The Housewife Assassin's Hostage Hosting Tips Read online

  Like, say, jumping off balconies, or raiding mini-bars? Or playing Truth or Dare?

  “–to spread their wings–”

  For the girls, hopefully not their legs, too.

  “–and to have the most memorable night of their young lives!”

  I’ve no doubt it will be that, and more, especially when the hotel calls the cops and the kids do their very first perp walk.

  When she realizes that I’m not buying her malarkey, she shrugs. “Look Donna, some parents will pay through the nose for a night without their kids around. Not only will we earn enough to cover the event’s expenses, we’ll double the PTA’s revenue from last year.”

  I nod slowly. Look at it this way: should any of their little scholars pull a fast one, they’ll have me to thank for saving their kid’s ass. It’ll be great to have a few chits to call in.

  “It won’t exactly be a cakewalk. For example, we’ll have to keep a very close watch on die kinder, what with all the alcohol floating around,” Penelope points out.

  “Alcohol? But of course we won’t allow the kids to spike the punch!”

  “How quaint, but no one said anything about ‘spiking the punch!’ I’m talking about the minimum amounts of liquor, beer and wine purchases that are written into the contract.”

  I wince. “Can the hotel at least leave it in bottles, so that the PTA can resell it?” I’m sure the parents will need a swig or two after they get the bill for damages to the rooms.

  She sighs mightily. “Must I ask for everything? I’ll let you negotiate that niggling detail with Henry.” She nods toward the reception desk at a tall, courtly gentleman with a pencil-thin mustache. He’s perhaps in his mid-forties, and buff beneath his custom double-breasted Brioni suit.

  Seeing us, he rolls his eyes. Yep, Penelope left a lasting impression.

  To sweeten her wave, Penelope adds a wink.

  Finally he waves back. If anyone got pummeled, it was her. No doubt, she enjoyed every minute of it.

  “Seriously, Penelope, maybe it’s not too late to get out of this deal.”

  Her eyes narrow like tractor beams. “You’re wrong. Your signature just now was the PTA’s co-signature. We are locked and loaded.”

  This new little bombshell makes my trigger finger itchy. To tamp down the urge to reach for my gun, I use the finger to motion her closer. When only she can hear me, I whisper, “You owe me big time for this. And by that, I mean no more innuendoes about my love life. Do you understand, Penelope Bing?”

  Maybe it’s the way I hold my head high and proud. Or perhaps it’s the look in my eyes. Or maybe it’s the fact that I’m holding her wrist in such a way that she knows one little move will snap it, like a twig. In any case, she nods and mumbles, “I…promise.”

  Slowly, I release her wrist. “Good! Glad we understand each other. I’ll call Henry later this week, to set up an appointment–alone.”

  She frowns, but at least she knows better than to argue with me.

  I hold up one hand and start counting down fingers. “As for chaperones, you and I will be there, so that’s two. I presume Hayley is volunteering, too–”

  “Hardly! Do you remember what happened the last time Hayley was around so much alcohol?”

  I wince. “The father-daughter dance, two years ago? Actually, it was pot, not alcohol.” I take a closer look at her face. “If it’s any consolation, your eyebrows grew in nicely after the flash fire.”

  “Thank you.” The way she’s smiling reminds me of a feral cat. “Still, her substance abuse issues are not something we’ll want to test on the big night.”

  “Agreed. Okay then, it’ll be you, me, and Tiffy, of course–”

  Penelope frowns. “Fortunately for her, if not for us, she and the mister are taking a much-needed couples getaway. In fact, I recommended Fantasy Island to them.”

  I shudder at the thought. It might have been where Penelope got her groove back–with and without her husband, Peter. Still, it would have been far off my bucket list, what with the pygmies and their poison darts and the slave trafficking, the place has bad mojo. Considering that Tiffy’s marriage has more downs than it has ups, a place with less going on is certainly in order.

  “At the very least, we can count on Peter,” I insist.

  Penelope shakes her head. “Wrong. He claims he’s going hunting with his pals that weekend.”

