The Housewife Assassin's Terrorist TV Guide

by Josie Brown

  At this declaration, even Addison’s mouth drops open.

  Brin’s eyes narrow. “Hey, look at it this way: because of our research, at least you have a chance of making the show. If we were to go on the malarky your wife was feeding us, you’d have been too boring. Viewers would fall asleep.”

  No time to wait for Aunt Phyllis. I better get out there before they write us off—and we’re told to abort the mission.

  I toss a few spoons onto the tray along with six of my best China cups and saucers. I was going to serve the orange chiffon cake too, but that was before it turned into a flambé.

  Ah well, they’ll have to do with what’s left of our Daisy Scout Cookies. Even if I had an opportunity to sprinkle, say, a few Trim Mints with arsenic, I wouldn’t have time to signal Jack and the kids to leave them on the plate. Besides, I doubt the murder of a couple of the show’s producers would stop the network from its decision to film Hot Housewives of Hilldale. If anything, headlines touting that a prospective contestant killed the showrunners would only make it a bigger ratings hit.

  Any way you shake it, I’m in a lose-lose position.

  I haven’t even had a chance to pour the coffee before Brin stands up. Ignoring the spread in front her, she glances at her watch instead. “Wow, this is all so lovely, but we’re late for our next appointment.”

  The kids look relieved to hear they’re going. Jack’s stony demeanor means I’ll have to play good cop—and fast. “Gee, that's too bad.” Putting out my hand, I add, “Well, good luck in your star search. I’m sure everyone in town will be watching it.”

  Brin cackles at the obviousness of my statement. “Train wrecks are always worth gawking at, aren’t they?” She shrugs. “And in this ’hood, we’ve got so many to choose from!” She doesn’t wait for me to show her the front door. They are all out so quickly that you’d think they’d seen a ghost.

  Or something much worse: in this case Aunt Phyllis, chasing their car down the street in my new heels. As she shakes the sack of sugar at them, she yells, “But you didn’t give me a chance to show you what I can do!”

  I swear, if Aunt Phyllis scuffs my new Loubies, she's going to see exactly what I can do…

  “So, what do you think?” Jeff asks. “Are we going to be on the show?”

  “I wouldn’t count on it,” Jack mutters.

  Trisha is disappointed enough to declare “Darn it!”

  On the other hand, Evan sighs, relieved. Mary’s face expresses a myriad of emotions beginning with relief and ending in wistfulness. Not getting her fifteen minutes of fame makes her wonder if she’d ever regret it.

  I can assure her she would, but some things you have to find out on your own.

  From Ryan's angry shouts coming in over our earbuds, I guess he agrees with my husband, but it doesn't mean he's happy about it.

  Jack and I do the same thing at the same time: pull our earbuds out before we hear the obvious, followed by the inevitable:

  We screwed up, and we’re off the mission.

  As if channeling Ryan, Aunt Phyllis wags a finger at Jack. “I don’t understand why you even wanted to try out for the damn show if you were going to blow it by being such a rude stick-in-the-mud.” She turns in my direction. “As for you, a little cleavage would have gone a long way. Just sayin’.”

  Jack mutters. “Oh, brother! I could use a nice stiff drink.”

  “Good. Go find one.” She opens the front door. Pointing a thumb at me, she adds, “And take Miss Goody Two-Shoes with you.”

  She doesn’t have to ask us twice.

  “I guess calling Brin’s bluff was the wrong decision.” There. After three glasses of a good Zin, I’ve finally found the guts to admit we were wrong.

  We’re at the Sand Dollar, a place where we always get a great steak and a stiff drink, and at least tonight, no view of the moon rising over the Pacific Ocean’s horizon.

  Jack shakes his head adamantly. “Not at all. In fact, they'll want us even more. I mean, come on: we’re the perfect couple!”

  That earns him a kiss. He leans in and pulls me closer. When our lips part, I sigh. “Look, we can tell each other what we want to hear all day long, or we face up to the fact that Ryan isn’t happy with how we handled today.”

  Jack chugs the last of his scotch rocks. “We made a decision. And we stuck to it. If Ryan doesn’t like it, he can—”

  Anna, our waitress, taps him on the shoulder. “Your designated driver is here.”

