The Housewife Assassin's Horrorscope Page 3

  “You know everything.” Love weighs heavily in Arnie’s voice.

  Emma blushes.

  “Was the voice on the satellite call male or female?” Jack asks.

  “Unfortunately, an automatic dialogue replacement tool was used to mask the speaker’s identification,” Branham replies.

  “A satellite phone’s location can be triangulated via the Doppler-shift calculations from its host satellite,” Arnie reasons.

  “Another dead end for us, I’m afraid,” Branham replies. “There are almost five thousand LEOs—that is, low Earth orbit satellites—circling the planet. On average, it takes one anywhere from seventy to one-hundred-and-ten minutes to make a complete orbital rotation. In many instances, the satellite might be out of range of an Earth station, during which time there is only a four-to-fifteen minute window for its GPS coordinates to be collected. In this case, we had less than that.” He sighs. “The range is fairly substantial—ten to thirty kilometers.”

  “How can Acme be of service, Director?” Ryan asks.

  “Glad you asked. POTUS insists that the operation be pitch black. Because Acme had great success for his predecessor, he asked that I reach out to you first. And, considering the satellite call was traced to somewhere within the Los Angeles metroplex, I agree with POTUS that you’re the logical choice.”

  “We’re honored,” Ryan replies. He’s always had a great poker face and an emotionless tone.

  Mine: less so. When I put my finger in my mouth to mimic a gagging motion, he shakes his head at me. He knows I can’t stand Bradley Edmonton.

  Before Edmonton was vice president, for many years, he was a senator. Although just in his mid-forties, he sports a well-coiffed shock of white hair. This, along with a closetful of Saville Row suits and a block-long mansion in Georgetown, Edmonton has ably positioned himself as the consummate Washington insider. Despite his good ol’ boy demeanor, he is pompous, shallow, and power hungry.

  And as the Bachelor in Chief, there is no limit to the number of moneyed socialites who are vying for the role of First Lady.

  “Honored, eh? I’ll pass that along to POTUS,” Branham declares. “Ryan, I’ve already forwarded the sparse intel we have on Operation Flame.”

  Dominic frowns. “That’s its official name?”

  “It is now,” Branham confirms. “It’s POTUS’s suggestion. And since it’s his ballgame…”

  As his voice trails off, Dominic mouths to Jack, Baseball?

  Jack rewards him with a thumbs-up.

  “I’ll call the President immediately,” Ryan assures him.

  “No need. In fact, he’s asked me to arrange for you, Jack, and Donna to meet with him in person—tomorrow afternoon, at sixteen-hundred hours—at former President Lee Chiffray’s estate, Lion’s Lair.”

  When our stunned silence hits the ten-second mark, Branham adds wryly, “Yes, it surprised me too, considering it’s no secret that there’s no love lost between those two gentlemen. However, the optics dictate that Edmonton treat Chiffray with some degree of deference. To that end, they’ll be playing golf at Lion’s Lair tomorrow before your meeting with him.”

  “Because people feel sorry that President Chiffray was the collateral damage in an assassination attempt?” Arnie muses in a soft murmur.

  “Considering that Lee is the single largest donor to POTUS’s party, I guess that he’s here for some ass—I mean, ring-kissing,” I whisper back.

  “You hit it on the head, Mrs. Craig,” Branham responds.

  He heard that? Darn it!

  While Branham chuckles at my supposition, Ryan slaps his forehead at my audacity.

  “Good luck, ladies and gentlemen.” There’s a distinct click as Branham signs off.

  Ryan turns to Emma. “That cryptic message on the satellite call may be our first clue. When is Mercury next in retrograde?”

  Emma does a quick search on her laptop. “We’re in it now, and for the next thirteen days.”

  “Then we have no time to lose,” Ryan declares. “Arnie, take whatever coordinates were retrieved by the satellite phone and see if you can pinpoint the approximate location of the call. Emma, have your team scan NSA reports for any chatter on the blackouts that may be coming from Russian cells based stateside.”

  “Will do,” she promises.

  “The rest of you are on standby for the meeting with POTUS and for any needed legwork.”

  Abu, Dominic, Jack, and I nod.

