The Housewife Assassin's Guide to Gracious Killing (23 page)

My first thought it so break them up, but just then, Arnie appears in the curved ceiling mirror. I wave at him, but he can’t see me. Obviously, he’s roaming down another hallway. To hell with this covert crap. I take my cell phone and dial his number. The other noises drown out the ring tone he’s known for–the Star Wars theme–but I hear him through my receiver:

“Hey! Where are you?”

“I saw you enter, so I followed you. Why didn’t you stay out front?”

“I forgot if we said we’d meet inside or out. Then I saw Babette and Asimov coming toward me, and I freaked! I thought I should keep moving. But now I’m lost.”

“Look up at the ceiling.”

I can see through the curved ceiling mirror that he’s doing as I asked. “Now look to your right…do you see me?” 

The mirror’s surface must be backward, because it looks as if he’s turned left instead. Finally, he catches my reflection, too, and waves back. “Okay, Donna, what do we do now?”

“Just stay there, and I’ll walk toward you.”

The next thing I know, there are gunshots, then shouts.

All the lights go out, except for the track lighting along the floor. 

I pull the Walther PPK I’ve braced beneath my jacket at the base of my spine, and get into a tactical stance. I look up at the mirrored ceiling to see who I can spot, and where. The moan I hear came from Asimov. The mirror around the Russian president has shattered, and he’s bleeding. Was he shot, or was he speared by flying glass shards? It’s hard to tell, but he’s certainly shaken, and it doesn’t help that Babette is bawling and screaming, as if it’s the end of the world.

Where the hell are they?

I’m moving through the hallway now: very slowly, very carefully—

I see it: in one of the distorted mirrors: a figure, crouching, gun in hand. I take aim and fire, but the assassin’s gun goes off first. The victim lets loose with a bone-chilling cry, then a stream of curses. 

The voice isn’t Asimov’s but Breck’s. Apparently, the assassin has shot the wrong person.

Couldn’t have happened to a sweeter guy.

At the same time, my own bullet hits its mark. There is a loud groan, but also the sound of someone running away.

I dash to the spot where they were hit. There I find a bullet casing from the shooter’s gun. There is also blood, so at least I wounded the son of a bitch. 

I look up at the ceiling mirror in time to see the dark figure stumble through an outside exit.

As I turn the bend, I run smack into Breck and Serena. He is on the floor, still cursing and groaning. On the other hand, she was smart enough to wrap her scarf around his wound, as a tourniquet. 

Before I run after the assassin, I toss her my phone. “Hit the first button. When my husband picks up, tell him to track via the cell phone’s GPS where you are, and to bring help!” 

I don’t wait to hear her response, but rush on down the hallway. 

I find Babette and Asimov a moment later. His face has cuts from the flying glass. Other than that, he is fine. 

Babette grabs my arm. “Did the shooter hurt anyone else?”

“Your husband. He got shot in the thigh, but he’ll be okay. Stay here with President Asimov. Help is already on the way.”

The news leaves her in shock. She’s almost swallowed her fist. Babette Breck is living proof that love is not only blind, but deaf, dumb, and forgiving. 

I can hear the harried footsteps of Asimov’s security team. I know I’ve got to find Arnie so that he can complete the drop and get out of there.

I look up at the mirrored ceiling, to scout for him—

And run smack dab into him.

He’s so happy to see me that he hugs me, almost choking me. “Thank goodness! Here!” He tosses me a small jar. “Remember: a little dab will do you. Just the outside of the lens.”

“Got it! Now, follow me out.”

We run down the hallway, but it’s too late: the security team is coming in the back entrance, too. 

I pull Arnie with me, behind one of the mirrors. “It’s now or never. Slide out under one of the panels of the tent.”

“I can do that?”

“It’s canvas, silly! Do you really have to ask?”

He crouches and rolls. I can hear his floppy shoes scrambling away.

I slip my gun back into the holster.

And just in time, too. Both Carl and Jack converge on me at the same time, from different directions. 

Carl seems surprised to see me. I stick my tongue out at him. Yes, I am invincible. Get used to it, dude.

“I winged whoever it was, but I didn’t see him,” I say, even as I ignore Jack’s admiring thumbs up. “Asimov has a few cuts from broken mirror shards. But Breck took a bullet in the thigh. He’ll need a doctor, pronto.”

Carl eyes me suspiciously. “Not from you, I hope.”

I shrug. “While it was tempting, no.”

Jack pulls out his cell and punches out a number, Edwina’s, I’m presuming.

When, finally, she picks up, he explains the situation. 

“Edwina is up at the house,” he relays back. “She’s calling Breck’s personal physician. He’ll be here within a half hour. In the meantime, security will get everyone to the house. If the shooter is hurt or bleeding, he should be easy enough to find. Unless he’s already off the property somehow. For all we know, it’s someone who slipped in when the circus came to town.”

What if they find Arnie? I don’t know how he’ll fake his way out of it. That has me worried.

“This will fuck things up royally,” Carl mutters.

If he means POTUS will probably blow off the summit, he’s right. But I’m guessing his remark has to do with some bigger scheme in play.

Until I find out what it is, I’ll play stupid, which isn’t too far from the truth. “Aw, gee! Then I guess the party is over.” I make a pouty face. “Don’t be so glum, Carl. The way you guys were going at it, I’m sure every pole dancer between the OC and LA will be happy to have a night off. If you get lonely, there’s always the bearded lady. When she’s in your lap, you barely notice the five-o’clock shadow.”

For once, I leave him speechless. 

