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  Contents

  The Housewife Assassin’s Guide to Gracious KillingA Novel byJosie Brown

  Chapter 1 Breaking Bad Hostessing Habits

  Chapter 2 The Art of Gracious Lying

  Chapter 3 Welcoming New Neighbors

  Chapter 4 How to Choose a Party Dress

  Chapter 5 Such Gracious Condescension

  Chapter 6 How to Make a Formal Introduction

  Chapter 7 Dealing with Awkward Moments

  Chapter 8 How to Keep a Sleepover from Being a Yawn

  Chapter 9 Dealing with a Party Crasher

  Chapter 10 How to be the Perfect Guest

  Chapter 11 When the Party’s Over

  Chapter 12 How to Treat Your Guest of Honor

  Chapter 13 Tea for Two

  Chapter 14 Going Back for Seconds

  Chapter 15 Seating Arrangements

  Chapter 16 When the Wrong Partners Fill Your Dance Card

  Chapter 17 Cocktails before Dinner

  Chapter 18 Killing the Life of any Party

  Chapter 19 Just Desserts

  Chapter 20 Cleaning Your Silver

  Chapter 21 Airplane Etiquette

  Chapter 22 Saying Good-bye to Your Hostess

  Chapter 23 How to Have a Beach’ing Par-TAY!

  Chapter 24 Funeral Attire

  Next up:

  Other Novels by Josie Brown

  Here’s What Other Authors Say about Josie Brown…

  The Housewife Assassin’s

  Guide to Gracious Killing

  A Novel by

  Josie Brown

  © 2012 Josie Brown

  All rights reserved. No part of this book shall be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission from the publisher. No patent liability is assumed with respect to the use of the information contained herein. Although every precaution has been taken in the preparation of this book, the publisher and authors assume no responsibility for errors or omissions. Neither is any liability assumed for damages resulting from the use of information contained herein.

  This is a work of fiction. All incidents and dialogue, and all characters with the exception of some well-known historical and public figures, are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Where real-life historical or public figures appear, the situations, incidents and dialogues concerning those persons are entirely fictional and are not intended to depict actual events or to change the entirely fictional nature of the work. In all other respects, any resemblance to persons living or dead is entirely coincidental. Capishe? Comprende? It ain’t you. It ain’t even about you. It’s about me. Always. Just sayin’.

  Published by Signal Press / San Francisco, CA

  For information, contact Signal Press via email: [email protected]

  THE HOUSEWIFE ASSASSIN’S GUIDE TO GRACIOUS KILLING

  and Design are registered trademarks of Josie Brown.

  © 2012 Josie Brown

  p. cm.

  ISBN# 978-0-9740214-4-7

  Fiction_ General 2. Fiction_General_Romance 3. Fiction_Contemporary

  Title produced in the United States of America

  Note: This publication contains the opinions and ideas of its author. It is intended to provide helpful and informative material on the subject matter covered. It is sold with the understanding that the authors and publisher are not engaged in rendering professional services in the book. If the reader requires personal assistance or advice, a qualified professional should be consulted.

  The author and publisher specifically disclaim any responsibility for any liability, loss or risk, personal and otherwise, which is incurred as a consequence, directly or indirectly, of the use and application of any of the contents of this book.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available upon request

  Cover Design: Andrew Brown, Click Twice Design.

  Chapter 1

  Breaking Bad Hostessing Habits

  Every woman wants to be the perfect hostess and frets over her inadequacies when it comes to the gracious art of entertaining. Pshaw! A little forethought and a few hours of planning make it as easy as cherry pie!

  There is, however, one ironclad rule every hostess must follow:

  Make all your guests wish they never had to leave.

  Especially in a coffin. With a bullet lodged in their heads.

  “You’re quite a saucy minx!” Prince Harry’s ale-slurred come-on can barely be heard over the techno-vibe emanating from a starship-worthy console of the Ivy Lounge rooftop’s head-bobbing deejay. “What say you give me a peek as to where that tattoo ends?”