  As everyone rises and disperses, I make my way to Ryan. “Sir, an interesting thing was brought to our attention by our ward, Evan. It has to do with one of his companies, BlackTech.”

  Ryan thinks for a moment. “The firm’s name sounds familiar.”

  “It should. Its largest client is the Defense Intelligence Agency.”

  Ryan’s subtle nod demonstrates his sudden interest. “Go on.”

  “Earlier this week its chief engineer, Jonathan Presley was killed in a hit-and-run accident. Immediately afterward, Evan received this.” I take the flash drive from my purse and hold it up to him. “It’s from Presley. Upon his death, it was mailed to Evan anonymously. Evan feels it may contain sensitive information, and possibly a motive for Presley’s murder.”

  “If what Evan suspects is true, I’m sure DI Branham will be grateful that we brought it to him.” Ryan’s smile is weak, but still, that counts for something. “I’m glad Evan was smart enough to save the envelope it came in. Do you know if he handled the thumb drive itself?”

  I frown. “Yes, he did. So did I.”

  He shrugs. “Still, give it to Arnie. Maybe Forensics can pull up a partial fingerprint that pops up in IAFIS.”

  “The return address is a USPS box number,” Jack informs him. “It matches the zip+4 code on the envelope.”

  “The post office is sure to have a couple of security cameras,” Ryan replies. “Arnie will pull up footage from the past week so that we can see the last time Jonathan checked it, or for that matter, mailed something from it. But remember, Craigs: your first priority is Flame.”

  “Duly noted,” I promise.

  3

  Bad Karma

  In the Zodiac, each sign has a complementary relationship with a partner sign. And, for that matter, opposite zodiac signs also affect each other negatively.

  It shouldn’t surprise you that your best friend or a beloved is in the former category. Concurrently, don’t blink twice should you discover that the frenemy who gets under your skin with predictable frequency is in the latter grouping.

  Such events are the cause of “bad karma.”

  Word of caution: during such an altercation, should you find yourself within spitting distance, control any urge to hock a loogie in her direction. I say this not because it might turn into a hair-pulling contest (although it might) but because doing so is the typical reaction to the bad karma that the universe has already bestowed on both of you.

  Your best bet: Control any urges that put you at odds with your opposites.

  Otherwise, as Dorothy Parker famously said, “If you wear a short enough skirt, the party will come to you.”

  Yes, I know what you’re thinking: “But, what if she starts it first?”

  The short answer: This is why they say that Karma’s a bitch.

  With traffic on the 405 still moving slower than molasses in February, it’s dinnertime when we reach the city limits of Hilldale.

  “We’re both dead on our feet. As much as we’d like to catch a bite with the kids, let’s hit the sack.” Jack suggests.

  “Works for me,” I reply. “We’ll have to table the Jonathan Presley affair until after we meet Edmonton tomorrow, anyway.”

  And, while Jack and I snuggled on the plane ride home, admittedly, neither of us had much time to sleep.

  The faint buzz of my cell phone catches my attention. I stare down at it and sigh. “You may be headed to dreamland before me. Penelope and Aunt Phyllis have been bombarding me with texts!”

  Jack groans. “No
w what?”

  As I scroll through them, I count twelve from Penelope Bing, a neighbor whose son, Cheever, is the same age as our son, Jeff. The boys are in the same class and are close friends. More to the point, Penelope is the perennial president of every parent-teacher association connected with any school her son attends.

  Talk about a helicopter mom!

  Now that the boys are in high school, she’s there too. Rightly so, she’s figured that, after eight years of non-stop volunteering, moms who might have been her competition are too burned out to volunteer for such time-consuming positions.

  Still, by using the guilt-laden admonition “At this age, we have so little time with our children,” she was able to strong-arm me into taking the thankless position of committee chair for Hilldale High School’s Winter Prom, which takes place next weekend.

  While in London during our last mission I outsourced the prom’s logistics to my aunt, Phyllis, who usually stays with the kids when Jack and I are out of town. In hindsight, it wasn’t the smartest move. According to Penelope, my aunt’s decisions for everything—from its theme (Game of Thrones) to its decorations (a fire-breathing dragon chief among them) and party games (battle competitions with real swords, hatchets, and spiked clubs) and its entertainment (a Goth band of little people) are a disaster.