  I’ve seen Peter when he’s on the hunt. It’s usually in a bar, where he can prey on two-legged, large-breasted birds perched on five-inch heels and sipping fruity drinks out of large glasses with tiny umbrellas in them.

  “Speaking of husbands, I presume at least one of yours will be here–Jack, for instance?” Penelope practically salivates at the thought.

  I shrug. “Lately, he’s been working nights, so we shouldn’t count on it.” She need not know that his dance card might already be filled with whatever terrorists may be on the loose between here and New York.

  “‘Working late?’ How…original.” She tries to hide her smirk by munching a sandwich wedge, but we both know what she’s thinking.

  Well, she’s wrong. Jack is nothing like Peter. He’s sweet, and loyal and loving and hardworking–

  Soon, with a new partner.

  I’d drop Sux in Penelope’s tea if it weren’t for the fact that so far she’s the only other chaperone on the big night. Lucky us.

  Lucky me.

  Chapter 6

  Entertaining on a Budget

  Few of us have a billionaire’s budget for parties, or can write off our parties as business expenses. Just because your own measly bank account falls somewhere between barely there and nonexistent doesn’t mean you can’t show your nearest and dearest a good time. Here’s how to slash your budget without cutting corners:

  First, invite others to bring the food. Gauche, you say? Not if you make it part of the fun–say, give a prize for “Best Dessert” or “Best Appetizer” or “Best Main Dish.”

  Of course, every dish gets a prize–proof yet again that you only hang with winners!

  (And for those who show up empty-handed: they are stripped naked, collared, and chained to a wall, where they must beg for scraps from those who followed the rules.)

  Next, make your guests the entertainment. Have the one with the best musical taste play deejay. Better yet, invite musicians and singers, and encourage them to jam. Or stage a live reading of a book or play. A good time will be had by all! (And if you’re smart, you’ll charge admission in order to fatten your bank account.)

  Last, but not least, make it a no-host bar. Yes, people will actually pay for booze–or they’ll BYOB, in which case, feel free to charge a corkage fee. Cha-CHING!

  “Oh, my God, Donna! Blackened salmon sandwiches with fried green tomatoes? And your world famous apricot brandy pound cake? I’m in heaven!” Emma Honeycutt hands me her six-week-old son, Nicky, as she digs into one of the sandwiches with both hands.

  Acme’s ComInt manager has been on maternity leave for about six weeks. I came bearing a picnic basket because I figured–correctly, as it turns out–that, by now, the mind-numbing joy of holding her newborn son has finally worn off, and she’s ready for a little adult company.

  Don’t get me wrong. Taking care of a newborn baby is no prance through the posies. Nicky–formally christened Nikola Franklin, in homage of two of the world’s greatest technological visionaries, Nikola Tesla and Benjamin Franklin–has just now locked into a sleep pattern that allows his parents a little shut-eye. That being said, a day in which the highlights are breastfeeding, diaper duty, laundry, grocery shopping, and keeping house in the two-bedroom apartment she shares with her betrothed–Acme’s very own Arnie–won’t frazzle a woman who is used to tracking insurgents via satellite surveillance, providing geospatial intel to field agents, and managing Acme’s crack team of cryptologists.

  In other words, she’s primed for some office gossip.

  I know this, because I’ve been retired just over four days (two hours
and sixteen minutes) and I’m climbing the walls.

  Sadly, with Jack and me in Cold War mode, all I have to offer her is my gourmet cooking. Seeing her reaction (not to mention the boxes of cereal lining her cabinets, as Emma isn’t much of a cook), I’m hopeful that it’s enough of a trade-off.

  The way in which she gulps down her sandwich makes me laugh. “Considering you’ve just had a baby, you’re looking pretty svelte–at least, in all the right places.”

  They say that pregnant women have a certain glow. Frankly, I think the light in a new mother’s eyes is even more spectacular. There is no smile wider than that of a woman who has witnessed one of her child’s many firsts–be it an adoring smile, a tenuous step, or an unintelligible word.

  There is no sigh as content as that of a mom who holds her sleeping baby in her arms.

