1 The Housewife Assassin's Handbook

by Josie Brown

  “What is this, an interrogation? Am I about to be snatched?” To mock me, he glances over his shoulder.

  “We’re getting to know each other, remember? Besides, if I wanted to make you talk, there are easier ways than extraordinary rendition.” This mojito is strong. I can’t tell if I’m charming him with a Mona Lisa smile or leering like some sort of mad clown.

  He leans back. “Okay, yeah, sure. You get a question, and then I get one.”

  “Fair enough.”

  “So, you want to know about any attachments, right?” He chews on his swizzle stick. “Only one that was ever serious. But it’s over now.”

  “So you’re divorced.”

  His wince is quickly covered over by a shrug. “Things . . . just didn’t work out. Our lives are too complicated.”

  “You’re telling me.” Whatever is left in my drink is gone in one quick swallow. “Like Carl, were you recruited out of the military?”

  He nods. “Marine Corps. I served in Somalia, then Iraq, the first Bush war.” His lips curdle into a grimace. “Now I’m an international man of mystery.”

  “So you enjoy this.”

  “I wouldn’t say that.” As he reaches for his napkin, his hand grazes mine. It sends a shiver up my spine. “But others tell me I’m good at it.”

  “Yeah, you’ve got great buzz, that’s for sure.” I don’t have to tell him that the dish on his bedroom technique is just as notable. The telltale sign is that all the female double agents beg to be interrogated by him.

  “Your rep is quite impressive, too.”

  “I do what’s needed to get the bad guys.”

  “That’s why you’re on this mission, Donna.” He pauses, but his eyes don’t waver away from mine. “Okay, it’s my turn now. Do you still love him?”

  His question takes me by surprise. I’m choking down my drink.

  He gets up to slap me on the back. (Seriously, does that really work?)

  I shoo him away. I don’t want to be touched.

  At least, not when I’m thinking about Carl. I have too much respect for him.

  But I can’t say that to him. So instead I murmur, “Yes. I still love him.”

  Jack says nothing, but his eyes deepen with sadness.

  I can only presume that this is out of respect for Carl. I would never assume that he is attracted to me.

  Okay, I’ll admit it: he’s hot. Maybe that’s because he’s the first man who has reminded me of Carl.

  But no man will ever make me forget Carl.

  That’s why I feel comfortable saying “Yeah, sure . . .” when he asks me if I want to dance.

  The live band is playing a very sultry version of “At Last.” The lead singer, a woman named Andree Belle, has a husky murmur, perfect for lyrics oozing with lust and innuendo.

  Jack holds me lightly but firmly in his arms. We move as if we’re floating. I could attribute this to a mojito high, but why not give credit where it’s due? What I saw him doing with Penelope at the father-daughter dance was just a warm-up. His hands and hips maneuver me slyly, cajoling me into a wanton frenzy, willing my body to mirror his . . .

  Our bodies fit together snugly.

  Maybe a bit too snugly, if in fact he isn’t packing heat.

  I’m used to seducing and then killing men when they are at their most vulnerable. Tonight, though, it is me who is fighting the urge to surrender.

  I thank God he’s not a mark.

  Even as I think that, even as he holds me near—

  He ruins everything when he whispers in my ear: “Didn’t you hate him for lying to you?”

  The love tango reeling in my heart goes flat before breaking off. I should be breathing, but I can’t.

  Hate? Did I hate Carl?

  Yes, of course I hated him.

  For lying to me.

  For leaving me.

  For not loving me enough to quit Acme.

  When, finally, I find my voice, what comes out is barely a whisper. “Why would you ask such a thing?”

  “Because I would, too, if I’d been betrayed like that.”

  I stumble to our chairs, grab my sweater, and head for the car.

  He stays long enough to pay the bill for the ahi we never got to eat.

  On the way home, neither of us speaks.

  He stops the car half a block from the house.

  “What the heck are you doing?” I ask.