  Not that I beg to differ. It’s just that I haven’t had time to go over these decisions with my aunt.

  Well, surprise, surprise! Aunt Phyllis has left eight texts of her own. As I scroll through them, I groan.

  “What’s wrong now?” Jack asks.

  “There’s a definite pattern here, Aunt Phyllis’s annoyance is rising at an equal level with Penelope’s hysteria…Oh, and get this! Another thing they have in common: both question each other’s sanity.”

  “No arguments there,” he mutters as we turn onto our street. “Hey, do you think you can send them to their separate corners until tomorrow?”

  “Doubtful. But I give you permission to try. Maybe if you ask nicely. Give ’em that curl-your-toes Jack Craig smile.”

  “Hardee-har-har,” he mutters. Jack glances at our house, which is now in sight. Suddenly, he frowns.

  Following his gaze, I see why: Penelope’s Mercedes in our driveway. Right behind it is a van. A company name is painted on its side:

  FANTASTIC FEASTS

  AND HOW TO EAT THEM

  Penelope and Aunt Phyllis stand nose-to-nose on opposite sides of a folding table filled with platters holding all sorts of culinary dishes: canapés, fruits and cheeses, several cakes, puddings, turkey legs—even a roasted pig complete with an apple in its mouth.

  A woman—tall, slender, and sporting an apron and a chef’s hat over her shoulder-length auburn hair—stands beside Aunt Phyllis. Her eyes shift from one of the women to the other, as if their heated discussion is a finals match at Wimbledon. Her eyes are damp, as if she’s been crying.

  Mary, Jeff, Trisha, Evan, Penelope’s son Cheever Bing, and Jeff’s other pal, Morton Smith, sit at another table. From the look of things, they’ve been feasting. Our family dogs, Rin Tin Tin and Lassie, stand beside them, on alert for any crumbs or scraps that may fall within chomping distance.

  “No need to worry about making dinner tonight. The sampling was more than enough,” I declare.

  At that moment, the children’s heads swivel toward Penelope, who’s under the assumption that waving a turkey leg in my aunt’s face will help make her point.

  “Jeez, looks like a food fight is about to break out!” Jack exclaims.

  “At least Aunt Phyllis seems to be keeping her cool!” I counter. “Look at the way she stands there, calmly, with her hands clasped behind her back.”

  Jack nods slowly, but I can tell he’s unconvinced. “Yeah, I guess that’s a good thing—unless she’s found our gun vault and she’s holding a revolver.”

  Yikes.

  By the time we pull into the driveway, Aunt Phyllis’s hands are in front of her.

  She holds an ancient saber.

  Double yikes.

  As Jack screeches to a halt, I leap out of the car. “Aunt Phyllis—don’t do it!”

  She stares at me as if I’m the one who’s lost my mind. Shrugging, she raises the saber high over her head—

  And without thinking, I blurt out the only thing that may stop her:

  “TOO MANY WITNESSES!”

  But it’s too late. The saber comes down fast and hard, right on the neck—

  Of the roasted pig.

  Its head rolls onto the table, apple and all.

  Aunt Phyllis beams with satisfaction.

  Everyone stares at the sight.

  Then all eyes go to me.

  Oopsy.

  I can kick myself for shouting out my worst fear. In hindsight, what were the odds that Aunt Phyllis would have actually swung the saber in Penelope’s direction? Or, for that matter, connected with her carotid artery?

  On the off-chance that Penelope would have bled out, who could blame my dear sweet almost octogenarian Aunt Phyllis for being fed up with Penelope’s nags and bullies and shouts?

  And besides: even if Phyllis had murdered Penelope, she’s the last person to end up as anyone’s cellmate bitch. Instead, she’d be running the joint in a week, maybe two.

  Still, I’m glad to see it wasn’t her intention to do bodily harm. Think of how it may have ruined my aunt’s life! Ever the social butterfly, she is quite aware that the mere mention of one’s incarceration flattens even the most scintillating cocktail conversation. Am I right?

