The Housewife Assassin's Killer Christmas Tips (18 page)

The emergency med tech, a bruiser of a guy, refuses to let me sit up.

“Keep on that oxygen mask, miss. You’re not out of the woods yet.”

My lungs still hurt, so I guess he’s right.

The hint that he sucks at Charades is the look on his face when I mime my need for paper and pen. Finally, I yank a ballpoint out of his pocket and scribble on my hand.
Someone is inside the building!

He shakes his head. “Nah. The security guy got out of there, safe and sound. He says the place is empty.”

No, someone else
I add on the inside of my wrist.

“Lady, if that’s the case… Well, let’s just say, it would be a miracle for someone to survive that inferno. It’s almost as if a bomb went off or something.”

Duh, ya think?

I propel myself up, but he pushes me back down. “I’ll be taking you to Torrance so that the Emergency Room can check you out. We’ll leave just as soon as the police clear the crowd.”

Like hell he will. I shake my head vigorously.

He sighs. “I hate to have to do this to you, but we’ve got to follow protocol.” He holds me down while he straps my arms with the gurney’s wrist restraints. I’m too weak to fight him, or else I would have given him a head butt or a straight kick to the gut.

He shakes his head at my cursing. “Listen, lady, if you keep it up, I’ll have to sedate you.”

I get it. Play possum.

Five minutes later, as he crawls down the road, I fold up my knees in order to grasp my stiletto out of my boot with my right hand. If I hold it at an angle, I can cut through the restraint without slicing a vein. With my freed hand, I loosen the other restraint.

I’m sure he’ll be half a mile away before he realizes I’ve slipped out the back door.

It’ll be quite some time before he figures out I jacked his cell phone from his pocket while he was busy strapping me down.

I’m shocked Ryan can understand me through my blubbering about the explosion and Jack and the fact that I don’t know where the hell I am, except that I’m walking down US 1 just north of Rosencrans Avenue near Manhattan Beach and he needs to send someone to pick me up, like now!

“Abu is already on his way. Just keep this cell phone on, so that we can pick up the GPS signal.”

Fifteen minutes later, I’m in the passenger seat of Abu’s new cupcake truck. The very last thing I want to do is talk about Jack, so instead I rattle off my mother’s old recipe for red velvet cupcakes.

When suddenly I remember that red velvet was Jack’s favorite flavor, and how I could always tell when he and Jeff had snuck a cupcake before dinner because of the telltale red stains on their teeth when they smiled.

That does it. The tears won’t stop.

They just won’t stop.

I have to get a grip on myself or the kids and Aunt Phyllis will realize that something very bad has happened.

That Jack is dead.

I should have said yes, when he asked me to marry him. It might’ve changed everything.

Chapter 15

Build a Snowman

Everyone needs a snowman in their front yard! Think of this holiday icon as the greeter at Wal-Mart: a welcoming sentry, arms open, and just a little scary, what with that crazy leer on its face.

Building one is simple, and fun to do! Pack a snowball tightly in your fist, and roll it into a very large boulder, placing it near your walkway, within close proximity to your front stoop. This is its legs. Do the same with a second one, just slightly smaller, and place it on top of the first one. This is its abdomen. 

A third boulder, about a third the size of the second one, will serve as the snowman’s head. Decorate it with a top hat (really, any hat or cap will do), buttons or stones for eyes and its mouth, a carrot for its nose, and perhaps a pipe. Trimmed branches make for sturdy arms.

However, I wouldn’t hang a machete or the machine gun on its arm. Yes, it makes for an arresting tableau, but it may give your guests the wrong message.

Just sayin’.

Jack’s funeral is a simple affair.

The lack of any identifiable remains in the blast dictates a closed coffin, so that’s a no-brainer. The clique of mourners is tiny. As expected, Abu, Emma, and of course Ryan are here. But where’s Arnie? Furiously working on taking down Carl, I hope, which would be the best tribute of all to Jack. Besides, it would have been too risky for the whole Los Angeles branch office to be in attendance.

Sometimes I wish I worked in a normal profession, like, say, accounting.

The children fidget at my side. They don’t understand why I pulled them out of school for the funeral of a complete stranger, someone named “Jack Craig.”

And they certainly don’t understand why their father, “Carl,” isn’t here, too.

But yes, he’s here.

I’ve no doubt that Carl is lurking close by, rejoicing in his kill of the man he despises more than anyone.

Every time the minister says Jack’s name, my heart leaps into my throat. His eulogy is surprisingly heartfelt, considering he knows next to nothing about the man he is speaking of. I did my best to fill in the blanks. To relay anecdotes that demonstrated his sense of humor, his sharp wit, and the joy he felt around the children he came to love as his own.

But now, listening to the minister, I realize there was so much about Jack I never learned.

And now I never will.

I can’t stop the tears from clouding my sunglasses.

