hand with his index finger raised. “He reserved the Presidential Suite. It’s on its own floor in the Beverly Wing. In other words, there is no one to hear you scream should he…when he…” Jack balls his fists at the thought of any and all of the fun and games Salem has in store for me.

  “It won’t come to that. I swear.”

  “How can you be so sure?”

  “I’m not a ten-dollar hooker on the clock. He’s trying to seduce me. We’ll have drinks first, at which time I’ll drug him, remember?” I hold up my hand in order to point to an antique diamond ring. “As discussed, liquid Rohypnol, ready and accounted for. One twist and it’s in his drink. Nighty-night, Salem! I’ll then take the microdot from his ring, scan his cell, and I’m out of there. Arnie is covering the security cams, in case I need…well, a quick exit.”