The Housewife Assassin's Guide to Gracious Killing (6 page)

Jack’s frown may have been missed by Ryan, but I certainly caught it.

I’ve no doubt he loves me as much as I love him. All the more reason to divorce Carl: so I—so we—can get on with the rest of our lives.

Babette stands by his side. She shakes my hand first, then Jack’s. Does she hold onto it a moment too long?

I’ve got to quit being so paranoid.

And yes, she’s wearing the dress I saw earlier today on Marilyn.

Jack and I are introduced to the others, all of whom I recognize from the dossier. They include Breck’s attorney Garrett Conover: too tall, too thin, and with a smile that is too wide to be genuine, apropos for the angel of death who dotted the i’s and crossed the t’s on all of Breck’s arms deals. 

Then there’s the chief operating officer of Breck Global Industries: Rutherford Collins, Breck’s sniveling yes-man who delivered the WMDs under budget and on schedule. How are these guys adjusting to Breck’s new mantra, Give peace a chance? It should be interesting to see.

Along with Babette and myself, the other women joining us for dinner are a rod thin and tough-as-steel über-public relations flack with the face of a bulldog named Felicity Tolliver; and Breck’s personal assistant, Edwina Doyle. Our intel describes her as just north of thirty, single, efficient, and hailing from Paris. Her picture was kinder to her. In person, she is pale and mousy. 

In other words, neither is the type who would tempt Breck. 

Considering all he has to lose, I’d say that’s a smart move on his part. No need to dip his pen in company ink when there are so many other places to put it… or something.

The dining room isn’t one at all, but a library, which is supposed to be “cozy,” despite its football-field-length, wall-to-ceiling books, two-story-high ceilings, and a fireplace large enough to hold three men and a little Bentley. 

The table is round, which allows for optimum placement of the eight guests between the host and hostess. I’m seated to the right of Breck, and Franz is next to me. On his right is Felicity, with Rutherford beside her. That puts Babette to his right and directly across the table from Breck. Jack sits to Babette’s right, and Edwina on the other side of him, with Garrett on her right. Hans is sandwiched between Garrett and Breck.

Franz and Hans, who sit opposite each other, speak perfect English to everyone else, but hold side discussions in their native language. My earrings are embedded with an audio feed that allows Ryan to whisper sweet nothings into my ear. He promises to do so, should the bugs Arnie has planted in the flowers that adorn the table and the rest of the room pick up anything Jack and I should be warned about. It will be interesting to hear the translation between Franz and Hans. Even if their phrases are seemingly innocuous, I wonder if any codes will be detected. 

For the most part, the conversation is polite, the service by a phalanx of butlers is attentive to a fault, and the meal is perfect. How can you go wrong with piquillo gazpacho as your first course, followed by a chilled Dungeness crab salad, roasted Pacific Northwest salmon with a vegetable ragout, and lime meringue pie topped with mango and raspberry ice sorbet? And of course, each course served with white and red gold-medal varietals.

In social settings, what is said isn’t as important as what you see. Even before the appetizer was served, Edwina had shifted her body away from Garrett, as if to avoid him and to focus on Jack. I can’t blame her. The guy gives me the willies, too.

Jack is gracious enough to answer her questions about the community and his role in his investment firm, but he’s smart enough to share his remarks and attentions with Babette.

Garrett’s placement must be ideal for him, because he’s practically fawning over Hans. Even when I compliment her on her dress, Felicity ignores me and does the same to Franz. Once snubbed, twice considering slipping a roofie into her wine glass. What am I, chopped liver?

No. Apparently, I’m presumed to be Breck’s playmate du jour. 

This is made obvious by the leer and wink he gives me after I try to broach the topic of Great Britain’s LIBOR debacle and its affect on American banks. I have to bite my tongue to keep from telling him that it’s me, not my breasts, speaking to him. 

Right as the main course is served, Jack looks over at me. Feigning concern, he asks, “Donna dear, you promised Trisha you’d bring her teddy bear. Have you given it to her yet?”

“Oh! No…I have it in my purse.” I glance over at Babette. “If you don’t mind, Babette, I’ll just walk it down to the nursery.”

Babette nods. With a slight wave, she summons over one of the butlers. “Jamison will show you the way.”

Trisha is happy to get a kiss, a hug and her teddy bear, but she makes it clear that she’s not ready to go home by putting her arm around her new pal and burrowing under the blanket they share. Nothing like bonding over ice cream in bed while Brave plays on a screen that takes up one whole wall of the nursery.

Ah, the good life.

Jamison has already scurried back to his post, having been assured I can easily find my way back.

I can, but I don’t. Instead, I take a detour into Breck’s office and go to work. 

The room is simple and elegant. Over a credenza is a John Singer Sargent portrait of a young wasp-waisted Victorian beauty. On another wall, a crowd meanders through a Parisian market through the surrealistic eyes of Georges Seurat. 

Breck’s desk is large, glass, and empty. Where the hell is his computer?

Then I see it: a laptop, on the credenza. 

Quickly, I remove a thumb drive from my bracelet and insert it into the computer. While it does its thing, I lean over the desk for a better look at the Sargent…

“Beautiful, isn’t she?”