  His head is cocked downward, as if it might give him the ex-ray vision he’ll need in order to see the rattle on the faux-tatt’ed snake drawn from my belly to nether regions that lay under my thong bikini.

  “You’re a cheeky sod. I do have a face, you know.” I snap my fingers in front of his nose, in order to draw his eyes northward.

  I’ve succeeded, sort of. But come on, already. The diplomacy born and bred into the Prince of Wales can’t beat two millennia of innate urges and four pints of Guinness.

  His eyes linger below my neck, albeit above my abdomen.

  When, finally, our eyes meet, I lean in and whisper, “You show me yours, and I’ll show you mine.”

  I’m lying, even if he doesn’t know it—yet.

  His outright laugh is accompanied with a shake of his head, and a tug at the waistline of his briefs. “No tats under these trollies, I’m afraid. Sorry to disappoint.”

  I finger his briefs longingly and then sigh. “I’m sure you’ll make it up to me somehow.”

  His smile is his vow not to disappoint.

  God save the queen…

  It’s no secret the prince has been stateside with his Royal Air Force unit, learning the latest tricks and treats of the AH-64D Apache helicopter: his vehicle of choice for his upcoming tour of duty in Afghanistan. The soldiers completed their training today. Tomorrow they head home. To celebrate, the soldiers are here, in San Diego, which is just a couple of hours west of their training base, the Naval Air Facility at El Centro.

  Seems some chatter, intercepted by MI6, has led British intelligence to deduce the prince is the latest target of “the Leprechaun,” a notorious assassin affiliated with the Irish terrorist cell known as 32CSM. If the Leprechaun succeeds in picking off the spare to the throne, then once again the always-thin strand of peace between Ireland and Great Britain will be ripped to shreds.

  If it happens on our side of the pond, the U.S. will have mud on its face, not to mention the bluest of blood on its hands.

  So yep, I have to stop the Leprechaun before he gets lucky.

  My employer, the freelance black ops agency known in the field as Acme Corporation, paid big bucks to the club owners so I could be up close and personal with the prince. My goal is not to shag, let alone snag, Harry the Hottie. It’s to save his adorable hide from a possible assassination attempt.

  The prince leans in, close enough to ask in a seductive albeit ale-sodden growl, “Want me to sign your bikini?”

  I look down between my breasts. “Oops, forgot my pen. But you seem to be carrying one, in your pants pocket. Or maybe you’re just happy to see me.”

  He’s laughing so hard his last gulp of Guinness goes down the wrong wa
y.

  “Prince Charming has a one-track mind.” Jack Craig’s snarl comes in loud and clear through the tiny microphone in my ear. As the team leader for this Acme mission, he’s close by, but far enough away no potential assassin can spot him.

  Trust me, there is a hitter lurking nearby.

  Jack is also my main squeeze, which is why he’s growling about my having to play the coquette while under deep cover (in this bikini, I’m talking figuratively if not literally) as one of the nightclub’s VIP bottle girls. More specifically, this is one mission he’d wished I hadn’t accomplished—become Harry the Hottie’s pick-up du jour.

  Needless to say, the club’s real bottle girls are pea green with envy. They can’t figure out how this newbie became Cinderella of this Century.

  If I told them my aim and my first-degree black belt status had something to do with it, would they believe me? Probably not. All they see is that I’m just this side of Cougarville, which means Harry is less discriminating than they had hoped.

  For once, I’m glad Jack isn’t here, in the cordoned-off VIP section. One involuntary muscle flex and prince’s all-too-obvious brawny goon squad—three of his Royal Air Force mates—would be on top of Jack, like suds on ale.

  At MI6’s behest, we’ve kept the fact he’s a target from Harry, for now, anyway. This, I’m sure, is why he feels so cocksure. This mission wouldn’t have been so hard if the prince weren’t so insistent about partying “like an ordinary surfer bloke,” is how he so preciously puts it.

