Recipes for Disaster (21 page)

And, finally, her hand in marriage.

How, with her support, he built a multi-million-dollar business.

And how, with his support, she has followed her own dream, as he puts it: “to enrich the lives of others, through her unwavering commitment to public service.”

Their eyes mirror his adoration for the woman who strives only so others may live their dreams.

Little do they know their worst nightmare is about to take place. 

Mine already has.

Like every other man here, the shooter is dressed in a tux, except his face is hidden under a ski mask, and his hands are covered by latex gloves.

He pulls my hair back, revealing my Acme ear bud. He yanks it out and crushes it underfoot. I’ve gone dark to my mission team. 

Why aren’t they here by now?

He shoves me down into the chair in front of the rifle. As if reading my mind, he mutters, “The door from the lobby was set to auto-lock, just a minute ago.” His voice is tinny. It’s obvious he’s talking through a microphone using voice changer software. “You got in by the hair of your chinny chin chin.”

Lucky me. 

And by the way, I don’t have hair on my chin. Implying that I need electrolysis gives me reason enough to kill this son of a bitch.

As Robert and Catherine join Beverly at the podium, the shooter curls my hands on the grip. “You’re just in time to pull the trigger.” His nonchalant whisper sends a shiver up my spine. “What should we aim for? Head? Chest?”

I answer him with a head butt. 

He groans and instinctively reaches up to touch his bruised cheek. I grab the rifle and leap up out of the chair. But as I whip around to take him out, he sidekicks me in the gut. 

When I double over, he jerks the gun from my hand and tosses it on the table. Then he drags me by the handcuffs toward a steel storage closet door. 

He tries the knob, but it’s locked. “Too bad,” he whispers hoarsely. “But this will hold you anyway.” In no time, he’s twisted one my wrists around the knob. He pulls duct tape from a duffle bag by the table, tears off a piece, and slaps it over my mouth.

No matter how hard I try, I can’t pull away. 

Applause floats up from the ballroom below us. As he slides open the window a mere inch, I push and strain to break loose from the knob, but I can’t. I’m too far away to stop him, but I watch as he mounts the gun again, positions it through the window opening, and focuses the sight on his target. 

From over his shoulder, I too can see the stage. Catherine feigns modesty by placing one hand demurely on her clavicle while she waves at the adoring crowd with the other. Any moment now, they will take a step back, so that she has the podium by herself. When that happens, her assassin will have his money shot, and there will be nothing I can do to stop him.

Nodding at Beverly and Robert, she seals her fate.

The crowd finally grows silent. I know she is talking, because I can hear her. Despite the warmth of her tone and the stridency of her speech, her words never register. Instead, they flutter around my brain. Her voice triggers memories of the CeeCee of my youth. 

All the pinky swears we shared. All the broken promises she made. 

All the heartache I experienced because of it.

All of my silly, unfounded hatred.

I was my mother’s favorite. I’ve known this, all my life, despite trying to convince myself otherwise. She was sick and drugged when she called CeeCee by my name. 

In answering her back, perhaps CeeCee granted her a kindness.

It’s time I admit to myself what I really hated was that I felt guilty that I wasn’t at my mother’s bedside that afternoon.

I was with Bobby.

Because of the silencer on the assassin’s rifle, no one hears the shot.

It takes a moment for the blood to appear. 

Soon, screams echo through the hall.

Finally the body stumbles and falls—

Robert’s body, not Catherine’s.

I’m just as stunned as everyone else.

I freeze, but not the assassin. He leaves everything—leaves me—and walks out the door.

I’m sure he knows the fire door will give him safe passage out of the building. He’ll strip himself of his ski mask first, and tuck it in under his jacket. As soon as he’s opened the exit door and noted that the coast is clear, his latex gloves will go into his pocket.

He’ll whistle as he goes down the street, as if he doesn’t have a care in the world.

I know all this, because it’s exactly how I would have handled this hit.

The building’s security team will figure out soon enough where the shot came from. I should be readying myself for the questions, the accusations, the tears and the shame that comes with failing at your job.

But I’m not. Instead, I’m thinking of Bobby and the one kiss we shared, oh so long ago.

May he rest in peace.

Chapter 15

Bleeding Hearts

A term describing people whose hearts "bleed" with sympathy for the downtrodden. This description is used primarily to criticize liberals who favor government spending for social programs.

And for your information, you do not qualify for a bleeding heart if you (a) give a homeless person a dollar, then take it as a tax write-off; (b) spend your grandma’s Social Security check on a “Sign Up with a Friend” gym membership; or (c) write the local police chief a letter protesting deplorable prison conditions, just because your boyfriend was coerced into “giving” his new John Lobb loafers to a fellow inmate, the one night he slept in the drunk tank.

Roasted Artichoke Hearts

(from Darien Coleman, Raleigh, North Carolina)

Ingredients

3 (15-ounce) cans of artichoke hearts

4 garlic cloves, quartered

2 teaspoons extra virgin olive oil

Salt and Pepper

1 tablespoon lemon juice

Directions

1: Preheat oven to 375 degrees Fahrenheit

2: Drain artichokes in a colander and rinse to remove brine

3: In a bowl, mix gently with garlic and olive oil.