Breck’s voice sends a trickle of dread down my spine.

I lift my lips into a smile before turning around. “I saw it first a few years ago, when you loaned it to the Getty. It is one of my favor—”

Before I can finish my sentence, his tongue is down my throat, and his hand is on the lower part of my back. He has me leaning so far back that I’m practically horizontal across the credenza. 

Sure, I could bite his tongue until he squeals in pain. And yeah, I can yank his arm out of the socket so that it hangs helplessly at his side. But if I do that before another two minutes is up, I’ll blow our mission to hell. 

So instead, I try not to gag as he cups me on the ass and grinds into me. I moan as if I like it. In truth, this horizontal boogieman has me pressed up against something sharp. I reach behind to pull it out—

Hmmm, a sterling silver letter opener, engraved with his initials. As he conducts a more thorough incisor exam than I’ve gotten from my dentist, I try to guess how far his blood would spurt if I follow through on my urge to stab his jugular with it. 

Out of the corner of my eye, I notice the thumb drive is blinking. It’s my cue to kiss him hard, and grab it fast.

I reach over slowly. Unfortunately, this means I have to inch closer to Breck. He takes it as a cue to fumble with his belt and zipper. 

Um…. No. No way in hell—

I whip out the thumb drive. Then, as I push him away, I gasp, “I—I can’t do this! I love my husband too much!”

His smile fades. He stares down at me, as if deciding if I’m serious, or just a tease.

In any event, he’s still intrigued. I know this because he bruises my lips with a long kiss, then murmurs, “You can. And you will.” 

He takes my smile as tacit understanding that he’s right.

Wrong. I have to force myself to drop the envelope opener, before I do something I’ll regret.

He zips up, and then straightens his jacket and tie. “In the meantime, feel free to hang out with Babette during the summit. I want you two to get to know each other well. That way, when you give up your pathetic attempt at propriety, she won’t suspect a thing.”

Without a backward glance, he walks out the door. 

Jeez. Seriously? Whatever happened to “ladies first?”

The man needs a lesson in good manners. 

Accompanied by a horsewhip.

By the time we get back to the dining library, the conversation has shifted from the global economy to curiosity about the natives in their natural habitat. 

“The town of Hilldale is nothing like we had expected,” Franz says to me in his booming voice. “So close to Los Angeles, but seemingly unsullied by all the celebrity glamour, or its big city problems. Your little burg is quite quaint, in an All-American way. It reminds me of that American television program: Leave it to Beaver, ja?”

I nod. “I fell in love with Hilldale the moment I saw it. I’m sure Babette feels the same way.”

All eyes sweep toward our hostess, including Breck’s.

 “In all honesty, I really haven’t had time to enjoy it.” She toys with her fork. “Lion’s Lair was only completed a few months ago. In the meantime, we go where Jonah’s business takes us—which, as you can imagine, is all over the world. But now that Janie is at an age where school and friends are becoming important, I wouldn’t mind putting down roots in a place that revels in normalcy.” 

“‘Normal’? Is that how Hilldale seems to you, my dear?” Breck’s tone sounds sincere, but his eyes give him away. He’s mocking her.

Why do I feel as if I’m watching a cat toy with a mouse?

“Well… yes, of course.” Babette’s cheeks turn rosy with embarrassment. “As Franz points out, it’s the all-American dream. Comfortable homes, beautiful tree-lined streets, nice shops, wonderful schools. And our neighbors seem very nice.” She glances over at me, but her voice trails off, betraying her attempt at a convincing argument. 

“They should be.” Franklin sniffed. “We built our museum here. It’s put this little hovel of a town on the map.”

Jack shrugged. “Consider it money well spent. Think of all the goodwill it bought you. This same estate, built in LA County, would have tripled your tax base, without all the benefits Babette just pointed out. And you’re only a half hour from the city, forty minutes from LAX—or more appropriately, in your case, Santa Monica Municipal.”

“My point isn’t that Hilldale has its upside. It’s that even this town has its dirty little secrets.” Breck strokes the stem of his port snifter. “Did you know that there are four convicted child molesters in Hilldale? Or that last year alone, there were twenty-eight cases of domestic violence, and three meth houses were raided? Five former porn stars have ‘retired’ here. I use that word loosely, considering the economy has everyone out there beating the bushes—or something—to make a buck. By the way, two of your neighbors are in the Witness Protection program. And let’s not forget the eight guys whose last homes were minimum-security Federal penitentiaries, where they were incarcerated for white collar crimes.”

Jack laughs. “You’ve certainly done your homework, Jonah.”

“If I’m truly going to make Hilldale my home, I want to know where all the bodies are buried.”

If he were nicer, I’d fill him in on that. As it is, he’s got enough reconnaissance to find out on his own.

 “You see, my dear, there is no place on earth with the kind of tranquility we crave. All the more reason this summit has to succeed. If we want a perfect society, we have to build it from scratch.” Breck sighs. “Suddenly, I’ve got a voracious appetite for something sweet. I guess you’re right about me, Babette. I’m never satisfied.”