  And for that matter, nothing swells your heart quicker with love than when your newborn infant wraps his tiny hand around your pinky finger, the way Nicky’s does now, around mine.

  In fact, Emma looks happier than I’ve ever seen her. As I stare down into Nicky’s eyes, I say a prayer of thanks that Nicky is now a part of her life.

  Pre-Mama Emma had been wary of love. She approached the acceptance, respect, and adoration of others as if they were landmines that could blast through the steely armor of her disaffection that, for some unknown reason, encased her heart. The Emma who now sits in front of me is beaming with the kind of joy found in women whose hearts are open to unconditional love.

  My joke about Emma’s figure has her instinctively turning toward the mirror over the foyer table. A half-turn sideways allows her to scrutinize her postpartum chest. Shrugging, she mutters, “Yeah, well, I guess there’s one advantage to breastfeeding. At least, Arnie thinks so. Frankly, I hate the fact that I’m stretching out my T-shirts.”

  “Speaking of Arnie, I guess he’s excited about this latest mission, right?”

  “That’s putting it mildly! But he was sweating bullets while they waited for Tatyana’s GPS feed to go live.”

  “Jack felt the same.” Even as I rock back and forth on my heels with her cooing son, I widen my eyes as if I know what the hell I’m talking about.

  “I’d hate to think how Ryan would have reacted if Jack’s plan hadn’t worked. I mean, Tatyana, of all people!”

  I nod, but keep my head down as I shift Nicky into one arm so that I can cut her a nice healthy slice of the apricot brandy cake. Sliding the plate in front of her, I murmur, “Yes, of course! Then again, you know Jack’s feelings about her in general.”

  “Tell me about it!” she exclaims through a mouthful of cake. “The history they share is something else! And to think, if Jack hadn’t gone to that party with her, how much longer would it have taken us to learn about the Quorum?”

  Jack was partying–with Tatyana?

  Emma reaches into the fridge for a carton of milk and pours it into two short glasses. Handing one to me, she tips hers toward it so that we can toast our reunion. I’m in the middle of my sip when she adds, “So, tell me the truth–does it change how you feel about…you know…”

  I can’t let her in on the little secret that I don’t know what the heck she’s implying, so I simply shrug. “What do you think?”

  “I don’t know. I guess if I were you, I’d feel…betrayed.” She looks closely at me.

  Oh, I get it now.

  I wish I’d killed Tatyana when I had the chance.

  “Of course I feel betrayed,” I say angrily. “I also feel...” I’m hoping my pause gives her the impression that I’m at a loss for words, so that she’ll keep talking and shed some light on what the hell she means.

  “Pissed. I know.” She pats my arm. “Heck, who wouldn’t be?”

  I don’t think I’m too successful keeping the bitterness out of my voice as I say, “Sometimes our business makes for strange bedfellows, doesn’t it?”

  “You mean, he confessed about sleeping with her?” Emma’s eyes open wide. “Well, look at it this way. If it hadn’t been for her going after Carl, we might never have known about his role in the Quorum–”

  Wait…

  She went after Carl? How? When? Why?

  To cover up the fact that I don’t know where the hell Emma is going with this, I nod slowly.

  “–not to mention what she did to Jack.” Emma nods knowingly.

  I want to scream, Tell me, damn it! Just tell me…

  Instead, I take another gulp of my milk.

  Emma stares at me, waiting for me to say something, so I mutter, “Well, if she leads us to her clients, we’ll have our payback.”

  Emma frowns. “But she did, yesterday in fact. That’s the beauty part.”

  “Oh!” My exclamation elicits a funny look from her. To cover my tracks, I add weakly, “I guess I missed that memo.”

  “Are you sure? I wrote it up myself. And I know Ryan had it distributed the moment the DOD confirmed it.” She heads to her computer.

  “You wrote it up? But…you’re on maternity leave!”

  “I’ve been working from home for the past two weeks now. But, of course you knew that…right?” She’s clicking through emails on her computer. I watch as she halts to scan one. “Wait…Donna, you’re not copied on any of these!” She stares up at me.

  Busted.

  I shrug. “I thought Arnie would have mentioned that I turned in my notice–on the day Tatyana pulled her disappearing act, in fact.”

