The Housewife Assassin's Terrorist TV Guide Page 4

  Tip #2: Always show a united front when your children ask pointed questions, or show defiance. It pays to have already prepared a go-to phrase that will nix any doubt to the contrary. Try this one: “Only if your mother says it’s okay.” Fathers, if that doesn’t fall trippingly off your lips, remember: practice makes perfect!

  Tip #3: Never make promises to your children that you can’t keep. Doing so means you’ll both end up paying for it, one way or another.

  If one of you has a habit of ignoring all of this advice, expect to pay dearly for it: if not with your life, then with big bucks to your wife—during the inevitable divorce.

  Trisha doesn’t pause from her tap dancing—three buffalos, a flank step, a brush, and three more buffalos—even as she lifts her nose into the air. “The house smells yummy!”

  I slap down my computer screen. I’m watching Brin Patterson, the executive producer and showrunner of Hot Housewives of Hilldale, eviscerate one of the town’s mean mommies, Tiffy Swift, with just one sentence: “So, is it true, as your neighbors say, that your husband once had an affair with your stepsister?”

  I pray Trisha didn’t hear it too—or for that matter, Tiffy’s response (that is, once she quit shaking from her anger), which is a series of cuss words that would make a sailor blush.

  “I’m baking an orange chiffon cake,” I say brightly and loudly. I glance over to the oven timer. “But there’s still a few more minutes to go.”

  And just in time for our visitors: the show’s producers. I will be serving it with coffee, which they seem to want constantly, and drink so much that they might as well take it intravenously.

  They’ve spent the past three days visiting the homes of the show’s eager applicants. I know this because one of Arnie’s jobs on the camera crew is to tape the prospective talent interviews so that Addison, along with Brin Patterson and Lucy Trumbull, can replay them all tonight. They’ll then argue over which families make the final cut. Six lucky families will get the word sometime tomorrow that they’ll be starring in the newest show in Addison’s reality franchise.

  Arnie has tapped into the camera feed. All footage will also be uploaded to Acme’s secure cloud for further analysis. Once our suspects are chosen to appear on the show, background dossiers will be created on each of the principals.

  In her role as a production assistant, Emma plays gopher to the producers, bringing them the numerous cups of Starbucks they need to get them through their day. That’s okay. The audio feed she wears—not for us, but as part of the production crew—picks up all of their utterances beyond their caffeine requests, including every snide comment about prospective contestants.

  As the old saying goes: if walls could talk…

  They will, in a few days, throughout Hilldale. As soon as we know whom the contestants are, the producers will have cameras in every room of their homes, except for the bathrooms.

  And Acme will tap into the feed. Hopefully, it will be enough for us to catch the terrorist before he or she has time to act.

  “What exactly are the producers looking for?” Jack asked Arnie yesterday after he and Emma slipped out from work.

  “The short answer is women who are the biggest drama queens in Hilldale,” Arnie muttered. “And the crazier, the better! In fact, the task of the production assistants—Emma included—is to gather as much gossip as possible, on everyone. That way, the producers know which wives to pit against each other. If Brin has her way, the feud between the Hatfields and McCoys will look like a Kardashian pillow fight compared to what will happen on this show.”

  Suddenly, I’m dreading this assignment. I can only imagine the rumors about me that must be flying out of the Collagen-plumped lips of my neighbors.

  The producers are leasing one of the empty houses for sale in Hilldale Summit to use as their studio, offices, and a place to sleep if filming runs long into the night. It was Peter Bing’s suggestion—or more than likely Penelope’s, in the hope that it would endear Brin and Lucy to her. They are renting it for a rock-bottom price. Somehow Peter convinced the builder that being able to say it was “Ground Zero for a Housewives franchise” will enhance its selling price.

  Ground zero is apt—hopefully, not for a lethal reason.

  Ah, time to enhance the cake with my special award-winning ingredient: a cup of Triple Sec. I pop open the oven, splash it on generously, then leave the oven door open a crack so that the alcohol can burn off as opposed to flame up.

  “Why is Daddy mowing the lawn with his shirt off?” Trisha asks.