Perhaps he’s seriously contemplating it. He did say he was into new experiences, so maybe he’ll go for it.

Chapter 19

Just Desserts

A dessert party is a wonderful way to get everyone together for a late night event, without going through the hassle of creating a full meal for them. Be ingenious in what you serve. And remember: variety is both the sugar and spice of life!

That said, consider a pie, a cake, and cookies. But don’t stop there! “Wet” desserts, like a flan, pudding, ice cream or sorbet, satisfy the palate after your guests have feasted on your groaning board of flour-based fare. 

Fruit is also a great addition to your table, especially for those who proclaim loudly and proudly that they’re on a diet. Yeah, right. Such party poopers! To test this theory, place an éclair made with dark Belgian chocolate right in front of them, and tell them you promise it will keep their weight in check.

You don’t have to mention that it is laced with a time-release laxative, too.

“How much longer do we have to wait here?” Penelope asks imperiously.

She has every right to be upset. For the past two hours, Carl and his security Nazis are still sorting out everyone’s whereabouts while the shooting took place. It’s a slow process, since they have to match every one of the three hundred party guests with the footage from the moment of the shooting prior to hustling them out the door. 

"Who cares! It’s a par
tay
!” Hayley whoops. “Don’t be such a tight-ash shtick-in-the-mud. I mean a stick-in-the-mush… Ah, hell, you know what I mean!” Easy for her to say. Or not. She’s been slurring her words all night. Par for the course for someone who’s polished off a whole bottle of Armand de Brignac by herself. 

Her breath is sparklingly sour enough to make both Penelope and Tiffy take two steps away from her. Penelope shrugs. “For once, she’s right. Let’s just make the most of it. Besides, if we hang here long enough, maybe we’ll get to see President Asimov one more time before he leaves.”

I wish Penelope and the rest of her momtourage would shut their yaps for a few minutes, so I can focus on the news coming in from Emma Central on my earpiece. Emma is giving me a play-by-play of what is being discussed in Breck’s bedroom while he’s being stitched up by his doctor.

Apparently, Breck is screaming. Not because he’s in pain, but because POTUS is cancelling his appearance at the summit.

In response, Breck has threatened to end the summit. The Secretary of State tells him his attitude is irresponsible, and that it would be a breach of diplomacy.

“Oh…wow!” Emma squeals in my ear. “Breck just told the Secretary of State that he can take the ambassadorship and shove it up POTUS’s—”

 “—I couldn't care less about Asimov, Penelope! Or the Brecks, for that matter,” Tiffy sniffs. “Donna, you owe me an au pair. That exchange student of yours will do quite nicely.”

“What?” I look over at her. “Just what in heck are you babbling about?”

“I’ve lost Serena—to the Brecks, of all people! They’ve offered her twice what I can pay her, to watch after that little brat of theirs.” She pulls out a compact to check her lipstick. “This morning, Breck’s people came and got her things. Just like that! She gave me absolutely no notice at all. No two weeks, no nothing!”

“You’re telling me Serena quit?”

“Duh! Are you losing your hearing, or do you have ADD? Nothing to be ashamed of. It runs in the best of families… at least that’s what the doctor tells us, as it pertains to little Logan. I don’t know where he gets it though.”

I sigh. “Tiffy, please! Get to the point!”

“Oh… yeah! Anywhoo, to add insult to injury, I saw Serena here at the party, sucking up to Jonah Breck! She saw me, too. I made sure of that, you better believe it! But she’s so ashamed of herself, she must be in hiding, or else she’d be in this holding pen with the rest of us.” 

She glances around the grand ballroom, where we’re being held. Just twenty-four hours ago, she was salivating to get into this place. What a difference a day makes.

“I heard that,” Emma murmurs in my ear.

“About Serena being here?” I whisper back.

“Well, yeah. But about that nut wanting me to watch her little hellion. Over my dead body! You tell her that!”

“Don’t have time. I’ve got to get to Edwina. The sooner we put that gel on her lenses, the sooner we can figure out what’s happening.”

“Okay, and do me a favor: if you run into Arnie, tell him to call in.” There’s a quiver of fear in her voice. “I mean, protocol and all.”

What she really means is that she’s worried about him.

They’d make a cute couple. Maybe she’s finally beginning to realize it.

I’m halfway down the hallway to Breck’s office when I run into Jack. “The security detail thinks it’s got its man,” he tells me. “Really, it’s a clown.”

“Oh no, let me guess: Arnie?”

“You got it.”

We both know that if they find anything on him, his cover is blown: not only for this mission, but anything else that has to do with the Quorum.

We practically run the whole way to the office.

Carl is already there, along with Arnie.

Tied to a chair.

Being slapped by one of Carl’s thugs.

Half of Arnie’s clown makeup has already ended up on the thug’s knuckles, along with some of the blood pouring out of his nose. The thug doesn’t seem too happy about this. What’s left of Arnie’s makeup looks like something Miro would have painted, albeit drunk on Absinthe.

“I told you I’m just another party guest!” Arnie sounds scared.

“Oh yeah?” the thug snarls at him. “The name you’ve given us—Lawrence Harmon—isn’t on the manifest. How do you explain that?”

“I… I don’t know!” Seeing us enter, Arnie closes his eyes and turns his head to the wall. He doesn’t want to blow our covers.

“He’s my guest.” Edwina’s voice comes from behind us. 

Everyone turns around. She looks sickened and pale. 

Carl scrutinizes her, then back at Arnie, who just sits there, silently. I can tell he’s as stunned as Jack and me. “If that’s the case, then why wasn’t he on the manifest?”