The Housewife Assassin's Killer Christmas Tips (5 page)

He’s got a point.

I shove a full box of pepperoni pizza in his direction, and pray his symptoms don’t include barfing all over my brand new carpet or testing the flush efficiency of my low-flow toilets.

As both the adults and the kids chow down, for the first time since walking through the door I notice my five-year-old is nowhere in sight. “Jack, did you forget to pick up Trisha?”

The grin fades from Jack’s face. “Nope. But fair warning, she left Janie’s house in a funk. I tried to get it out of her, but all she’d say was, ‘Mommy told me a big fib.’ When we got home, she went straight up to her room and slammed the door. I called up to her when the pizza came, but she claims she’s not hungry. The next thing I know, the gang’s all here. I’m sure she’ll come down when she’s hungry enough.”

Aw, heck. What did I do now?

I turn to my eldest. “Mary, honey, do you mind going upstairs to see if your sister wants to join us for dinner?”

Mary shrugs. “I’m sure Trevor will go, if you ask him… now that he’s your bitch.”

I’m just about to point out that she fits that description too, when Ryan gives me the high sign. He’s ready to get down to business.

As I shoo the kids into the great room, Trevor gives me a wave before Mary slams the door behind her. Normally I’d be angry about this, but I couldn’t help but notice the tears in her eyes.

I’ve got to nip Trevor’s puppy love in the b and fast.

Ryan never cracks jokes. His emotions run the gamut from solemn to serious, with varying shades of sobering stoicism in-between.

In time, we who know him best have tuned into his microcosmic emotional nuances. When he’s angry, a shadow darkens his pupils. Sarcasm elevates his right brow, ever so slightly. For him, fear is an emotion best served with a cold sweat.

When he unconsciously pats the back of his neck with this what is left of his pizza-soaked napkin, I realize the merry is about to go out of our Christmas.

“From the moment that sadistic bastard Muammar Qaddafi was caught squealing like a piggy in a sewer pipe, we knew this day would come,” Ryan starts. “It’s no secret that he stockpiled twenty thousand surface-to-air missiles—mostly Russian SA-24s, and some SA-7s.”

Both of these weapons are highly accurate MANPADS. That is, man-portable air-defense systems, which are easily fired from shoulder launchers.

“I was under the impression that the location of many of these arms caches had been previously identified by satellite surveillance and secured when Tripoli fell,” Jack says.

Ryan nods. “Unfortunately, our assets in the Middle East are still scrambling to confiscate as many as they can. But a few of the hideaways had already been ‘liberated’ by rebel forces. The ransom for these arms is high. It may cost the US up to forty million to get our hands on them. You know the game. The toys go to the bidder with the deepest pockets.”

Jack frowns. “I guess we all know who that is. The Quorum.”

Ryan nods. “I’m afraid so.”

Not good. The Quorum is made up of rogue operatives who have defected from a myriad of covert agencies. They are well-funded by corporations who view weapons of mass destruction as a profit center on their balance sheet. Acme knows this well, since one of its assassins defected to the Quorum: my soon-to-be ex-husband, Carl.

So far, it’s been one messy divorce. But anyone who doesn’t kill you (in my case, Carl, who’s shot me, and tossed me over a railing into the ocean) makes you stronger, right?

Jack doesn’t like the news any more than I do. “Let me guess. The Quorum has sold off portions of it to the AQIM—the Al Qaeda cells in the Islamic Maghreb—and Somalia’s Al Shabaab.”

“Yep, sales to both organizations have been confirmed,” Arnie chimes in. “And a ship carrying several cargo containers of MANPADs also ended up in Boko Haram, in Nigeria.”

“Right now, we’re sweating the whereabouts of another stash,” Ryan continues. “Qaddafi tolerated his country’s Christians, but just barely. One anti-Qaddafi militia was made up of Libyan Catholics, many of Italian descent. This particular rebel group secured one of the larger munitions depots. But now that the euphoria of the Arab Spring is over with, secular tolerance is being tamped down by radical Muslim factions. The Christian minorities are worried that things may be just as bad, if not worse, than what they endured under Qaddafi. Many Christians have already emigrated out of the country.”

His eyes seek out Emma. “Fortunately, Acme—well, specifically, Emma—picked up chatter on the whereabouts of one particular shipment from that warehouse. Apparently, the Catholic rebel leader used it to buy his family’s safe passage out of Libya. But his wife felt guilty enough to confess this to her priest, along with everything she knew about the shipment’s final destination. She left the priest with a thumb drive detailing the items in the munitions cache. It’s to be delivered here stateside, sometime in the coming weeks. At this point, we can presume the target destination is a commercial airport. We’re guessing the attack will take place on or before Christmas.”

I’m stunned. “Oh my God, just in time for the travel taking place during the holidays!”

“Exactly,” Ryan interjects. “Before the rebel and his wife could leave Libya, their buyer had them tortured and killed. Our only hope is the priest, Father Michelangelo Casari. We’ve recently discovered he was transferred here, to the Los Angeles archdiocese. But we need to get to him first before the Quorum learns of his whereabouts.” He turns to Jack. “Jack, I need you here to pull together some of your Middle Eastern resources for some deeper reconnaissance.”