  The real reason is that he has pecs to die for. Seeing Jack as man candy will certainly make us an obvious pick for the show.

  Not that Trisha needs to know that. Instead, I say, “He must have just gotten too hot.”

  My youngest nods emphatically. Trisha points out the dining room window. “Mrs. Bing must be hot too because she took off both her shirt and her pants.”

  What the hell…

  As I run toward the window to see if Penelope’s unveiling has caused Jack to run over his toes with the mower, I pass Trisha, who casually adds, “I’ll be in the playhouse. Call me when the cake is ready.”

  I get to the living room in time to see Penelope drop onto her chaise lounge and roll over onto her back. She unlaces her bikini to avoid a tan line. Oops, no, it’s to flash Jack. Go figure.

  I can see why Trisha thought she was stripping down to a fare-the-well: her bikini bottom is no more than a G-string. I can’t imagine what her excuse is for untying its sides. After all, she’s wearing a thong.

  Ah! Now I know why: to call Jack over and ask that he spread sunscreen on her back. To his credit, he pretends he can’t hear her yelling over the lawn mower.

  I’m so busy watching that I’ve tuned out the rest of the world. Jeff is shouting, “Mom! Someone’s at the front door!”

  Aunt Phyllis is still upstairs primping, so I guess I’ll have to answer it. Maybe that’s a better idea anyway. If first impressions count for anything, she may scare them off.

  As I make my way to the foyer, I run my fingers through my hair and then smooth the pleats in the skirt of my dress. After adjusting my lips into a pleasant smile, I open the door.

  But, I’ve barely got the word “Welcome—” out of my mouth when Trisha runs in, screaming, “Mom! The oven is on fire!”

  “Um…excuse me!” I’m rushing back into the kitchen when I hear Brin chortle through the audio feed, “Oh, brother! And this is the one everyone says can bake?”

  “The tip-off that she is a lousy cook is that she isn’t a heifer like the last mom,” Lucy replies.

  As they giggle, Brin retorts, “Well she must be good at something. Otherwise, how could she hold onto to that hunky husband of hers, what with all the sluts in this ’hood?”

  I’ve got to admit she’s got a good point there.

  One of my lesser known “talents” is that I’m a good shot. If Brin knew this, would it scare her off? From what she just said, my guess is no. Anything that creates drama for the show is fine by her.

  She doesn’t know it now, but she may get more than she bargained for.

  “How long will it take for your husband to get out of the shower?” Lucy cranes her neck toward the staircase to our second story like a toddler looking up the chimney flue on Christmas, waiting for Santa’s arrival.

  I’ve got news for her. Any gifts Jack has to bestow are all mine.

  Otherwise, everything is going wonderfully—

  I think.

  “Jack will be down by the time the coffee has brewed,” I assure her. “As I was saying, Trisha here is a Daisy Scout! I volunteered with the cookie sales drive, and we raised the most in Cali—”

  “Yeah, okay, wonderful, very noble,” Lucy interrupts.

  Well, at least she’s not yawning, like Brin. Frankly, I’m surprised Brin isn’t snoring. Granted, I have been babbling on about my children’s exemplary grades, and I’ve been the soul of discretion regarding my neighbors’ true pecca
dilloes.

  I am a saint.

  Alas, my children might as well be statues. Mary, Evan, and Jeff, stiff-backed and unsmiling, sit on the settee opposite our guests. Sadly, they couldn’t escape like Trisha and Aunt Phyllis, who I sent to set up my antique coffee service.

  I felt this was a wise move since great-aunt’s get-up sent Trisha into a fit of giggles. Not that I can blame her for losing it. Aunt Phyllis has made good on her threat to position herself as the neighborhood cougar. To that extent, her more-salt-than-pepper coif is now dyed jet black. Her eyeliner is thicker than Cleopatra’s. Her breasts, trussed in a bullet bra that thrusts them forward like twin zeppelins flying side by side are barely contained in the shortest, ugliest pink polka-dotted wrap-dress in history.

  After making her entrance, she squeezed onto the couch next to Addison. But her attempt to sit on his lap was stymied when he quickly scurried into one of the wingback chairs.