  “I don’t think you should go to bed angry.” He turns to look at my profile. It’s dark, so I can’t imagine he sees much. Hopefully he can’t tell that my eyes are damp.

  My laugh is harsh. “I don’t think you have any say in how I go to bed—”

  The next thing I know, he’s kissing me.

  There is nothing tender at all about Jack Craig’s mouth. It ravages wantonly. It doesn’t have to probe to persuade, to melt your resistance, to make you realize what you’ve been missing—

  To make you crave it even more.

  I have absolutely no desire to come up for air. Yes, my lips are hungry for him. Or is it that I need someone to touch?

  I can’t answer that now. All I know is that I need this so, so badly.

  I need him.

  No, I need Carl.

  But he’s no longer around . . .

  What the hell is that annoying tap-tap-tapping?

  I look up, and out beyond the car. Seems that someone is tossing pebbles at the window of my guest room—

  Nola.

  As I jump out of the car, I jab my finger in Nola’s direction. “You’ve got a visitor, Romeo.”

  “Donna, wait! She—she just wants company when she walks her dog—”

  “Give me a break, Jack! What do you take me for, an idiot?”

  But I am an idiot. I almost cared about him. Worst yet, I thought he cared about me, too.

  I don’t know what stuns him more: the punch to the gut or the slap to his face.

  “Don’t wait up,” he croaks out before gunning the car down the block, toward the house.

  A wide smile breaks open on Nola’s face when she sees him pulling into the driveway. But he’s not there long. She jumps in and they screech off to who knows where.

  Now I really do have to walk Lassie.

  As for Rin Tin Tin, I hope he pees all over her brand new white carpet.

  Chapter 11

  Mattress Testing Tips

  A comfortable mattress makes all the difference for a good night’s sleep! The best way to test a mattress is to lay down on it: First on your back, then turning on both sides. And on your stomach as well. If you feel springs, it’s not a great mattress. If you feel a gun to your head, it’s not a great situation for you to be in—

  Unless you’ve hidden a gun under your pillow. Then it’s a fair fight. Slam your opponent with the pillow to get him off-guard. Recycling Tip: any bedding shot through with bullet holes can be cut into squares, making perfectly proportioned cleaning rags!

  “Where’s Dad?” asks Jeff.

  Mary and Trisha’s eyes shift toward me. Everyone is waiting for my answer.

  It better be good, considering that Jack’s been gone for two nights straight.

  I’ve noticed that Nola’s house has been dark, too.

  I take Jeff’s half-eaten plate of blueberry pancakes and set it in the sink. As hard as it is, I force my lips into a smile. “He’s on a business trip. But he’ll be back soon.”

  “Like, today? Because . . .” Jeff’s voice trails off.

  Yes, I know what he’s thinking. He sees Jack as his good luck charm. Since his arrival, they haven’t lost a game.

  “He promised to help me with my algebra, too.” Mary’s brow furrows into two tiny lines. “The test is tomorrow.”

  “What if he never comes back?” Trisha asks in a
soft whisper.

  Only she has the guts to say what they are all really thinking.

  I know this, because it’s what I’m thinking, too.

  “I’m sure he’ll be home as fast as he can,” I say, as nonchalantly as I can, but I can’t hide the crack in my voice as I add: “Hey everyone, we’ve got to move fast if I’m to get you to school on time! Let’s move it!”

  Marion, Hilldale’s librarian/Acme operative, hands over an oldie but goodie: Three Weeks by Elinor Glyn. It hasn’t been checked out in five decades, so it is safe of her to presume that no one else would have requested it before I get to the library. The message hidden within its pages is our latest lead on the missing yellowcake plutonium.

  I take it to an empty table beside a window overlooking a grove of weeping willow trees. Their leafy strands are swaying in a gentle breeze. To view these missives, I’ve got a very special bookmark. Anyone who picks it up thinks it is made of clear plastic, but in truth, it is an infrared screen that reads invisible ink.

  Within the pages of a torrid love scene I find the name of my next suspect: Armand Fronsdal. He runs an art gallery in Beverly Hills.