  “What do you mean? We brought a car.” He holds up his key fob.

  The velocity in which he twirls it on his index finger gives it lift-off.

  Anna catches it. Shaking her head, she murmurs, “Right, sailor. But since you don’t have your land legs as of yet, I’ve called an Uber for you.” She helps him to his feet. “Time to sleep off whatever misery you two are celebrating”—she nods toward the restaurant’s entrance—“unless you want to help me close up this joint.”

  I shake my head—much too adamantly, if my searing headache is any proof. “Nah. We’ve got to get home ’cause tomorrow we hear that we aren’t going to be on TV.”

  Anna laughs—from the ringing in my ears, too loudly. “Oh, my God! Don’t tell me you guys put in for that Hilldale reality show!”

  “Yeah, but, it’s not what you think,” Jack insists. He then pauses because he’s either remembered where we are and what we do or because he is too drunk to remember what he has to say. Sadly, my guess is it’s the latter.

  “If it’s any consolation, everyone in here tonight also applied, and they also let on that somehow they think they screwed it up.” Anna rolls her eyes. “I guess the producers are ballbusters. Figures. I’ve seen their shows. They make fools of everyone.”

  It’s on the tip of my tongue to declare we can do that all by ourselves when we hear a horn tooting.

  “Up and at ’em! Your chariot awaits.” Anna helps me to my feet.

  When I trip out of my heels, Jack bends down to pick them up, only to hit his head on the table before stumbling out after us.

  A Lincoln Town Car is parked curbside. Nice.

  Anna does her best to push me into the back seat. Jack falls in on his own.

  “Can you tell the driver your address?” Anna asks gently.

  “I’ve got them covered,” the driver says.

  He should. He’s Abu.

  What a surprise…

  As tipsy as I am, is it any wonder that I suddenly feel as if I’m the wittiest woman in all of Orange County? Indeed, not. With a flick of a wrist, I proclaim, “Home, James.”

  He waits until she closes the door before turning to us and shaking his head. “Sorry, your Ladyship, but Ryan needs to see you both, toute suite.”

  Yikes.

  The utterance of our boss’s name has a sobering effect on Jack as well. His impish grin flattens under the dual weight of Ryan’s response to our going AWOL, and concern of what might have happened in the meantime.

  “Oh, and by the way, you can now tip Uber drivers,” Abu adds.

  Jack is lucid enough to raise a brow at this pronouncement. “Seriously? You mean to tell me that Acme isn’t picking this up?”

  Abu shakes his head. “Hey, don’t shoot the messenger—I mean, the driver. If you two hadn’t pulled a disappearing act…”

  “Yeah, okay, we get it.” Frowning, Jack leans back and closes his eyes.

  He stays that way until we get to Acme.

  As we get out of the car, I toss a fiver at Abu. “Don’t get too used to this cover. In a couple of years, Uber will be using driverless cars.”

  Crestfallen, he mutters, “You’re kidding, right?”

  I shake my head.

  Abu slaps his forehead in disgust. “I guess next time I’ll be picking you up in the ice cream truck. See you inside as soon as I park this jalopy.” He pulls away from the curb so quickly that the tires shriek as he hits the road.

  By the time we walk in the front door, Jack and I are sober. Any hangover
we get has nothing to do with the amount of alcohol consumed, and everything to do with what Ryan shouts at us for blowing our chance to go undercover.

  Chapter 5

  Star Trek

  “Mr. Spock, the women on your planet are logical. It’s the only planet in the universe that can make that claim.”

  —Captain James T. Kirk

  If you assume the life of a star is glamorous, think again. Pity the poor woman whose quest is perfection!

  She can never go out of her house—make that, her mansion—unless her hair is perfectly coiffed, her toilette creates the illusion of a flawless face, and her attire rivals that of a pop diva.

  Her physique must be sylph slim and tautly toned and eternally tweaked—preferably by the same surgeon on call to Mattel for the yearly redesign of Barbie. Otherwise, the tabloids will muse over her love life, dig up any childhood strife, and then tout it on the cover with a distorted photo that makes her look half as sane and twice as fat.

