1 The Housewife Assassin's Handbook Page 11

  “Whoa, hold on there a minute, cowboy! Why me?”

  “Because we’re running out of time.” There is nothing ominous about the way Ryan says this. He’s just stating a fact. One that none of us wants to hear. Not me, not Jack or Emma, let alone Abu or our tech support, Arnie.

  Jack rolls his eyes skyward. “Look, I’d do it myself if I thought anyone would buy me as the Rave-On Lady.”

  It’s on the tip of my tongue to tell him that there isn’t a woman alive who wouldn’t be tempted to buy what he’s selling, but I stop myself just in time.

  He’s got a big enough head already.

  As we walk out the door, Abu murmurs, “Rave-On’s commission structure is quite lucrative. Remember to ask Ryan if you can keep what you make.”

  “I’ve been dying to meet you, too,” murmurs Midge Kelsey.

  “I guess Rave-On gives us a wonderful excuse to get to know each other.” I’m grinning so widely that I’m sure I look like a lunatic. “Mind if I come in?”

  “Not at all!” Midge opens the door wide.

  The Kelseys’ home is done up in shades of beige and beiger. There are just a few pictures scattered around: of just her and Dave, a burly guy, balding, and a gap-tooth smile.

  Strange. Particularly if, as Patty insisted, they have a teenage boy.

  I perch on the Ethan Allen divan while Midge saunters into the kitchen for a pitcher of ice tea, and according to her, “the best chocolate cake you’ll ever put in your mouth.”

  I’m tempted to ask her for a vodka martini instead. She’s my sixth house call today. Thus far the Badgley’s poodle has humped my leg, I broke up a fight between the Mortons, and the Callahans’ sick toddler sneezed in my face while I was cooing at him.

  Yes, they can all be eliminated as suspects.

  No, they had nothing to divulge that sounded suspicious about their neighbors on our hot list.

  To top it off, I’ve only made nineteen dollars in commission.

  Maybe I should get an ice cream truck instead.

  I’m still contemplating the long-term repercussions that career move may have on my figure when I realize Midge has complimented Jack: “—a marvelous golfer! Dave met him just the other day. You two make such a cute couple. How did you meet?”

  The question throws me for a loop. In my mind, I still can’t reconcile Jack in the role of Carl.

  No, he will never be Carl. No one can.

  “We met in my last year of college.” I can hear my voice shake. “It was love at first sight.” I steady my voice before adding, “Three children later, and we’re still here, so I guess it’s a match made in heaven.” Or something. “How about you?”

  “We met in school, too.”

  “You have a son, don’t you?”

  Midge falters just a bit. “Yes.”

  She cuts the cake, but says nothing else.

  That’s it?

  Her way of changing the subject is to point to my hatbox. “My, how pretty! What goodies have you brought with you?”

  I take the hint, and go through my spiel. After ten minutes of oohing and ahhing over my samples, she buys a trove of them: sixty dollars, in fact.

  It is her way of getting rid of me.

  I’m about to offer her the bugged sample when her husband, Dave, opens the front door. He’s a large, balding man with sad dark eyes. He gives my hand a vigorous pumping, but in a serious voice, says to Midge, “Honey, if we want to get to the cemetery before the afternoon rush hour, we better leave now.”

  She murmurs goodbye to me and leaves the room.

  As I stare after her, he whispers: “To visit our son. He died last year, in a car wreck.”

  Well, that explains her behavior.

  I can’t blame her for lying to Patty. If I had lost a child, I too would have found it hard to tell a perfect stranger. It is certainly no way to sum up a life, let alone a love.

  I know this firsthand.

  When I get into the car, I cross the Kelseys off the list of suspects.

  Well, at least I didn’t have a reason to plant one of Acme’s precious bugs in their house.

  Chapter 9

  Dressed to Kill

  A wife should always look her best for her husband. Granted, sexy dresses make it so difficult to hide a weapon! You can’t exactly strap a Magnum to your sparkly belt or an AK-47 over your shoulder as if it were a pashmina.