  As if reading my mind, Aunt Phyllis clucks her tongue at me. “Donna, sweet niece, I was just demonstrating to Penelope how sprinkling a few of the prom’s props among the catering staff could enhance our thrilling Game of Thrones theme.”

  “That was cool!” Cheever crows.

  “Until someone loses a finger,” Penelope argues. Suddenly, she looks sharply at me. “What did you mean when you said ‘too many witnesses’?”

  I widen my wince into a benign smile. “Um…who, me? What…?”

  She’s not buying it. She strains the Botox in her forehead as she hisses, “You know ‘what’!”

  Before I can make up something that sounds plausible, Morton asks, “Hey, will the serving wench cut off the porker’s head before or after the fire eaters?”

  “What?” Penelope shouts. “Neither, you little idiot!” She glares at Aunt Phyllis. “Despite the support of the cheering squad you’ve assembled, I still won’t approve of anything that might catch fire, blow up the school, or do bodily harm to students, staff, or volunteers!”

  “Party poop,” Aunt Phyllis grouses. She nods in my direction. “Of course, since Donna is running this show, she’s got final say-so on all prom logistics.”

  “Says who?” Penelope replies coolly. “As its chairperson, I’m the last word on every PTA-sponsored event.”

  I was thinking just the same thing.

  “Not according to this agreement you signed, at Donna’s behest when you twisted her arm to take on the task”—Aunt Phyllis pulls a folded paper from her jacket pocket—“despite her protests that her professional commitments took precedent.”

  “But…when did I...?

  Aunt Phyllis’s eyes catch mine. She winks.

  With just the slightest nod, I show her, Yeah, okay, I’ll play along.

  “A written agreement? Why…I don’t remember any such thing!” Penelope snatches it out of her hand. Reading it closely, her face changes from smug skepticism to dumbfounded bafflement to boiling rage. “This says...But I’d never...It’s a forgery!”

  “It isn’t,” my aunt assures her. “Go ahead and admit it! That’s your scrawl, lady.”

  “Ha! Not until it’s been verified,” Penelope sniffs.

  Phyllis looks around innocently. “Well, let’s see…I assume your son has seen your signature on enough suspension notices to recognize it. Will he do as a witness?”

  As Penelope shrugs, a smug smile rises on her over-Co
llagen-filled lips. “I suppose so.”

  When Aunt Phyllis whistles at Cheever, he, along with Lassie and Rin Tin Tin, look up on full alert.

  “Get over here, boy!” Aunt Phyllis waves him over.

  Cheever points to his chest, as if surprised that he’s being drawn into this face-off.

  Frankly, so am I. Surely, he’ll side with his mother.

  Still, he trots over. He takes the paper from his mother. Very slowly, he looks it over. Then he holds it up to the sun like a detective in a lousy movie looking for a watermark. Next, he places it flat on the table. Curling the fingers of his right hand in an enclosed circle, he lowers his head to view the signature through them.

  Finally, he sighs. “Sorry, Ma. It’s yours, alright.”

  “But…it can’t be! This is a lie! A travesty! As far as I’m concerned, it means nothing!” She grabs it off the table. She holds it up triumphantly between her fingers, ready to rip it apart—

  But I jerk it out of her hands. “The prom is next weekend,” I remind her. “If you don’t honor this, you’ll have to inform the students that it’s being called off.”

  “No, I won’t! That would be your job,” she sneers. “Once again, you’ll have disappointed the people of Hilldale.”

  “Not if you rip this up. If you do, it’s on you—and at quite a cost to the PTA too, considering all the deposits that have already been paid out. The props, decorations, roving entertainers, the band”—I point to the caterer—“and the food.”

  She nods vigorously.

  I hold out the agreement. “So, what’s it going to be, Penelope?”

  Speechless, she turns to the kids.

  Their stares beg her: PLEASE! DON’T!

  Her eyes shift to her son. Cheever, frowning, crosses his arms at his chest. Evidently, he thinks that her cruel decision will be yet one more opportunity for the other kids to hate his guts.

  Heck, even without her help, he’s already given them plenty of reasons.

  Realizing this, she steps back as if it’s radioactive. Finally, she growls, “Have it your way!” Glaring at me, she adds, “But if your consigliere here has put you even one penny over budget—”