  The half-smile that never leaves her face is in anticipation of the click of the paparazzi’s cameras or the cell phones of her multitude of stalking fans. Heaven forfend she should be caught frowning, scratching, sneezing, eating—or worst of all, fighting with her beloved!

  Finally, when all of the attention becomes too much to bear, she retreats deep within the confines of her gated estate; all the while wishing that the peace she finds there could be wrapped around her, like an invisible cloak, whenever she dares to venture out again.

  Hush, hush, sweet starlet! Don’t you realize that the first time, “Oh, by God! There she is!…” is replaced with “Weren’t you Whatshername?…” You grudgingly understand that stardom can go as quickly as it came.

  Be careful what you wish for. Now, smile pretty for the cameras!

  Even this late at night, Acme is a beehive of activity. Ryan’s door is closed, but the moment we arrive, his assistant, Natasha, immediately shows us in. He’s got his back to us as he stares at the traffic crawling up the 405.

  Arnie and Emma are already there. Their toddler, Nicky slumbers away in the sling strapped across Arnie’s chest, his small lips quivering. Emma puts a finger to her mouth to silence us. Is it because she doesn’t want us to wake Nicky, or because it might disturb Ryan?

  When finally Ryan turns around, I notice he’s wearing a Bluetooth. “Yeah, okay,” he says to the caller. “Thanks for the update.”—His eyes hone in on me in particular. “I’ll let them know.”

  The call must be over because he pulls the device from his ear. “Sit!” Ryan barks. He glowers at us.

  Jack’s eyes meet mine. We slip into chairs on opposite sides of the room. Yes, we do this on purpose. Call it survival instincts. If Ryan shoots one of us, the other has a better chance of getting away. Someone has to make it home alive to raise the kids. Heaven help them if they’re left with Aunt Phyllis.

  “I take it we’re out?” I ask.

  Our boss shrugs. “Seems that way. According to Emma, in Addison’s defense, he put up a hell of a fight to get you on the show. But Brin fought him tooth and nail. So he’s asked us to come up with a Plan B.”

  “Maybe it’s for the best,” Jack reasons.

  “No, it’s not. At least, not as far as Acme is concerned. Or POTUS, for that matter.” Ryan scowls. “Frankly, Jack, I’m disappointed in you. Lucy was willing to put up with your surliness because she knew that the show’s viewers would quote-unquote salivate over you.” He rolls his eyes at the thought. “But Brin has you pegged as a troublemaker who won’t play ball on camera. I’d expected you to at least try to get on her good side—no matter what it took.”

  Jack and I both know what he means by that. From the look on Jack’s face, he doesn’t care for Ryan’s implication any more than I do.

  “Even if Jack had played up to her, it probably wouldn’t have made a difference,” I counter. “She’s only looking for couples who have strife and drama in their lives.”

  Granted, we certainly have our fair share—but the public certainly isn’t supposed to know about it.

  Ryan’s head whips around in my direction. “Sadly, you’re right, Mrs. Craig. It probably wouldn’t have made much of a difference if Jack were more amenable, considering that they found you, in their words, ‘more boring than watching paint dry.’”

  I’m so angry that I pop out of my seat. “I beg your pardon?”

  “You heard me. They were wondering why Jack married you in the first place. Addison did his best to convince them you were—again, his words, not mine—‘a fox.’” His shrug is all the proof I need that, personally, he doesn’t necessarily agree.

  What the—

  Hell yeah, I’m a fox!

  “So, what now?” I mutter sarcastically. “Do they want Jack to go on as a bachelor?”

  “Funny you should ask,” Ryan retorts. “In fact, I suggested that exact idea to Addison—”

  “You did? Well, screw—”

  “And he, in turn, floated it to Brin and Lucy. Sadly, Brin was adamant about axing all of the Craig family.” Ryan shrugs. “You'll be relegated to reconnaissance—gleaning what you can from the chosen contestants when you run into them—and window dressing, when needed. Speaking of which, we’ve got a list of at least four families who have made the cut. Three of them fit our suspect profile. And today, we intercepted chatter that indicates the terrorist was accepted on the show.”

  Oh, no.

  Hell no.

  He nods to Emma.

  She swipes to a screen on her iPad. The wall-sized monitor comes to life. “Take notes, folks. Here are our suspects…”

  “Couple Number One is Patty and James Garrett,” Emma explains. “He’s a retired USAF pilot. His last tour of duty was spent at Creech AFB, in Nevada.”

