Recipes for Disaster (20 page)

Is my daughter buying this bit of malarkey? From what I can hear, her sobs have lessened, but I may still be in for a scolding.

Or we’ll both be in for years of therapy.

Chapter 14

Political Suicide

A vote or action that is likely to be so unpopular with voters, as to cause a politician's probable loss in the next election—

Sort of like what you face when you promise your children you’ll make brownies if they straighten up their rooms, but then you change your mind because you’re on a diet, and you don’t need a pan of bliss staring you in the face whenever you pass it. Next time, don’t expect them to rush to do your bidding—or for that matter, leave you any crumbs.

Of course, to win back their hearts and minds, you can tempt them with a new sweet confection, like this one:

Death By Blizzard

(From Carleen Nicholson, Dover, New Hampshire)

1: In a large Truffle bowl, layer the following:

2: Vanilla ice cream, about 2 inches thick.

3: Vanilla or tapioca pudding, about 2 inches thick

4: White chocolate morsels, a single layer

5: Cool Whip, about 2 inches thick. (Keep Cool Whip in freezer until just before use, it needs to be very firm to support the next layer)

6: Top this with scoops of vanilla ice cream around the edge.

7: In the center of this put another layer of white chocolate chip morsels.

8: Drizzle morsels with caramel sauce.

9: If you want to add a bit of crunch to it, add a layer of crushed ladyfingers just above the pudding layer.

10: Keep refrigerated until served.

“I know you hate the woman, but it’s your job to protect her, so get out of bed.” Jack yanks off the sheet from my mattress, exposing me as the fool I really am. 

In a flannel granny gown, no less.

And yes, I’m hugging Trisha’s teddy bear to my chest. He better not take that, too, or he’s a dead man.

I grab for the sheet, but he holds it just out of reach. 

I shrug as I mutter, “Go away! I almost killed a Disney character, in front of my young, very impressionable daughter.” 

“Donna, quit being so melodramatic. For goodness sake, the darn sword is made of plasterboard. If and when he gets out of the hospital, he can rejoin the cast as the palace eunuch.” He flips up the back of my granny gown to admire the view.

“How was I supposed to know Catherine’s PR flack arranged for her to take the stage?” I yank it out of his hand and pull it back down, this time below my knees. “I’m off this assignment, remember? Catherine made it quite clear to Ryan that I’m to stay out of her sight for the rest of my life, or else risk being sent to Gitmo as a terrorist. The nerve of her! And by the way, if she’s elected president, we’re all moving to Canada. No, make that New Zealand, since it’s not on her list of countries to invade, lucky Kiwis! But if an oil gusher pops up somewhere near Auckland, all bets are off on that country, too. We’ll just have to find a deserted island to live on.”

“Honey, please—quit feeling sorry for yourself.” Jack pulls me up into his arms. “Don’t you see? The fact that she doesn’t want you around works in our favor. You can shadow her detail. Hide in plain sight.”

“Frankly, if someone popped her, I could care less.”

Jack’s smile fades. “No arguments there. Catherine Martin is a conniving, devious bitch. She doesn’t think about anything or anyone but herself. Her whole purpose in running for the presidency is to prove just how far she can go on Robert’s money and goodwill.” He raises my hand to his lips, and kisses it. “But Donna, she can’t prove anything to you, because you already have her number. So tell me: if you save her life, don’t you have the upper hand then? Hell, if she gets elected, at the very least she’d owe you a Congressional Medal of Honor.”

He’s got a point. Of course, she’d probably choke me with the medallion’s sash when hanging it around my neck.

I nod grudgingly. “Okay, Genius. Let’s say I agree to play shadow. How exactly do you see this scheme of yours working? After the Disney fiasco, Ryan has put me on permanent leave, remember?”

Jack shrugs. “What Ryan won’t know won’t hurt him. You may be the only thing standing between her and whatever bullet comes her way.” 

I sigh. “Okay, sure. I’ll do what I can to take down her shooter—but only because I like the idea of her owing me her life.” 

He kisses my forehead. “Great, now get dressed. Four hours from now she’s receiving the Zero Hunger America Humanitarian Award, at the Dolby Ballroom.”

“Impressive. If only the voters knew she’s leading the charge to gut the food stamp program by forty billion dollars over the next ten years.” I shake my head in dismay. “Another two million people were tossed off the rolls with the last cut.”  

“You can express your personal distaste for her at the ballot box—if she lives that long.” He tosses me an invitation to the event. It’s black tie, of course. 

“Nothing can kill her. The woman is like a cockroach.” I head toward my closet. 
Hmmm
, what does one wear to take down the killer of your worst enemy? 

I pull out a dress I’ve been saving for just the right occasion: a floor-length chantel-beaded evening gown with a scoop neck and low back.

It is white. Should she prove me wrong, I don’t plan on mourning her.