  Helpful Hint: Some Berettas are compact enough to fit into even the smallest evening clutch. For example, the Tomcat is only five inches long, and yet it packs quite a punch! And in a really tight squeeze, there’s always the folding stiletto. (Down to three inches! Fits into most hollow-heeled Louboutins.)

  “Mom! Mom, wake up! We’re late for school!” Mary’s voice comes to me through a fog of bad dreams, a pounding head, and mucus.

  I groan and roll over. Try as I might, I can’t open my eyes. They are crusted over. Maybe that’s a good thing, since opening them will mean seeing to what I already hear from the digital clock, which is droning its Bad Mommy wail.

  We are so late.

  “Um . . . I’ll be up in a minute.” Even as I say this I realize I’m too woozy to sit up. If I do, I may upchuck all over the floor.

  I have some kind of crud, thanks to the Callahan’s toddler.

  I feel Mary’s hands gently pushing me back down onto my bed. “Mom, Jeff is asking Dad to drive us, so don’t worry.”

  Dad.

  I still find it hard to hear how easy the children have transferred their affection for Carl to Jack. My guilt over this is enough to propel me off the bed—

  And into Jack’s arms.

  “Whoa, cowgirl! Didn’t you hear the little lady? I’ve got everything under control. Here, gulp this down.”

  His words are lighthearted, but by the tone of his voice, I know he means business. What’s the use of struggling?

  Besides, I’m parched from my fever. So I take a sip. It goes down smooth: lemon, honey, some thyme.

  As I go limp, I feel him move me back onto the bed. The blanket goes around me, but I’m still shivering, from chills and fever—

  Or is it his touch?

  Something is stirring, here in my bedroom.

  I’m still woozy, but my fever has broken. Instinctively I pry open my eyes . . .

  There he is: tall, dark, and those large deep-set eyes so sad, just as I remember him. He sits there with his laptop, unaware that I am awake; that I need him, want to hold him in my arms—

  “Carl . . .” My voice sounds so far away.

  My whisper has garnered his attention. He puts down his laptop and leans forward—

  The haze clouding my eyes drifts away. The man I see before me is not Carl.

  It’s Jack.

  I turn my head toward the wall. This moment of weakness leaves me ashamed.

  He doesn’t say a word. Not the usual jibing taunt, nothing.

  It takes me a few moments to pull it together. Finally when I do, I turn back toward him, with a smile. “Thanks for covering the kids, Jack.”

  “No problem at all. They’re a delight. Mary made the lunches while Jeff made Trisha’s breakfast. I checked their homework—”

  His façade of nonchalance cracks when he sees the tear of pride rolling down my face. His hand reaches for mine. When they touch, the heat I feel from him makes my heart beat faster. “You’re so lucky to have them in your life, Donna.”

  “I know that.” My voice breaks. “It’s why I do . . . well, you know what we do.”

  He nods as if his head is weighted down by all the evil in the world.

  Well, it is; with the evil in Los Angeles, anyway.

  It’s then that I realize that I know nothing about him. Sure, he is a legend on the spook loops. But we are all more than the sum parts of our missions.
>
  The greatest collateral damage is our emotional psyche.

  “I owe you.” Do I sound flippant? For once, I hope not, because truly, I mean it.

  A grin settles on his face. “I think so, too. And I know just how you can settle up.”

  Oh, no, here it comes . . .

  He’s a pro, all right. He plucks at a woman’s heartstrings the way Yo-Yo Ma strums a cello. Though my hand tenses under his, he holds onto it, firmly. If he tries something stupid, he’s a dead man. There is a reason I have a stiletto strapped to the back of my bedpost—

  “When you’re feeling up to it, let me take you out to dinner. You know, an adult night out.”

  “That’s it? Just—dinner?”

