The Housewife Assassin's Hostage Hosting Tips Page 5

  The third mandate is that you be physically fit, because the job is more strenuous than most people might presume. Sorry, ladies, I’m not running a fitness boot camp for the well intentioned. I’m seeking those who are ready and able to fill my shoes–a cross-training-slash-hollow stiletto heeled hybrid with a poison-dart tip. The flatfooted and fainthearted need not apply.

  In that regard, I can immediately ditch nine of the dossiers because the women are either too thin (not all catwalks are fashion runways), too thick (there will be many tight squeezes–another reason why sometimes a female is needed on a mission), or has too many miles on her (if she’s got a crackerjack mind, promote her to mission control. No need to assure she ends up with cracked ribs), or too dumb (this variety also includes quite a few brunettes).

  I also eliminate the eight trust fund babies and the socialites. Acme isn’t a charity or a hobby, thank you very much.

  And last but not least, no matter what her last gig, there has to be some demonstration that she can think on her feet, and certainly out of the box. For that matter, it would help if she doesn’t panic when she’s out on a ledge.

  That being said, any candidate who admitted on her application that she’s afraid of either fire, water, heights, tight spaces, the sight of blood, or getting naked and doing the nasty when the situation calls for it is deleted too.

  Okay, now, I’m down to only three possible candidates:

  The first is Tally Lloyd, a tall, gorgeous brunette who also happens to be a former Marine Corps pilot, as was her father, and his father before him. In fact, she had an ancestor who stormed the shores of Tripoli. Her last tour of duty put her in Marja, Afghanistan. Since then, she’s worked at the DOD as an aviation analyst. From the way her application reads, she’s already bored of being a desk jockey. Who can blame her, after the adrenaline rush of dropping a six-pack of five-hundred-pound Mark 82’s from an AV 8B Harrier jet on Taliban rebels?

  Another likely candidate is Jenny McDougal. For the past eight years, she’s worked in the Intelligence division of the CIA as a terrorism analyst. Whereas she’s a desk jockey, her dossier also points out that she is an excellent marksman, speaks Mandarin and three other Chinese dialects, and is a skilled in martial arts.

  Oddly, no picture of Jenny is included. That’s okay. I’m sure it’s just some oversight.

  The final prospect is Pucci Tedeschi (formerly Luciana Giovanni), a sultry New Jersey housewife who went gaga over a big handsome lug who just so happened to be a made man with the Carducci Syndicate. Unfortunately, her husband, Knuckles Giovanni, was also a sick pedophile. When Pucci caught him jumping into the bunk bed of her ten-year-old little sister, she nailed him with one shot to the heart, from a distance of fifty feet. Thank goodness the kid never woke up, not even as Pucci dragged Knuckles’ body out of the room.

  At her hearing, she refused to let the girl speak on her behalf. She was too worried that the poor kid would be scarred for life. With no evidence to back up her claim, she was facing first-degree manslaughter until she cut a deal with the district attorney that put her in Witness Protection. At the same time, a raid on Carducci footmen put several of them behind bars with murder raps. Did she turn state’s evidence? Only she, her priest, and her hairdresser know for sure.

  Ryan is quick to get on the line when he hears I’m on the other end. “So, does anyone measure up?”

  I laugh uneasily. “That’s a loaded question, and you know it.”

  “By that, I mean in your mind. If you ask me, it’s a foregone conclusion that there’s only one Donna Stone.”

  “Well, thank you for that.” I cough in order to pretend that he didn’t make me choke up. “In fact, I’ve got three possibilities. How would you like me to proceed?”

  “Why don’t you start with the least likely? That way, if she lives up to your expectations, you can put her on ice as you vet the other two. Better to have more choices than less.”

  “Good point.” I hesitate, then ask, “Is the winner being considered for the current mission?”

  There’s a long pause. Finally: “Despite the fact that I could use all hands on deck, I doubt your replacement will be up to speed in time to do us any good.”

  Talk about a guilt trip.

