The Housewife Assassin's Handbook (14 page)

Rubber chicken tastes better when you are dressed to the nines and are trying to impress your first crush: your dad.

Mary wouldn’t know this. She refuses to dig in until Jack returns from the dance floor with Penelope. Watching her as she sits there with tears in her eyes is breaking my heart. Personally, I’d like to break both of Penelope’s legs.

Despite having Babs and Wendy to console her, my sweet daughter looks so forlorn, now that Penelope has absconded with her date. 

Mary gives me a wan wave, so I meander her way. I don’t allow myself to glance in Jack’s direction. While other dads and their daughters are doing some tepid boogying to the Black Keys’ “Tighten Up,” somehow Jack and Penelope have turned their moves into a sensual body-hugging (or at least, she’s hugging him) tango.

If it’s any consolation, he doesn’t exactly look like he’s enjoying himself. My guess is that her death grip on his neck is a killjoy.

Well, boohoohoo.

“Mom, this is so unfair,” mutters Mary. “She’s monopolizing Dad!”

“Couldn’t you start a fire in the kitchen or something, Mrs. Stone?” Wendy’s face scrunches up into a frown. “Maybe that will loosen her claws on your husband.”

I couldn’t have put it better. Not that I can say that out loud. Until I can think of a more appropriate answer, I clear my throat. “Well, Wendy, while I agree that Mrs. Bing has been bending his ear for much too long, I’m sure that they’ll be back any moment now—”

As if. Speaking of bending, Jack dips Penelope until her hair sweeps the floor. In that position, I’m surprised that her two-sizes-too-small Spanx hasn’t rolled up over her head.

Jack notes my frown. His response is a perplexed shrug. 

But then he follows it with a stare: not at me, at the kitchen door.

I turn my head to see what’s got his attention. It’s Hayley, who is swaying back and forth to the music, her eyes closed in deep concentration.

Okay, what the heck is wrong with her, anyway?

“Girls, excuse me. I’ve got to go check on the main course.”

I get to Hayley just in time to shove her back into the kitchen before she flops onto the floor. Has she been tippling or something?

I scan the kitchen. I don’t see any liquor bottles or wine. What I do see are a bunch of cupcake wrappers wadded up on the floor. 

I grab one of the cupcakes and break it open. The smell that assaults my nostrils is that of marijuana.

Oh. My. Gawd.

No wonder Beyond Heavenly is inundated with orders! It must be supplying all the medical marijuana shops in the Los Angeles area.

I grasp Hayley under her armpits and hoist her out the door. She’s so zonked out that she’s snoring as she curls up on the stoop. Good riddance.

I’ve got to get the rest of these cupcakes out of here. Just as I grab the box and head out the back door, Penelope comes into the kitchen. “What are you guys doing in here? Half the kids haven’t eaten—” She looks around. Everywhere are empty plates, or plates in which mashed potatoes have been dished out, but no roast birds—

Because the main course is on fire. 

Smoke is now wafting out of the oven. The smell of charred chicken is choking us. The next thing we know, the fire alarm is shrieking in our ears, and the sprinklers are spurting water from the ceiling.

Wendy just got her wish.

Penelope tries to open the oven door. “Ouch! Crap!” The door is so hot that it burns her palm, but she’s able to pull it open—

And is enveloped in a fireball.

The blast of the heat sets her hair on end. The sequins on her cocktail dress are too hot for her to handle. Her solo shimmy is
So You Think You Can Dance
-worthy.

I grab the extinguisher and turn it on her until she’s covered in powdery flame retardant before pointing at the oven.

By now the partygoers have figured out we need a little help. Despite the smoke, some of the men rush through the door. One grabs a fire extinguisher and aims it directly on the flames. Another is opening the windows and the back door. I presume some of the guys are helping the girls safely through the building.

I hear a fire truck outside, and the siren of an ambulance. Jack wraps Penelope in a tablecloth and escorts her out the back door. They practically trip over Hayley, but Penelope is too shocked to notice.

After handing Penelope over to an emergency med tech, Jack hurries back in to find me. He starts to say something, but stops and sniffs the air. “Why do I smell weed?”

I look around. While coming to Penelope’s rescue, I dropped the box of pot cakes and they scattered in and around the fire. I salvage one from the floor, and hold it up to his nose. “Here, take a whiff.” 

He gets it. “Wow! I guess it’s a good thing that we never got around to dessert.”

“You can thank Hayley for that. She couldn’t help herself and ate a few. I’d say she’s officially off her non-diet. Speaking of which, she passed out by the back door.” I shove as many of the incriminating cupcakes as I can into a garbage bag to take out the door with me. “Since she’s no featherweight, can you carry her to her car? I’ll drive her home, if you’ll make sure Mary gets back safely. I can pick up my SUV tomorrow.”

“Will do.” His gaze takes me in from head to toe. I know I look like hell: soaked to the bone, and covered in soot and flour.

That doesn’t deter him from gently wiping charred chicken carcass off my cheek with the back of his hand.

Under this sooty mask, can he tell I’m blushing?

So that he can’t, I grab my purse along with Hayley’s, and head out to the parking lot.

He follows, tossing her over his shoulder as if she’s a sack of beans. “So, what are you going to tell her husband?”

“He won’t be home. He’s a pilot. He’s gone for the next couple of weeks. His runs are trans-Pacific. Lots of layovers with willowy flight attendants. It’s why she tries to keep so skinny. She feels she has to compete.” Even saying this makes me realize that I should cut Hayley some slack. If only she’d do the same for me. I can only dream. “Her son is at a sleepover with Penelope’s boy, Cheever, so I think we’re out of the weeds with them—pardon the pun.”