4: Pour artichoke mixture into a metal roasting pan, and roast for about one hour, tossing a few times to roast evenly.

5: Sprinkle with lemon juice and salt and pepper, to taste.

The funeral is to be held in their hometown of Libertyville, Massachusetts, in the cemetery of the Pentecostal church where Catherine worships. 

“It’s going to be a three-ring circus,” Jack predicts. “The media is split into two camps—those who feel she’s too grief-stricken to go on with the campaign, and those who feel she’s been catapulted into the presidency because of her loss.”

“I hate to say it, but agree with the latter,” I murmur.   

“You and me both,” he says. He holds me in his arms, as if he’s afraid to let me go.

He was so worried that the assassin killed me first that he left Dominic with Catherine after the shooting, in order to join Abu and Arnie in finding me. The operations manager of the ballroom was so nervous that he forgot the code to open the auto-lock on the stairwell to the tech room, where the assassin set up. Thank goodness Arnie had a laser knife on him. Otherwise, I would have been up there all night. When Jack ran into the room, he bundled me up and got me out of there, fast. 

Ryan called Jack on the carpet for leaving his post, but he is still so angry at me that I’ve yet to be called into the office. With my fingerprints on the rifle I’m sure I’ll be hearing from someone soon. Better it be Ryan than the Feds with a one-way ticket to Gitmo.

Been there, done that.

Since the incident, Mary has been comforting Evan—lately, by phone, since he’s flown home to Massachusetts with his mother and his father’s body.

I find Mary sitting in the hammock in the back yard. Her cheeks are damp with tears.     

“They’re doing it in some Pentecostal church. Evan hates the thought of having it there!” she declares. “They only started going there three years ago, because the minister has a lot of clout. Evan says his father had faith, but didn't belong to any church. Mr. Martin wanted to be cremated and have his ashes scattered in the woods, behind their farm.” She turns on her side, away from me. “Mom, I don’t blame you for not liking Congresswoman Martin, but we have to go to support Evan.” She wiped away an errant tear. “I do, anyway. I’ll take the ticket money from my allowance savings, if you prefer I go alone.”

“Of course not. We are all going, as one family in support of another,” I reassure her. “Mr. Martin was my friend, and so is Evan. And … well, I’ve made my peace with Congresswoman Martin.”

I go upstairs to help my daughters pack. 

Neither owns a black dress.

When we go out to buy one for each of them, nothing seems right.

I remember Robert complimenting their pink floral sundresses. I wish they could wear those instead, but as it is, I’m treading a very thin line when it comes to appropriate behavior.

After all, I am the one person who might have stopped his assassination.

No, pretty in pink just won’t do.

The weather in Libertyville, Massachusetts is anything but gloomy. Robert is being buried on a day that sparkles with a blanket of dew warmed by an early September’s bright sun. 

I may have forgiven Catherine, but now that we’re here, it’s obvious she hasn’t done the same for me.

The funeral is attended by everyone who’s anyone in Washington. Catherine’s staff and her party’s leaders flank her on all sides, as if any one of them would take a bullet if it comes her way. The cemetery dates back to the eighteen-hundreds. It is lined with trees and a picket fence. Unfortunately, it’s also close enough to the street that the army of reporters who have shown up can get the money shot they seek: the stoic widow in elegant Armani, her eyes red but dry, her head held high.

The Secret Service is here, too. Robert’s death has put an end to all the public posturing of those candidates who are left in this race to do without, in order to save taxpayer dollars. Better they should save their own lives. 

I’m sure they’re all secretly relieved. I know their families are, too. None of the spouses signed on for anything more anxiety-ridden than state dinners, Easter Egg hunts on the White House lawn and a sex scandal or two.

The minister thunders through platitudes of a man he didn’t really know before segueing into a sermon that lays the blame on “a world that is morally corrupt, and desperately needs strong and fearless leadership to guide it.” The way he places his hand on Catherine’s shoulder leaves no doubt as to where he feels the answer to his prayer lies.

And yes, all of this was caught on camera, and will be replayed ad infinitum on our twenty-four-hour news cycle.

After the coffin is lowered into the ground, the crowd surges around Catherine and Evan to offer their condolences. My family and I hang back until Evan motions us forward. His mother greets Jack and my children warmly, but despite my tears and my choked-up apology, she refuses to do more than nod curtly at me. 

This unnerves Mary to no end. Her way of showing it is to ignore Catherine in kind. This is easy for her to do, since Evan seems to be doing the same. 

Babette follows Catherine’s lead and looks right through me. On the other hand, Lee pumps Jack’s hand and kisses my cheek. He whistles when he sees the bruise on my cheek, then he whispers, “Sorry you got roughed up. Donna, what happened to Robert wasn’t your fault. You did your best, but fate played a different hand.”

I frown. “Sadly, it wasn’t enough. Tell me, Lee—is Catherine dropping out?”

A shadow of a smile appears on his lips. “Are you kidding? She’s going to win by a landslide.”

“And who will be her running mate?”

Before he can answer, Babette calls him over. He makes his good-bye with a slight bow, then heads over to Babette and Catherine, who are already making their way toward their waiting limo.

Evan insists on riding with us back to the farm, where a reception is being held, this time for family and friends only.