  “We’ve got a couple of questions for the children if you don’t mind,” Lucy’s look makes it clear she wants me to shut up.

  I shrug. “Sure…okay.”

  The kids’ reaction is to bolt straight up in their seats. You’d have thought Lucy had indicated that waterboarding would be used as an interrogation tactic.

  She turns first to Jeff. “I see you’re entering the ninth grade. Who do you hang with?”

  “Morton and…well, Cheever,” he answers with a wince.

  Brin flips open the iPad in her hand. “And you’re such a great athlete.”

  Jeff relaxes into the settee with a smug smile. “Yeah, well, I’m our team’s star pitcher, and I also play basketball.”

  Brin smiles encouragingly. “I was a middle child, like you. Do you like it?”

  “Yeah, I guess,” he relays warily. “I mean…well, I think it also helps to be the only boy—at least, I was until Evan moved in with us.”

  The spotlight then shifts to Evan. He keeps his face as blank as possible while answering Lucy’s softball questions regarding his stellar grades and Lacrosse victories.

  But then suddenly she asks, “What was it like to move all the way across the country to live with a family you barely knew before your parents died?”

  At this point, Evan’s face loses some color. “I’m…just grateful that the Craigs were kind enough to open their home and their hearts to me. Donna was an old friend of my family—”

  Brin leans in, better to corner unsuspecting prey. “You mean she already had a relationship with your mother, Senator Catherine Martin, and your father, Robert, the billionaire tech entrepreneur?”

  “Yes.” Evan’s stare dares her to ask him anything else.

  Noting his discomfort, Mary puts her hand over his, but only for a second. The moment she sees Lucy smirk, she quickly pulls it away.

  Brin sees her gesture too. Suddenly, she turns to my daughter. “Mary, sweetie…wow! And you're entering your junior year! Lots of fun, eh? So, do you have a boyfriend?”

  Mary blushes, then says, quite adamantly, “No.”

  By the sly smile on Brin’s face, she caught the fact that Evan looked away.

  I’m prepared to leap into the fray with some other tepid Craig family success stories when Brin turns to me. Batting her eyes, she asks oh so sweetly, “I’m sure getting thirsty! Why don’t you go check on that coffee?”

  What does she think I am, some flunky assistant, like Emma?

  Calm down…Remember, you’re here to win this.

  I grit my teeth and reply. “Then I better go check on what’s keeping Aunt Phyllis and Trisha with our refreshments.”

  “Hey, while you’re in there, can you add some honey to my order?" Lucy asks. She dismisses me with a wave.

  “Some coconut sugar would be nice, too,” Brin adds. “Oh, and some almond milk, if you have it.”

  Even Addison, who must pretend not to know me, has a request: “Whisky, too.”

  Why am I not surprised?

  I do my best not to stomp out.

  It’s on the tip of my tongue to remind these interlopers that I’m not some Urth Caffé barista, but then I realize they wanted to get rid of me for a few moments so that they can question the kids without me.

  So be it.

  I also commend myself for nixing any thought of putting a diuretic in their coffee, but only because I’ll be pouring mine from the same pot.

  From the looks of things in the kitchen, Trisha hasn’t been much help. Instead, my floor is getting scuffed as she shuffles off to Buffalo over and over again, but she stops cold when I come into view. “May I go back in now? Please? Pretty please?”

  I have no recourse except to nod my permission. Excited for her chance to impress, Trisha gives me a stronghold hug and heads toward the living room.

  But, when Aunt Phyllis starts out after her, I turn her around and march her toward the back door. “Brin wants coconut sugar, and, sadly, I’ve got none to offer her. So, traipse down to the Hilldale Safeway and grab some, okay? Thanks!”

  “What? No! I’ve got to get back in there, coach!” she pleads. “I watch enough of these shows to know that I’m a character that the viewers will love at first sight!”

  “You have a point, but now is not the time to make it—especially when the showrunner is jonesing to sweeten her coffee,” I say firmly.