  “In other words, he was assigned to the Unmanned Aerial Vehicle Battlelab,” Jack murmurs.

  “He’d pilot drones to wherever they’re needed?” I ask.

  Jack nods.

  “As for his wife, Patty,” Emma continues, “she’s a stay-at-home mom. I guess it’s smart for her to do so since they have six children, ranging in age from two to sixteen. They moved into town about four months ago.”

  The photo on the monitor shows them in a classic modern family portrait. The entire family is decked out in white shirts and jeans. They are gathered in a pastoral outdoor setting. It seems as if the photographer had a hard time getting them to smile.

  James wears his beach boy blond hair at military length: a mere quarter-inch to his skull. His angular face, broad shoulders, muscular arms, and slim waist attest to a twenty-plus-year regimen of push-ups and sit-ups. Sadly, the dark lines created by his sullen scowl undermine the perfect picture of youthful vitality.

  His wife Patty’s dimpled grin belies her struggle to keep her squiggling youngest, Joey, in her plump arms. Despite holding her child in front, she can’t hide the fact that her girth seems to be twice that of her husband’s.

  “Jenna is sixteen,” Emma continues, “The oldest boy, Jason, is fifteen.”

  Neither child is smiling. In fact, Jason isn’t even looking at the camera.

  “Their brother, Jordan, is thirteen,” Emma continues. “Their daughter, Jody, is twelve, Juliette is six, and the youngest, Joey, is only two.”

  “Patty isn’t your typical O.C. yummy mommy. Why do you think the Garrets made the cut?” Jack asks.

  “Brin loved the tension between the parents, not to mention the two older kids give James a hard time. Jenna ignores him, whereas Jason is surly. Or, as Lucy thinks, if the showrunners push the right buttons, one of the kids will explode on camera.”

  Nice folk.

  “Jordan is in Jeff’s class,” I point out. “He’s quiet to a fault. And Jenna is in Mary’s grade. From what Mary says, she’s not very outgoing either.”

  “If she’s that shy, I can imagine that all of this public exposure isn’t going to be fun for her,” Jack adds.

  “And they’ve agreed to it for all the wrong
reasons,” Emma responds. “At first, James wasn’t too happy that Patty applied to the show without his permission. But he changed his mind when he heard about the cash prize. In fact, he was very flirtatious with Brin. Patty was almost in tears.”

  I feel my face tightening into a grimace at the thought. “I can only imagine. Patty's body type is the antithesis of Brin’s.”

  Ryan nods at Emma to move on. The monitor now shows Tiffy and Teddy Swift with their son, Logan, a sixth grader. The photo is also a family portrait-style: white shirts, blue jeans, and taken in Hilldale Park. “Donna, I know you’re familiar with the Swifts.”

  “Don’t remind me,” I growl under my breath.

  Tiffy is in Penelope Bing’s posse. She may wince while carrying out Penelope’s mean-mommy not-so-random acts of cruelty, but she never declines the dishonor of participating in them. I guess she figures that by being the perpetrator, she keeps her son from being the victim. Logan’s preference for ballet to his father’s favorite sport, football, would make him an easy target for Penelope’s bullying son, Cheever.

  Speaking of Penelope, is it too much to hope that she didn’t make the cut?

  Sadly, the next photo proves it is. You guessed it: another white-shirt-and-jeans family portrait of Penelope, her husband, Peter, and their cheeky offspring, Cheever, move to the head of the class.

  “Am I seeing things, or is that little troublemaker cross-eyed?” Abu tilts his head as he moves in for a closer look.

  “Yep, it’s him, not you. I guess this was the best photo of all the ones the photographer must have taken.” Ryan sighs, shaking his head. “Tell me, Donna, what are the skeletons in their closet?”

  I shrug. “Both Penelope and Peter are into S&M, with and without each other. As for Tiffy, she’s bulimic. It doesn’t help that her husband leers at other women. Since both of these issues aren’t exactly private, it isn't exactly intel, just…the facts of their lives.”

  Ryan asks, “Could either couple knowingly, or for that matter, unwittingly, be involved with a terrorist?”