I wish I could say the same about Mary. Her special night with her “father” has been ruined.

When we reach Hayley’s Lexus, Jack taps me on the shoulder. “Donna, listen—” he pauses, then looks away, shyly. “Would you mind if I took Mary out to dinner one night? You know, just the two of us?”

My relief comes with a smile. “That’s very sweet of you, Jack. I’m sure she’d be thrilled. Thanks.”

He shrugs this off—along with Hayley, who flops onto the passenger seat, but I can tell by the light in his eyes that Jack appreciates my compliment. “I know it can’t make up for Penelope monopolizing my time, but if it’s any consolation, amid all the sexual innuendo she did drop one great lead: her husband, Mister Number One Realtor in the Neighborhood, has had an uptick in home rentals lately. At least three of your new neighbors don’t have kids, which makes them prime suspects. One couple, Dave and Midge Kelsey, moved in next door to Hayley.” His lips shift into a lazy smile. “Penelope also intimated that she could get keys to one of his empty listings in case I wanted a—how did she put it? Oh yeah, a ‘private showing.’ Jeez, who knew there was so much action out here in the ’burbs? Now I know why they call you yummy mommies.”

“I’m glad something came of tonight,” I say crisply. “The sooner we wrap up this mission, the better. And by the way, no one has ever called me a yummy mommy.”

He laughs so hard that I think he’s going to choke. “And for some reason you’re proud of that?”

I peel off in Hayley’s car, leaving him in a cloud of dust. 

Serves him right. 

Chapter 7

Be the Life of the Party

Socializing is a big part of a housewife’s life. Lots of friends mean lots of invitations! To keep abreast of all the activity, be sure to post a calendar prominently—perhaps on the refrigerator. That way, your hubby has no excuse to “forget” your social obligations. (Hint: Another gentle reminder that works very well is a cattle prod. Don’t worry, the burn marks heal quickly…)

“We’ve got the Crichtons’ shindig tonight. Then the Simpsons’ gathering on Friday. And from the look of the calendar next week, another three lined up… Jeez, you folks sure know how to party! How many bugs do we have left?” Jack sounds grumpy.

Can’t say that I blame him. It’s the third night this week that we’ve had a social engagement. Since his quote-unquote return, we’ve been inundated with cocktail and cookout invitations.

My neighbors are nosy about “the mysterious Carl Stone.”

It’s hard for me to forget all those years in which they ignored me while Carl was supposedly on the road.

But I’ll save my pity for later. Considering our mission, I guess this sudden burst of popularity is a blessing in disguise since it allows us into their homes in order to plant bugs that sweep the neighbors’ computers and their phones for any evidence that they are fronting for the Quorum.

Unfortunately, the bugs we’ve planted have yielded nothing.

We’re having a mission update in the one place I know we won’t be interrupted by the children: my bedroom. I pull open my underwear drawer, where I keep all the tracking devices. It gives new meaning to the brand Agent Provocateur.

I do a quick count. “We’ve got enough for the next six parties. I’ll ask Abu for refills.”

Before I can shut the drawer, Jack grabs a red lace thong and holds it up to the light. “You mean to tell me that you actually fit into this tiny thing?”

How dare he!

I’ve learn to ignore his teasing. This time, though, it’s a little too close for comfort.

I plant a supreme smile on my face. “But of course. In fact, I’m wearing one now.”

“Really?” His tone is a dare. 

What does he expect me to do, strip down to prove a point?

As if.

Besides, I’d lose. The briefs I have on aren’t exactly granny panties, but still, they aren’t the come-and-get-me ass floss he’s holding, either. 

As if reading my mind, he looks pointedly at the mirror behind me:

It shows my backside very clearly.

I feel my face heating up. “Just what in hell do you think you’re looking at?”

He cocks his head to one side. “Well, from this angle, it looks like a VPL.”

“Huh…? What does that mean?”

“Code word for ‘visible panty line.’ But it’s not in the official Acme manual, so don’t bother to check.”

I snatch the thong out of his hands. “Okay, so I lied. Those aren’t everyday wear. Only when I have to go … you know, undercover.” Enough of this crap. I shove him toward the door. “Go get dressed, ‘dear,’ or we’ll be late. Remember, we’re looking for any newbies: some single woman named Vivian Norman, a retired couple with the last name of Neufeld, and the Kelseys, that couple who moved in beside Hayley.”

He stops short of the threshold. “What are you wearing tonight?” 

“What’s it to you?”

“My interest is purely professional. Think of yourself as the bait. When they bite, we get our man. Or woman.”

“Yeah, I’ll just bet you like it when they bite.” It’s my turn to smirk. “I’ve got a little black number that will do the trick—”

“Nah. Go for that electric blue one. Skin tight, strapless—”

“Wait! How do you know about that one? Have you been rummaging through my closet?”

“Don’t act so shocked. I had to see what you had in the costume department—”

“My clothes are not costumes!”

“You don’t say?” I’d like to slap the grin off his face. “I’ll keep that in mind. Oh, and by the way, I noticed a Singapore Air flight attendant uniform, a nun’s habit, and a nurse’s uniform in there. I presume none of those are typical carpool attire?”

“No—of course not!”

Okay, he’s made his point. I slam the door after him.

Then I yank the clingy blue cocktail dress from my closet.

And the red thong.

Neither gives me any place to hide the bug.

Here’s hoping he’s right. Otherwise I’ll be giving the neighbors something to talk about for nothing.

The Crichtons’ place is hopping. Yes, I’m somewhat overdressed, but every now and then it’s great to turn some heads that don’t belong to double-agents, drug thugs, and gun runners.