  “It’s a Larkaro,” Armand Fronsdal hisses in my ear. “Arresting, is it not?”

  Yep, that’s exactly how I’d describe an art installation made up of a video projector playing a short film in which three big-breasted nymphs cavort in the woods. But hey, what do I know from art?

  One thing I do know: this man’s breath leaves a lot to be desired.

  But when I turn to face him, I’ve already set my lips into a come-hither pout. “I’m looking for something a bit more . . . je ne sais quoi? Ah! Romantique.”

  Having one-upped his Lounge Lizardeese with my high school French has scored me major points with this jerk. He crooks a finger at me to follow him.

  He is too tall and too slight: think Ichabod Crane in Goth. If his ponytail is supposed to cover up the fact that he’s got a bald spot, he’s failed miserably. He’s wearing more eyeliner than me, which is saying a lot, because I laid it on thick this morning.

  Albeit no thicker than the crap he’s laying on me now. “Has ma’mselle been complimented for her resemblance to John Singer Sargent’s magnificent painting of Mrs. Waldorf Astor?”

  I shrug. While it is flattering, we both know it’s a stretch. Edvard Munch’s The Scream, maybe…

  “Ah, well, perhaps we shall find some petit amusement, oui?” I murmur. Playing the bored art patroness has meant dressing up in a shiny ass-grazing red leather dress that zips up the front, black fishnet stockings that end in four-inch Louboutin thigh-high boots, and a veiled chapeau perched atop my French twist. What with the tightness of the dress and the tiny heels of the shoes, keeping up with his long strides is a bitch.

  The gallery is really a warehouse broken up into several rooms. He doesn’t stop until he reaches the one furthest to the back of the building. One wall is made up of medieval pitchforks in a lattice pattern. Near another, a seven-foot hot pink and purple polka-dot penis rises, thick and proud, among two humongous blue balls.

  Ouch.

  The center installation is made up of abstract mirrored balls of varying sizes, hung from the ceiling. They are dripping some substance the color of blood.

  If this is his idea of romantic, I’m guessing he doesn’t go on many dates.

  “Voila,” he purrs in an accent as bad as mine.

  “C’est magnifique,” I whisper as I stare up at the mirrored balls.

  “This is my private atelier,” he hisses proudly. “Everything in here is my own creation. If this piece speaks to you, I’m sure we can come up with some arrangement: say, forty thou? That’s a third off the catalog price.”

  “Such a steal. Almost wholesale.” I tilt of my head. Unconsciously I straighten the seams of my stockings. In truth, I am taking aim with the toe of my right bootie. It is loaded with truth serum. The sooner I take this guy down, the better. This place gives me a bad case of the creeps, and I want out of here fast—

  Ah, darn! His cell phone just buzzed. I wave him off as he excuses himself to answer it.

  In one of the mirrored balls hanging from the ceiling, I see that he is almost at the door when he freezes. His back straightens. Then slowly he turns around.

  He has a wary look on his face. He doesn’t think I see him as he plucks one of the pitchforks from the wall. And steps up behind me—

  But I’m too quick for him, swinging the largest of the mirrored balls toward his skull.

  It knocks him down but not out. The pitchfork skitters on the slippery floor. As I lunge for it, he grabs my ankle, and I fall hard—

  Damn. These. Heels—

  I’m. So. Cold!

  What brings me back to consciousness is the sticky gel being applied to my breast.

  I open one eye to find that I am naked except for my fishnet stocking and heels.

  Oh yeah, and my hat.

  Not a great look when you’re tied to a seven-foot penis.

  Armand is painting me with a small roller. The crap is hardening fast. When I glance down, I see my face reflected there on my breasts.

  From the looks of things, I’m to be the centerpiece of the mirrored ball exhibit.

  Over my dead body . . .

  “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” I try to kick him away, but he shifts just out of reach.