  To mitigate the sting, I send a secure email to the candidate I feel is least likely to be chosen, Pucci. It reads:

  Dear Ms. Tedeschi,

  Your application has made it to the next step of Acme’s acceptance process, skills assessment. With that in mind, arrangements are being made for you to join me here, the day after tomorrow. I look forward to meeting you then.

  D. Stone

  In the twenty minutes it takes to ready myself for my next task–a meeting with Penelope to go over the details of the dance–I’ve already received a reply from Pucci. It’s short and sweet:

  With relish. –PT

  I’ve been retired just three days, fourteen hours, and six minutes, but it seems like a lifetime.

  Chapter 5

  Selecting the Perfect Venue

  Yes, everyone loves visiting you in your quaint little abode. (In all honesty, it’s a careworn hovel–but then again, it’s sooooo you!) But let’s face it: there are times when your next soirée should be held somewhere more accommodating. (As in, a place where your neighbors won’t so readily call your local police department’s SWAT team.)

  That being said, when, how, and where should you choose your next venue? Here are three easy-peasy answers to this question:

  Answer #1: Let your theme lead the way. For example, if you’re throwing a Tarts and Vicars party, rent out a church reception space! (Warning: This is truly the worst place to have an orgy. That being said, don’t let your guests use the confessionals or the altar for making out or getting it on.)

  Answer #2: By all means, make it work within your budget. If your budget is unlimited, rent a hotel rooftop and let the champagne flow. However, if you have next to nil in your party till, consider a free park, where you can choose from a slew of event themes, including “Roaring Twenties Croquet Party,” with real bathtub gin (again, a cost-saver if you make it yourself), retro duds (second-hand store couture) and the croquet set your grandma bought you when you were ten. (Helpful Hint: if you can’t shoo away the local bench bum with your mallet, place a sign on him that says, “A LOOK INTO THE FUTURE: THE 1930s!”)

  Answer #3: Book your space on the day the event manager is willing to give it away. The fact that it’s a sex dungeon and he’s been tipped off that there will be a raid on that night shouldn’t deter you from choosing it as the location of your knitting club’s annual holiday party. Just be ready to explain that the sweaters being exchanged in the Secret Santa contest aren’t straightjackets, and the circular knitting needles aren’t cock rings.

  “Fancy schmancy!” I give a low whistle at our surroundings–the lobby of Beverly Hills’ newest hotel, the Savoy. “So, why are we here again?” I ask Penelope.

  She arches a brow. “Didn’t you read my memo?”

  “Yeah…um…sure.” No, not really. Frankly, I’ve been avoiding all of her texts and emails, which are usually marked EMERGENCY!!!!!

  As if. Seriously, this woman needs a life.

  Until she figures this out, I’ll play along, in the hope that it buys me the goodwill my children will need as long as we stay in Hilldale.

  “Then I’m sure you’ll find this handy.” Penelope reaches into her valise and hands me a three-inch binder. It’s so heavy that my hand drops practically to my knees. “It’s the prom committee handbook you were supposed to pick up three days ago. Remember? You can thank me later. We’ll sit over there to go over the fine points of your task.” She points toward the middle of the lobby, where settees surround a gushing fountain. An exquisite glass sculpture graces each table. I recognize the pieces as the work of Nikolas Weinstein.

  Yep, fancy schmancy, for sure.

  She chooses a settee that faces the six glass elevator banks. Its publicist is tou
ting it as the latest and greatest Mecca for stars behaving badly. The fact that it’s almost an hour out of our way for something that could have taken a phone call means nothing to her. I’ve no doubt that Penelope arranged for us to meet here just so that she can have a few star sightings to tell the rest of her coven.

  As if by magic, a waitress appears. She is pushing a full deluxe tea service for two, with a three-tiered tray. The bottom tier is filled with sandwiches made of artisan breads, filled with savory delights, and cut into bite-sized wedges. The middle tier has pastries, scones and cupcakes, while the top tier alternates between petit fours and handmade chocolates.

  Noting my look of surprise, Penelope waves it away. “Not to worry, Donna. It’s on the PTA–part of the dance planning budget.”

  After the woman pours our selections–chai for me, and Morgentau for Penelope, she presents the bill to Penelope, who points at me. “Sign it, okay? It’s part of your job as the committee chair.”