  Perplexed, his eyebrows mesh. “Sure. No shop talk, just two people getting to know each other. Frankly, I really don’t know all that much about you, and sometimes I get tired of all the pretending as if I do. It would be great to just . . . talk.”

  I know what you mean.

  But that’s not what I say to him. Instead, I nod. “I’m sure Emma won’t mind hanging with the kids for one night. And I’m already feeling better. I don’t know what you gave me, but it certainly did the trick.”

  “It’s an old family recipe. Works every time.” Hesitantly, he releases my hand.

  Why am I missing his touch?

  He’s not Carl, I remind myself. No one will ever be Carl . . .

  But he’s not offering me that. He’s only offering friendship.

  Yes, that is what I so desperately need: a friend.

  “Why don’t we shoot for the day after tomorrow?” I pull the blanket up to my chin.

  “Perfect. Then it’s a date.”

  I blush at the thought. Here’s hoping he thinks it’s the last vestiges of my fever.

  I should be out hustling some Rave-On.

  Instead I’m standing in front of a rack of on-sale designer dresses in Hilldale Mall’s Saks Fifth Avenue store. I know it’s stupid, but I’d like something new to wear tomorrow night, on my date—

  I mean, my get-together—with Jack.

  Because that’s all we’re doing: getting together.

  And not in the way you think, either.

  It’s just for a quick bite, maybe a drink or two . . .

  “Go with the pink one. You’ll look fabulous.”

  I recognize the voice behind me: it’s Midge Kelsey.

  She has three frocks flung over her arm. Her husband, Dave, is standing by the entry of the dressing room lounge. He is holding another five dresses for her. He waves warmly at me. “Why hello, neighbor! Fancy meeting you here.”

  Unlike some guys, he doesn’t seem at all uncomfortable in the couture department. The closeness between them is an endearing trait. I wonder if Carl and I would have been that close, had he lived. I’d like to think so.

  Then again, he had so much to hide.

  I return a broad wave. “Great sale, isn’t it?”

  He shrugs skeptically. “Even so, it always shocks me what clothing manufacturers can get away with. One of these little flimsy nothings costs more than a man’s suit.”

  I nod and laugh as I move past him into the dressing room with my pick: the hot pink it is.

  The stall I choose is far in the back. All the rooms are large. The door is mirrored, as are the walls, which must be as thick as they look, for the place is as quiet as a tomb. They are studded with ornate hooks that can hold as many dresses as your bank account can spare.

  The dress is a low-cut sheath w­­­­ith rows of fringe, top to bottom. I unzip it and slip it on over my head. But then some of the fringe gets stuck in the zipper, and I have to wrestle with it over my head—

  “This is just too easy,” Dave hisses in my ear.

  He’s got me in a headlock.

  “Where is it?” He asks, as his choke hold grows tighter. “What did you do with it?”

  Ah, so we’re back to that.

  What is it the Quorum thinks I have, anyway?

  Through the armhole of the dress, I watch in the mirror as Midge locks the door. From her purse, she pulls out a syringe—

  Stupid Dave. The last thing he expects is a knee to the nuts. When he doubles over, I kick the syringe out of Midge’s hand. Her curse is low but harsh just the same. As she scrambles for it, I give her a body check that sends her reeling, head first, into the mirror—

  By now Dave has straightened out enough to grab me from behind. He’s got his hands around my jugular. Any moment now, I may pass out—

  But not before I heave him up, and back against the wall—

  Into one of the dress hooks. It pierces him in the back of the neck.

  He hangs there, like a rag doll.

  Then the light goes out of his eyes but not before the realization that what he has done to so many others has now been done to him.

  Still, it gets no more than a resigned sigh from him.

  Midge may be groggy, but she is still awake. She can’t contain herself when she sees her husband. (Partner? Associate? Who knows? Who cares?) Her shriek tips me off that she’s out for blood: mine.

  With a flip of both wrists, the cord is taut and ready for my neck. She moves fast to get behind me—

  We both fall to the floor. I angle one hand at my throat to keep it from cutting me, but the other is free to end this fight—

  The jab from the syringe elicits a gasp from her. It must have hit her jugular because I’m splattered with blood.