  “Painting you with liquid Mylar. Soon you’ll be as shiny—and as stiff—as these mirrored balls. You’ll make an arresting centerpiece, to say the least.” His smile curdles whatever Mickey Mouse pancakes are left in my gut from this morning’s breakfast. “At first I was going to keep you in the leather dress, but I find it oh so much more titillating in just the stockings and heels—oh, and that cute little veiled hat.”

  “Glad you approve of my fashion taste.”

  “Yes, well, the booties are classy, for sure. You know, I’ve always considered that particular Louboutin a work of art, so it’s appropriate that it will now be part of my installation.”

  “Let me down NOW!”

  Instead he stops to scrutinize his handiwork. “You’re flawed, you know. Too much cellulite—”

  “Listen, you bony asshole, I don’t need you to tell me where I’m packing a few too many el-bees—”

  “Just being honest.” He bends down to drench the roller again with Mylar from the paint bucket at his feet.

  Before he can look up, I kick him—

  Unfortunately with the wrong foot. It sends him reeling toward the pitchfork installation.

  After he stumbles back over, my penance is a backhanded slap. “What a bad, bad girl, you are. Did you really think I’d divulge all my secrets to you?”

  “No,” I say through rattled teeth and a bloody mouth. “Just one—”

  With that, I lift my leg high enough to stab him in the thigh—hard—with the needle between my toes. “Tell me where you’re keeping the yellowcake, Armand.”

  Angrily he slaps me again.

  I’ve had enough of his crap.

  With all the force I can muster, I give one of the blue balls an over-the-head kick that sends it flying into Armand’s gut.

  Stunned, he stumbles backward—

  Right into a medieval pitchfork angled perpendicular to the wall.

  It pierces him through the heart.

  I’m guessing the last words he’s gasping has nothing to do with the whereabouts of the yellowcake.

  Aw heck, I blew it again.

  It takes me a full half hour to figure out that the only way to break free from the seven-foot penis is to heave it off its tripod. Top-heavy, it topples over, resting on its head. At least now I can slip out through the bottom.

  In the meantime, the Mylar on my chest has stiffened.

  My breasts haven’t been this perky since I was t
wenty-two.

  But I can’t look down. Forget vertigo. From the mirrored slope between them, I see some slack under my chin. Maybe Armand was right, and it’s time for a little nip/tuck.

  I get dressed, then scour the gallery for the yellowcake, but it is nowhere to be found: not in Armand’s office, not in the delivery room, and certainly not in any of the exhibits.

  I’m so frustrated over this that I slam one of the mirrored balls into another—

  Both crack open. A shower of yellow powder sprinkles onto the floor.

  For once, Rodeo Drive is paved in gold, literally.

  Covering my face with my hands, I get the hell out of there. Before slipping through the back door and into an alley, I text Emma: I picked up the cake, but then dropped it. Please send the maid to mop up the kitchen.

  Obliterating Beverly Hills would not endear me to my shopaholic neighbors, so I hope Ryan sends a clean-up crew quickly.

  I’m making dinner when Jack saunters into the kitchen, as if he doesn’t have a care in the world.

  Emma looks up from her crossword puzzle and gives him a high-five as he walks past her. The kids run to give him hugs.

  Me, I don’t even look up.

  Instead, I grab a cleaver.

  “So, you’ve made it home for dinner tonight.” I practically spit out the words at Jack as I toss a large raw chicken onto one of the chopping blocks. The other holds the fixings for our family’s Waldorf salad.

  Damn him! Once again, he’s drinking orange juice straight out of the carton, as if he’s the only one who has a right to it. Well, he isn’t! My God, who knows where his mouth has been?

  I can only imagine.

  I stab the romaine savagely with the cleaver.

  The kids and Emma skedaddle. They can read my moods, even if Jack hasn’t yet bothered to learn them.

  And now that I’ve found the yellowcake, he won’t have to. Mission accomplished! He can just leave.

  Good riddance.

  Jack chokes on the pulp. “Hey, no need to pull out the fine china, or anything. And salad’s just fine with me. I’ve been eating a lot of unhealthy crap these last couple of nights—”