  Until now, the natives have been awed as much by his regular dude personality as his title. But just as the deejay ratchets up the hip-hop club mix, six drunken sorority sisters stroll our way. One of the girls, a Kate Middleton lookalike, pierces me with a jealous glare.

  I stare back and smile, as if to say, Take the hint. Get lost.

  Her eyes shift from me to one of Harry’s RAF buds. She waves coyly at him, and he’s smitten. Smirking back, he nods her over. She squeals and grabs the hand of one of her girlfriends.

  In no time at all, she and her besties have jumped the red velvet rope. They toss themselves onto the prince’s entourage, who don’t seem to be fighting them off too hard.

  In fact, they’re snapping their fingers at me with drink orders for their new arm charms.

  “Not good.” Jack’s warning in my ear is just loud enough for me to here.

  “Tell me something I don’t know,” I mutter back.

  “How about this?” Jack is now shouting into my earpiece. “You’ve lost Prince Harry.”

  He’s right.

  The prince seems captivated by a petite, busty blond beauty. Even in heels, she barely reaches his chest. She had pulled him out onto the dance floor for a throbbing sex-drenched hip grinder, Andree Belle’s “Go Go Gadget Heart.”

  The strobe lights and smoke machine make it hard to follow them in the crowd. Then I see them, against one wall. The buxom little tart drapes her arms around his shoulders and hugs him close, as if she’ll never let him go.

  Apparently, too close. I shove my way through the crowd until I’m close enough to hear Harry’s woozy cry. “Blimey, you’re no bird! You’ve got a wanker!”

  Before I can pull him away, the prince is pricked on the neck with something his partner has pulled from her cleavage. Harry’s groan is loud. I smell smoke, and then the lights go out. But not before the last strobe catches the triumphant look on his partner’s face.

  “Oh my God, Jack! The woman with Harry—she’s—not a she! She’s—”

  “I know! I saw it, too! The Leprechaun!”

  Proof it pays to hit the M.A.C. counter before a night on the town.

  And to hang out where the lights are always low.

  Everyone is screaming and shoving their way to the exits, leaving me room to follow the Leprechaun, who is dragging Harry in the opposite direction up against a wall.

  “It’s too dark to see where they went,” I shout to Jack. “Does anything show up on the club’s security cams?”

  “I’m looking now. In the meantime, check the wall for a hidden pocket door. The schematic of this club shows a few of them on every level. I’m sure the Leprechaun had his exit scoped out in advance.”

  While Jack scans the feeds from the security cameras, I skim the walls with my hands. Finally, I find it: a tiny catch, waist high.

  I pull it open it just in time to see the Leprechaun heaving Harry down a long corridor.

  He may not be used to running in heels, but I am. If only I wasn’t running in a bikini, too.

  “Too many wobbly bits,” I mutter under my breath.

  It’s inappropriate for Jack to be laughing now, but he can’t help it. “Just two. And they’re a sight to behold. Prince Charming will be upset he slept through it.”

  The thought of Harry in the French-manicured hands of an assassin who can start the United Kingdom and Ireland down another bloody path of un-neighborly relations has me picking up my pace. Unlike the Leprechaun, I’m smart enough to ditch my high heels. But I’m still not fast enough to reach them before the Leprechaun rolls him into the backseat of a dark BMW and screeches off.

  I can hear Jack slapping the wall with his fist. “Aw, damn! We lost them!”

  “Nope, I slipped a GPS tracker in the prince’s trollies.”

  “You did what... in his—what?”

  “Oh, don’t worry, I didn’t peek. I’ll meet you around the corner.”

  What’s a little white lie between fake husband and wife?

  Before he can say another word, I snap off my earpiece and run down the block.

  The naval base’s commanding officer is cussing up a storm, something about blue-blooded playboy flyboys and horny co-eds.