  I nod and scrawl my Jane Hancock.

  “And while you’re at it, you should sign your volunteer contract, too.” She slides out a manila envelope from the front of the binder.

  I eye it suspiciously. “Since when do volunteers have to sign a contract?”

  “Only the event chairs have to do it. If you had attended more PTA meetings, you’d know it’s common procedure now. Oh, don’t worry, Donna! It’s quite simple and straightforward. Frankly, the PTA board has found it to be the best incentive for the volunteers to follow through on their commitments. It seems that everyone likes the title, the prestige, and the accolades, but no one likes to do the dirty work.”

  I open the envelope. The damn thing is four pages long, all in small type.

  I hesitate, but only for a moment–until I remember why I’m here: so that others don’t snicker behind my children’s backs.

  As I sign it, I mutter, “I presume you and the rest of the PTA board have signed one of these, too.”

  Penelope’s head snaps back so fast that I’m surprised she doesn’t have whiplash. “Hell, no! I’m no fool.”

  Apparently the court jester’s role is all mine.

  I take the binder and heave it onto the table in front of us. It lands with a thud. I notice that its five pounds of pages are separated by six dividers labeled VENUE, TICKETS, PROMOTION, ENTERTAINMENT, REFRESHMENTS, and SECURITY.

  So far, a piece of cupcake. Soaked in brandy, in fact. Here’s hoping it makes the rest of what she has to say go down easier.

  I take a bite before complimenting her. “Well, it certainly looks as if you’ve done your homework.”

  “You mean, I’ve done your homework for you,” she retorts.

  Whatev. “I appreciate your two years of experience in planning the event.” Duh, lady. In the middle school gym. It’s why the gig is a no-brainer.

  “Ha! Thought so! You never even opened my memo!” She shakes her head as she clicks her tongue.

  I point to the book. “This isn’t a ‘memo.’ It’s a doorstop.”

  She shrugs. “Donna, you’ve got to trust me on the seriousness of this event. After all, I’m doing my bit to nudge your acceptance back into polite society.”

  “Oh? Pray tell, what exactly does that mean?” The advantage to still being on Acme’s clock means I can access the security feed of many places. Take this hotel, for instance. By hacking into the reservations manifest, I noted that the eighth floor has only six of its ten guest rooms occupied, all at the end closest to the elevator. Should I elect to torture Penelope for any reason (and that seems likelier by the second), no one would hear her begging for mercy as I waterboard her in the suite’s Jacuzzi tub, which boasts a Moen Velocity vertical spa oil-rubbed rainshower head.

  Penelope opens a compact in order to check her lipstick. “Admit it, Donna. Haven’t you noticed the chill in the air when you’re in the presence of the other mothers?”

  “Come to think of it, I have.” I cock my head to one side. “Perhaps it has something to do with all the nasty rumors being circulated about me.”

  At first, Penelope feigns shock. But seeing my frown, she shrugs. “I must admit, I’ve heard them too.”

  “Heard them, or spread them?” With a click of an iPhone button, I can book Room Eight-Sixteen, touted on the Savoy’s website as “a suite that affords guests the level of privacy found only in the highest reaches of power. Because of our patented ‘Walls of Silence’ not a peep can be heard, either from within, or those seeking the quietest venues for intimacy…”

  Good to know. Should Penelope make me any angrier than I already am, I’ll be testing that claim with all sorts of little tricks that are used at Club Dread.

  “Puh-leeze, Donna! You know me better than that.” Penelope bats her eyes at warp speed, which causes one of her false lashes to flutter onto her cheek. “If anything, I’ve been making excuses for–I mean, standing up for you. Considering all the times the SWAT team has shown up at your place, it hasn’t been easy tamping down the rumors that you abetted a terrorist.” As she pats the lash back into place, she continues, “My gawd, anyone who knows you realizes you’re not some sort of evil mastermind. If anything, you’re naïve when it comes to men.”

  “Me–naïve?” Suddenly, I look forward to testing the claim that the Savoy suite’s bidet has “Niagara-force cleansing power” by holding Penelope’s head in the bowl for a good four to five minutes.