Even at a thousand dollars a seat, the Hollywood & Highland Center’s cavernous Dolby Ballroom is packed solid with hobnobbers, do-gooders, up-and-comers, the glitterati, and political patrons of all stripes. With all of Catherine’s competition demolished, the smell of victory is in the air, along with that of smoked flat iron steak with grilled peppers, and California olive-orange marinated Pacific sea bass topped with a caramelized mint fennel.

Because I’m incognito, I’ve accessorized the gown with a straight blond wig cut with bangs and an ear-length blunt razor cut, ice blue contacts, and a diamond choker and long white opera gloves. I’ve slipped into the ballroom just as the dinner portion of the event is ending. Much of the crowd is out of their seats, milling around. The line to pay homage to Catherine is at least thirty people long.

Robert is seated next to Catherine, in the front middle table with the director of Zero Hunger America, Beverly Kinkaid. I wouldn’t doubt it in the least if Catherine had Robert strong-arm Beverly for the award, what with it being her year to run.

As her West Coast hosts, Babette and Lee are also part of Catherine’s entourage. And at Catherine’s behest, Jack is her official bodyguard, while Abu and Dominic are shadowing them. Abu is seated at a neighboring table, while Dominic pretends to chat up a socialite. Really, his eyes dart around the room, looking for anything suspicious. 

Even from my table in the back, I’ll see what Jack and Abu do, thanks to my video-linked contact lenses. The Acme team—which means by default, I, too—can hear Catherine’s instructions to Jack, and his to us. While he calls the rest of the team out by name, he never utters mine—not even when Catherine baits him by murmuring, “I’m sure Donna would have enjoyed this. If only she had behaved herself!” 

I have to give Jack credit. He doesn’t even wince at her cattiness. On the other hand Abu mutters through a cough, “Bitch.”

My sentiments exactly. But to keep my mind off of killing her myself, I focus on saving her life. 

Only Catherine’s security team is allowed to carry weapons into the Hollywood & Highland Center. All bags have been checked, no matter how chic, tiny or elegant. Arnie, who has been working in the cloakroom before covering the crowd as a waiter, slipped me my favorite Walther PPS when I handed him my white mink stole. Just six inches long and a shade over nineteen ounces in weight, it fits nicely in my clutch purse.

The ballroom is over twenty-five thousand square feet in size—broad, deep, and with towering ceilings. If a shooter is in fact here, he or she would have to be positioned within 2,700 yards of the stage, where Catherine will be receiving her award.

I scan the tables within shooting range. They are filled with celebrities, the wealthy, and the otherwise renowned. But unlike the theatre next door which hosts the Academy Awards, this room is not tiered with view boxes, and there is no balcony.

High above our heads, spot and track lights are affixed in strategic locations on the ceiling. For shows this size, there must be a tech control booth for lights and audio, and it has to be located in view of the stage …

Ah, there it is, high on the wall to the right-hand side of the stage is a large glass window. The room behind it is dark—

Wait … Did something just move up there?

Despite the fact that the ballroom lights are flickering to let the crowd know the speeches will start any moment now, I wind my way through the milling crowd, toward the back of the room. “Arnie, how would I access the stage tech room?” I whisper.

“Go back out into the lobby. Facing the ballroom, you’ll see a door to the right of the ballroom. It’s the staircase to the tech room.”

“I’m on it. Abu, Dominic, I may need back-up. Jack, do what you can to cover Snow White.”

“Will do,” he murmurs back, “Watch your step.”

That goes without saying when you’re trying to take down an assassin in four-inch Loubies. 

The stairwell climbs up to a second story. It opens into a hallway that elbows around the ballroom’s right side.

The corridor is so dark that at first I don’t see the large lump of humanity in the middle of the hall—the body of a man, who was obviously shot trying to escape. 

My guess is that the poor guy was hired to run the lights. Now someone else is opting for fireworks, when the time is right.

The door to the tech room is opened a mere crack.

I hold my gun low with both hands. I move forward slowly, hugging the wall until I reach the doorway. I listen for sounds, but all I hear is Beverly Kinkaid’s voice. 

She is telling touching tales about the Martins.

I crack open the door, just a few inches. This allows me to peek inside the room, which is dark, except for the light emanating from the stage two stories below. I can also see the barrel of an M110 semi-automatic sniper rifle. It is positioned in its bipod, which sits on a high table placed up against the window, which has a sliding panel. 

No surprise, it is aimed at the podium.

So that I can see the shooter, I nudge the door open a few inches more—

Where the hell is he?

I get my answer when the door smacks my shoulder—so hard that I drop my gun. 

My assailant yanks me into the room and slams my back up against the wall. Before I have time to react, he grabs my wrists with one hand, and cuffs them with plastic locking restraints with another. 

When I shout, he slaps me across the face with the back of his hand. “No one can hear you.” His growl is barely a whisper. “This booth is soundproof, so shut up already.” 

I realize he’s right. It is through speakers that we hear the crowd laugh as Robert regales them with the often-told story of his infatuation with his childhood sweetheart, how everything he did in life was to garner her attention and earn her respect.