  Aunt Phyllis’s Hail Mary is to block the door with the toe of one of my new twelve-hundred-dollar deep violet Louboutin pearly suede point-toe four-inch pumps she borrowed, knowing full well that I can’t afford to ruin the most expensive shoes I own. “Didn’t you see the chemistry between that Addison guy and me? I tell you, we had a luuuuuv connection!”

  “Come back with the coconut sugar, and we’ll talk about how you’ll make your play,” I promise, as I shove her out the door.

  By then, hopefully, the producers will be long gone.

  If not, I can only imagine what Aunt Phyllis will do.

  Is it too much to ask that she follow my children’s lead? Thus far, thank goodness, they’ve been the souls of discretion. What could go wrong?

  While I pour the honey into a tiny bowl and place it on my antique silver coffee service along with a small pitcher of the almond milk Brin demanded, I eavesdrop via the Acme camera feed in my contact lens as Trisha asks, “Did you know that I tap dance? Do you need a tap dancer on your show?” Without waiting for an answer, she goes into her dance routine.

  “Cute, but no—we’re not America’s Got Talent.” Brin’s clipped words can’t stop my little budding Eleanor Powell from her star turn: six Buffalos in a row—

  Until Brin adds, “I hear there are some boys in your class that are real meanies. Is that correct?”

  Trisha stops mid-shuffle as she thinks. “Not in my class, but Jeff’s friend, Cheever is a real ass—”

  Jeff slaps his hand over Trisha’s mouth. “What Trisha means to say is that Cheever can sometimes be…well, a handful.”

  “What a mature answer,” Lucy commends him. Will her saccharine tone accomplish the goal of making him open up? “Do you always stick up for your friend? I mean, did you let him off the hook when he told your mom that the only reason Jack would marry her was that he got her pregnant?”

  Jeff scowls. “You know about that?”

  Brin’s hard-edged laugh makes me shiver. “His mother happened to mention it. She also said that your mother’s reaction was so violent that he peed his pants. Is this correct?”

  “Well…yes, okay.” Jeff’s tone is defensive. “But Mrs. Bing started it!”

  “Your mother set the poor woman on fire at least twice,” Brin counters. “Could that have anything to do with why she dissed your mom? And was that any reason for your mother to make the poor kid wet himself?”

  Addison puts his arm on Jeff’s shoulder before my son says something he may regret. He likes the boy enough to look out for him.

  “Obviously, you’ve only heard Mrs. Bing’s side of the story,” Mary retorts. “The woman has always hated us. Before Jack,
she used to…” She stops, realizing that her hurt feelings are catnip to the show’s producers. “Just…well, never mind.”

  “We know she’s called your mom a terrorist,” Lucy’s tone is all good-cop. “You have a right to hold a grudge.”

  To hell with letting them tear my kids apart without me there to protect them! If they say one more cruel thing, this scalding coffeepot might find itself tipped over one of their heads.

  I’m just about to march in there when Jack declares, “Pushing back doesn’t mean you’re holding a grudge.”

  His voice has them all turning toward the foyer entry. He has changed into a dry T-shirt and jeans. By the way in which Brin nudges Lucy, she must think he cleans up well. “It means you’re not going to let others define you,” he continues. “I respect my wife for doing so.”

  Brin bats her eyes at him. “You’ve admired her for several years, haven’t you—even before you and she formally met, am I right?”

  “Why would you think that?” Jack’s question comes out in a snarl.

  Brin swipes a few pages on her iPad. Glancing down, she replies, “Our reconnaissance shows that you knew her former husband before meeting her—God rest his soul.” She pouts to feign sympathy. “Oh! And let’s not forget that he took your wife away from you—”

  Jack snatches her iPad out of her hands and scans it. “This paper you’re reading from is marked Classified. It’s from a CIA dossier. Where the hell did you get this?” He scowls accusingly at Addison, who shakes his head slightly, as if to assure Jack that he had nothing to do with it.

  “So then, it’s got to be true,” Lucy points out. “Were you the cuckolded husband looking to court and marry Donna as a way to get back at Carl?”

  Jack glares at her for the longest time. Finally, he tosses the iPad back to Lucy.

  She catches it with one hand.

  But her triumphant smile disappears when Jack says, “Perhaps appearing on your show is not in our family’s best interest.”