  “Well, duh–yeah!” Penelope takes a dainty bite of asparagus. “You marry a man who stays away for so long that half the neighborhood thinks you’ve lied about being married in the first place, and the other half presumes that you’re such a lousy lay that you drove him off.”

  “Is that so? And which side did you take?”

  “I was in the Runaway Hub Club,” she insists emphatically.

  I murmur, “Founding member, I presume.”

  Involuntarily, she nods. Suddenly realizing she’s just copped to it, she says defensively, “What else could it be? To start with, you’re not that good of a liar. Secondly, since your kids all look as if they came from the same father, I just assumed he ran away because you were a lousy lay.” She leans in conspiratorially. “But then, when that hunk, Jack Craig, shows up claiming to be him, all bets were off.”

  “Sorry we ruined everyone’s fun,” I say dryly.

  “Oh, trust me, a whole new betting pool began when the news broke that he wasn’t the elusive Mr. Stone after all. You’ll be happy to learn that no one ever won the pot on that one.”

  “What was it for?”

  “How long he’d stick around. That’s because none of the bets went beyond the first year.”

  The crest of my pinky ring is hollowed out and filled with enough succinylcholine to bring on a fatal heart attack. All I have to do is wave my hand over Penelope’s cup and she’s artisan toast.

  I’m still contemplating the odds of the movement being caught on the hotel’s security camera when she adds, “If I haven’t said so before, let me assure you that I appreciate that you’ve taken on this arduous task. No one else had the gumption, and heaven knows, had I lateraled it to either Hayley or Tiffy, it would have been botched for sure.”

  “Gee…thanks for saying so.”

  “I mean it!” she insists. “I figure that anyone who can juggle two handsome men who both insist they’re her husband–not to mention booty calls with President Chiffray–must be great at time management…or something.” She winks broadly.

  “Let me assure you–and by proxy, the rest of Hilldale–that the president and I are merely friends.” Some sleight of hand with the teapot will give me the coverage I need to drop the Sux in her cuppa. “May I pour you some more?”

  To my disappointment, she declines my offer with a wave of her hand. “I’ll admit it, Donna, I went overboard in compiling all my notes from past dances, but considering it’s being held here–”

  I pause, teapot in hand. “You want the dance to take place here?” I look around at the Savoy’s opul
ent setting. “But…why?”

  Penelope holds her nose. “Who wants to dance in a smelly old gym? My son–that is, our sons, deserve a more fitting setting for their very first prom! Cheever’s new girlfriend, Gabrielle, is sure to be impressed.”

  Ah, so that’s why we’re here. Talk about being a helicopter parent.

  I drop my teacup back onto its saucer. “Penelope, using the Savoy’s ballroom has got to cost an arm and a leg!”

  “You’re wrong about that. The place is so new that right now, they’re begging to have events here,” she declares smugly. “As a matter of fact, I pummeled the hotel manager, Henry Massey, so hard over the contract, he was practically in tears.” She hesitates. “Of course, there are some strings attached.”

  “For example?”

  Delicately, she glazes a scone with apricot jam. “Well…there is the tiny little issue of thirty guaranteed room rentals.”

  I choke on my cupcake. “Even a closet here has to go for, what, four hundred dollars a night?”

  She frowns. “Okay, yes, the rack rate starts at five-hundred-and-thirty dollars. But I figure the kids can sleep four to a room–”

  “A class sleepover, here at the Savoy? Are you crazy? No way! Not with all those raging hormones!”

  She slumps into her tufted throne. “Calm down, Donna. We’re not talking coed dorms. And, of course, there will be an adult chaperone on each floor.”

  Adamantly, I shake my head. “I don’t know of a parent who would consent to it!”

  “No? If you’d taken the time to open ‘the doorstop,’ as you so caustically call it, you’d discover that last week’s parent survey proves you’re wrong. Or, as one parent wrote, ‘I’ll do anything for one night away from my little pituitary gland in heat.’”

  “Oh, great. So tell me: have any of the parents volunteered to chaperone?”

  She rolls her eyes. “Are you kidding? Unlike you, none of these women are helicopter parents. They want their children to have new experiences–”