  When, finally, all the steam is out of him, Jack says in the calmest voice possible, “It looks as if they’re headed for Mexico, and they’ve got the jump on us. They’re changing vehicles every ten or so miles, which indicates they don’t know about the tracker. Not yet, anyway. We can catch them in a 64D, sir.”

  Before the CO can let loose with yet another tsunami of swear words, I hand him my cell phone. His nods and mutters, indicating he’s heard Acme’s client—also his boss—loud and clear:

  Put whatever we need at our disposal.

  We grab Jonah Harcourt-Smythe (he’s the soberest of the RAF pilots) and head to the airstrip. Because of the sensitivity of the mission, we’ll keep it to that: no FBI, no CIA, and certainly no local law enforcement. The prince has had enough photo ops for one visit.

  I’ve traded in my bikini for a snug wind-resistant flight suit. He never did sign my bikini. Maybe later. If it’s not too late already.

  Charlie has the Apache pacing the Leprechaun’s ride: a sixteen-wheel big rig, barreling down Mexico’s Baja Highway. Our guess is he’s rendezvousing with some submarine along the coast that will take Harry to an undisclosed location, where he will be tortured on camera as he begs for his life.

  From what I’ve seen of the prince, he’ll die before he gives in. He may be royal, but he’s no softie.

  At that point, he’ll lose his life anyway in some macabre fashion, which will have Great Britain’s stiff upper lip curling into a retaliatory snarl.

  We can’t let any of this happen.

  Our plan to stop this scenario is simple enough: Jack and I will rappel down from the Apache onto the truck’s bed. Then we’ll break into the back and grab Harry, at which point the three of us will be hauled back up into the helicopter.

  Our audio surveillance bug, which was shot onto the truck’s cab with a mounting magnet, is a real eye-opener in one respect: the Leprechaun has a pretty decent falsetto.

  “That little wanker listens to Fiona Apple? Figures.” Charlie shakes his head in disgust.

  I shrug. “So she’s an acquired taste. Could have been worse. Frankly, I was expecting
Miley Cyrus.”

  “More to the point, he’s wearing ear buds, so he can’t hear us.” Jack smiles. “Let’s get this show on the road.”

  My rappelling cord, connected to another mounting magnet, hits its target: the roof of the truck’s bed, toward the back. Jack gives me the high sign and I scramble down the rope: not an easy feat, considering the damn thing and the helicopter are moving in tandem, at almost seventy miles per hour. When I land, only my tether saves me from bouncing backward on my ass and toppling off.

  Like a crab, I claw and scurry toward the back door. I’m positioned over it when I hear a loud thud behind me. Jack’s landing was just as hard as mine. At the speed the truck is going, he’ll roll off and take me with him.

  Instead, I grab hold of him, as if I’ll never let him go.

  I won’t. Ever.

  He murmurs in my ear, “No, that’s not a bazooka in my pocket. I’m just happy to see you.”

  I frown. “Aw, damn. Does this mean you forgot the bazooka?”

  Suddenly the truck is zigging and zagging all over the road.

  “Bollocks, the tiny bastard knows I’m up here, and that I’m following him.” Charlie’s voice crackles through our earpieces. “But I don’t think he’s onto the fact you’re on board, so make it quick, lovebirds.”

  Jack crawls over the side and slams against the doors as he positions the bolt cutter over the lock, and slices through it. He holds onto one door, but lets the other fling open.

  We rush inside. Harry is on the floor, trussed up with plastic handcuffs. At least he’s alive.

  There’s a hood over his head. When I pull it off, I see he’s bruised badly. Warily, he opens one eye. At the same time, he tries to lift his hands, but can’t. That’s when he notices he’s wearing cuffs. His bleary gaze focuses on me first. “Had I known you liked to play rough, I would have brought along a few of my own toys.”

  “You’re a cheeky toff, you are.” I use the bolt cutter to free him, and then toss him a gun. “I’d curtsey, but we’re under attack, so let’s give it a go, shall we?”