  The fatal injection is slow to take effect. When, at last, she closes her eyes for that final sleep, I fall to the floor, gagging and spent.

  I wait a few minutes to catch my breath. I take care to wipe Midge’s blood off my face with a spare HandiWipe from my purse.

  It’s hard to keep my eyes focused on the task, what with Midge and Dave’s dead eyes staring out at me from all four mirrored walls.

  When I walk out, I turn the inside lock and close the door behind me. That way the sign on the knob tells any sales assistant who may meander past the room that it is still occupied.

  “What a killer dress,” gushes the clerk as she rings up the hot pink number for me.

  “Oh, you don’t know the half of it,” I murmur.

  Don’t worry, I paid in cash.

  Chapter 10

  On the Town

  Housewives face a quandary when given the opportunity to go out for the evening. After all, who will watch the wee ones?

  Babysitter vetting can be made simple, if you follow these instructions. First, a background check. Next, a list of do’s and don’ts, including who is allowed into the house. And finally, a torture session, to ward off any notion that your instructions be ignored.

  Granted, you’ll never get the same sitter twice, but ask yourself: if the sitter breaks under pressure, would you really want that person back in your house?

  “That’s two attempts on our lives, Ryan! One on Jeff and another on me.” I’m trying to keep my voice calm, it is shaking, and there is nothing I can do about it. “They think I have whatever it is they want. But it must have blown up with Carl.”

  Ryan’s phone silences are never easy to read. I wish we were face-to-face, so that I could look him in the eye.

  Then he wouldn’t dare lie to me.

  Is he lying now? It’s hard to tell.

  Finally he exhales. Is he exhausted or annoyed? “Donna, we’ve been over this, remember? Believe me, I wish I knew what it was.”

  “Yeah, okay. Just do me a favor: if we catch one of these sons-of-bitches alive, let me have first crack at him. I’m not looking for payback. I’m not looking for closure. I’m just looking for answers.”

  I slam the phone so hard that Jack can quit pretending that he wasn’t listening in on the conversation even as he was molding hamburger patties for the kids.
They are all upstairs, doing their homework. Finally he glances up, but still he doesn’t say anything, so I have to ask: “What? What are you looking at?”

  He hesitates and then shrugs. “Either one of the Kelseys could have given us the answer, if you’d taken them alive.”

  He’s right.

  The smart ass.

  “My bad. I guess I forgot that little fact while they were trying to kill me.”

  “I figured as much.” He wipes his hands on a dishtowel. “So I guess it’s safe to say that it won’t happen again.”

  “Right boss.”

  “I like the sound of that.”

  “Yeah, well don’t get too used to it.”

  He has no retort because we both know that’s not going to happen.

  Since he ain’t sticking around.

  Still, I could just kick myself for saying it. To cover up the fact that I may actually care, I start up the stairs to get ready for our dinner date.

  No, not that table—

  But yes, the hostess at the Sand Dollar seats Jack and me at the last table on the deck: the one closest to the beach.

  The one that was Carl’s favorite.

  To cover up my jitters, I order a mojito along with the seared ahi.

  “Double that order,” Jack tells our waitress.

  We are silent as we stare out at the ocean. Our drinks don’t come until the sun is melting into the horizon. As the last rays of the day splay across the waves, the rum warms me and loosens my tongue, but I’m lucid enough to keep the topic on him. “You have no accent. Where are you from?”

  “I grew up in Washington state.” He crushes the mint in the bottom of his drink with a swizzle stick. “The Orcas Islands.”

  “I hear it’s beautiful there.”

  “It is. But I don’t see myself going back.”

  “Why not?”

  He stares out at the ocean. “There is no one to go home to.”

  Ah.

  For some reason I’m glad to hear it. That makes me a bitch, I guess. And yet, I’ve got to ask: “You never married?”