  She nods slowly as she takes this in.

  She knows I’ve played her.

  “I’m still on payroll,” I insist. “In fact, I’m now assigned to vetting the candidates for my replacement.”

  “But you don’t have clearance on this mission.” She’s not accusing me, she’s just stating a fact.

  “Well, to be honest…no.” I take a step closer. “You said it yourself, Emma. Tatyana is the key to everything that happened in my life since Carl walked out on me. And yet, Jack won’t clue me in!”

  “Had you not retired, you would have been part of the mission,” she points out.

  “Look, I didn’t even know about this Russian hussy until she waltzed in as Hardy Higginbotham’s widow–and put a bullet in me!” Emma winces at the anxiety in my voice.

  That only makes me all the more desperate as I add, “And now you tell me that she’s the key to everything that changed my life–that she has some hold over Jack–”

  “What I meant was…” She shakes her head sadly. “Look, Donna, it’s not my place to tell you. I could get fired! In fact, I’ve said too much already.”

  She’s right. We both know it.

  “I’m sorry I misled you, Emma. It’s just that Jack refuses to discuss her.” I wipe away a tear. “To be honest, even if I hadn’t turned in my notice, I don’t know if he’d have told me how she fits into the big picture.”

  She nods sympathetically. “I wish I could help you, Donna. Really, I do. But the rules–”

  In unison, we sniff the air. Something smells rotten. This is no figure of speech.

  In my arms, Nicky stretches, then cries.

  Emma rises to take the culprit from me. “Sorry about that! My guess is that he’s hungry, too.” She heads down the hall. “I’ll be gone for a good twenty minutes. Of course, I don’t need my computer in the nursery with me.” She turns around to give me a wink.

  Thank you, I mouth to her.

  I wait until she closes the door before I open the only file on the computer’s screen.

  The dossier for Tatyana Zakharov is one of the documents within it.

  With one click, I’ll discover how this woman changed my destiny.

  The dossier is fairly slim. In fact, Acme only has a few pictures of Tatyana, and the two reports are just a few pages long at best.

  In the first photo, she is several years younger. In it, she’s a redhead, and she’s wearing a turquoise sundress and a matching wide, floppy hat. It looks as if she’s stepping out of a sleek motorboat onto a dock alongsid
e a Venetian canal.

  Jack is on the motorboat too. At least he’s not the man helping her off the boat while giving her the once-over. And, to his favor, he’s also not one of the many men giving her admiring glances.

  As I read the report attached to the photo, I understand why. Later that night, Jack was found along the canal with a bullet in his shoulder. He lost a lot of blood before a couple of good Samaritans took him to a nearby hospital. He was sent to retrieve intel at some private party.

  Apparently, she was too.

  The accompanying report puts it this way:

  The photos enclosed herewith, obtained via public security cameras, provide formal verification to Acme Agent J. Craig’s eye-witness report that Russia FSB agent Tatyana Zakharov was onsite and carried out the extermination of Irina Romanov. – A. Locklear

  Jack succeeded in obtaining what he came for, but the price was precious: an innocent bystander’s life. Thank goodness it wasn’t his.

  In the third picture of Tatyana, it’s obvious that she’s in Paris because she’s descending in one of Charles de Gaulle Airport’s famous escalator tubes. She’s so gorgeous that she draws the attention of many eyes–those of strangers from some of the other tubes. Jack owns a pair of them. I spot him in a tube that seems to be ascending to the gate she must have just left.

  They seem to have spotted each other. Whereas he glares at her, she smiles supremely back at him.

  The last photo of Tatyana must have been taken a few moments before the last one, at a departure gate. The sign over it indicates the plane is headed to Los Angeles.

  The security camera only caught her from behind. She’s kissing someone, but her head is tilted so that you can’t make out his face.

  I don’t need to see it. I already know who it is: Carl. I recognize him from his Burberry raincoat, now slung over one arm. His valise is open because of a toy jutting out of it.

  A Wolverine action figure.

  He’d brought it home from a trip right before Jeff’s fifth birthday.