When the minister tells a story of Jack’s propensity for running caution lights, Mary gives me a sidelong glance. I pray she doesn’t put two and two together. She’ll have plenty of time to do that when he doesn’t come home this time, from one of his far flung “business trips.”

None of us will be the same after this.

Finally, it’s time to drop the coffin into the ground. The men step forward to sprinkle clots of mud. Mary drops a carnation onto the coffin, and I step forward to follow suit, with the dozen long-stemmed roses.

Impulsively, Mary grabs one from the bunch before I toss it into the grave, then takes my hand reassuringly.

When I turn to leave, I see her: Valentina sits in a limousine, watching from the curb.

I hate the fact that she’s smiling.

I hate her for giving me the lead about the storage unit.

That’s when it dawns on me that the whole thing was a set-up.

Why, that little whore!

She must realize I’ve seen her. Knowing she’s overplayed her hand, she says something to the driver, and the limo has pulled away from the curb.

When she passes by me, I notice she is sitting beside a man.

Carl.

That son of a bitch.

Trisha pulls at my sleeve. “Mommy, can we go now?”

I take her hand and head for the car.

“Hey, will Dad be home in time for my game?” Jeff asks.

Still very much in tune to my raw feelings, Mary mutters, “Shut up, Jeff,”

“No,
you
shut up,” he retorts.

I stop for no other reason than to cry.

“See? Dumbass! I told you.” Mary grabs his arm and drags him to the car.

My tears scare Trisha. At first she pats my arm, but then she realizes whatever is happening to Mommy isn’t going away any time soon, so she runs after her siblings, yelling her sister’s name.

Now, I am truly alone.

Chapter 16

Best. Eggnog. Ever.

The perfect libation for the chilly nights? Eggnog, of course!

And this recipe will have your guests begging for more. (Or, begging for something. Perhaps a gentler way to go into the night. Say, with a slug from a .38 revolver.)

The ingredients: four cups of milk, a cup and a half of sugar, a dozen large egg yolks, a cup of heavy cream, a cup of whisky and grated nutmeg. In a saucepan over a medium heat, whisk the sugar into the milk, until it’s dissolved. (If you’re trying to dissolve anything else like, say, arsenic, now is the time…but I digress.) Now, whisk in the eggs in a bowl.

When completed, whisk the milk and sugar into the eggs, slowly. Afterward, return this new combination to the saucepan, put it over a low flame, and whisk steadily for twenty minutes, or until it is thick enough to coat a knife. (Be sure this is not the same knife you’ll be using to stab someone later. The coating may make it slip out of your hands.)

Strain into a bowl. Whisk in your whisky. Whisk in your cream.

Then use the whisk to beat silly anyone who claims your eggnog is not the best they’ve ever tasted. They will change their mind even before the first  welt appears. Cheers!

I don’t know why I said yes to going to Acme’s Secret Santa party. I have no reason to be there. But Ryan called up and insisted I come in. “I know it’s only been three days, you need time off to mourn. But Jack drew your name, and he left his gift for you here,” he says, as a way to shame me into it.

I laugh as it hits me. Jack lied about drawing my name, just like I lied about drawing his! We are certainly two peas in a pod.

That is, we
were
.

I too had already wrapped the heart-shaped jewel box in sparkly tissue paper, topped with a silver bow, and left it at the office prior to party day. Inside I had placed the key that opens it along with a note that reads:

Dear Jack,

Always, and forever, you hold the key to my heart.

Love, Donna

“And besides,” Ryan continued, “without your fruitcake, it isn’t much of a party to begin with.”

He’s right. Spooks may know how to crash a party, but they certainly don’t know how to throw one.

“Okay, yeah, I’ll come,” I said. Then I hung up quickly.

I didn’t want him to hear me choking on my tears.

“Big Foot slipper socks? Gee.” Arnie is certainly disappointed with the gift Emma has given him.

He has every right to be. He rigged the Secret Santa game so that he’d draw her name, and to give her something he knows she wants: a vintage, limited edition Princess Leia twelve-inch action figure from
Star Wars Episode 4, New Hope
. It is one of the originals, produced by Kenner Toys in 1977, in conjunction with the release of the movie.

When she unwrapped it, Emma squealed, “How did you know?”

Arnie turns beet red. “I… um, I took a wild guess.”

He’s such a liar. Knowing Arnie, he hacked her computer and followed her browser history, where she’s been bidding for it on eBay.

He beat her to it.

Now it’s Emma’s turn to be embarrassed. “Wait! There’s something else in there, too! You can feel it in one of the socks. Go ahead, shake it out.”

As he obliges her, a vintage World War II German Army trench knife and scabbard fall to the floor.

Arnie is stunned. “Wow! How did you know?”

She rolls her eyes. “What, do you think you’re the only person in the world who can hack a computer? Of course, I had to drill down through all the porn first.”