Jack starts to object, then pauses. I know he feels torn. But he’d be the first to admit his contacts in that part of the world are unparalleled in the industry. “Donna, that puts you up at bat. If you can get him to hand over the intel, we’ll be able to put the rest of the pieces of this mission in play. The clock is ticking, folks, so let’s get moving.”

By the time our meeting breaks up, Cheever, Morton and Trevor have already found their way home. On a Monday evening after homework, Mary can usually be found on the couch, singing along with the
Glee
cast, but not tonight. She’s already turned in for the night.

Standing in the middle of the upstairs hallway, I can hear sobs coming from both my daughters’ bedrooms. A rap on Mary’s door brings only silence. Okay, I get it. She’s not ready to talk.

When I tap on Trisha’s, she it opens wide.

I live for her hugs. There is no greater high than watching the smile grow on your child’s face when she realizes you’ve come for her, and then jumps into your arms and holds onto you, as if she’ll never let you go.

But no, Trisha is not smiling. Her eyes glisten from the tears which have yet to follow the damp path down her plump cheeks.

Despite my outstretched arms, she holds her ground, arms crossed.

I bend down, so that we’re eye to eye. “Honey, Daddy told me you’re upset. What’s wrong?”

“You lied to me, Mommy.”

Guilty as charged, I’m sure. But I’m a parent, so that’s par for the course. Still, I wrack my brain, wondering which tiny white lie (told, no doubt, to protect her innocence) has submerged me in the roiling hot emotions, which every mother eventually finds herself parboiled. “I lied… about what, sweetie?”

She collapses at my feet. “About Santa! He doesn’t exist!”

Uh-oh
.

I pat her head gently. “Where did you hear that?” From Mary, or Jeff? For their sakes, I hope not, since I told both of them I’d be the one to tell Trisha, when the time came.

I can barely hear her whisper: “Janie told me.”

“
Janie?
”

Wait until I get hold of Babette Breck, Janie’s mother!

Jonah, Janie’s recently deceased father, was one of the world’s richest men. He made his wealth in munitions sales. He also happened to be a sadistic womanizer who trafficked in human sex slaves. But because of his political ties and the fact that his role as one of the Quorum’s thirteen titular heads is still classified intel, he’ll be remembered as a generous philanthropist as opposed to the devil he really was.

The day the Brecks moved into Hilldale, Penelope muttered, “There goes the neighborhood.”

Little did she know how right she was.

Considering all I know about Jonah, you’d think Babette would have the good sense to zip Janie’s lips when it comes to one of life’s best-kept secrets, wouldn’t you?

Before I can flip into spin cycle, I need more reconnaissance. “What exactly did Janie tell you?”

“She said parents are the ones who really buy us all the toys, and that all of you are in cahoots and made up a jolly fat man called Santa, so that kids won’t ask for toys all year round!” Trisha’s words come out in fits and gulps. “Mommy, are you in a cahoot, too?”

How do I answer her?

Yes, of course I’m in a cahoot!

I’ve perpetrated this ruse because that’s what we parents do this time of year. Be it a jolly old elf, a tree covered in lights and tinsel, a child in a manger, a miraculous eight days of light provided by a single day’s supply of oil, or a month to make a pilgrimage to Mecca, we have to believe in something, for God’s sake!

If we don’t have faith, we have nothing.

But how do I explain this to a five-year-old?

If she feels deceived about who brings the toys, I guess next she’ll be questioning whether a bunny brings the chocolate she finds in her Easter basket.

I knew this day would come, but I hadn’t counted on it happening so soon.

Time to punt. “I don’t think ‘cahoot’ is the right word, Trisha. I’d say that many parents introduce their children to the tradition of Santa Claus because he encourages boys and girls to be good all year round, which is why they deserve at least one special gift at Christmas.”

Trisha’s face flickers through a baker’s dozen emotions. “I… I guess that makes sense, but… Oh, I don’t know! Janie says if Santa is really making all those toys, how can he spend his day going from mall to mall?”

Unlike her mother, Babette, nothing gets by Janie. I’ve got to nip this in the bud, like now. “If he’s doesn’t ask the children what they want, how will he know which toys to drop at their homes on Christmas Eve?”

I can tell Trisha is wavering, that she wants to believe what she has just heard.

Am I wrong to want her to believe this traditional fib?

“Sweetie, if it would help, I’ll take you to the mall so that you can meet with Santa and talk to him about it.”

She nods adamantly. “Can we go tomorrow?”

“Of course! Right after school.”

If the Hilldale Mall Santa is willing to play along, there a ten spot in it for him.

For me, it’s worth every penny. Trisha is my youngest. The day she quits believing in Santa is one more milestone in her life. Sorry, but I’m just not ready for her to reach it.

Not yet, anyway.

My children are growing up much too quickly.

Just what I need, one more part of life out of my control.

Chapter 5

Making the Holidays Your Own

Bah, humbug! Not in the holiday spirit? One way to shake the doldrums is to create a holiday tradition unique to your family.

For example, you can collaborate on your very own Christmas carol!

Seriously, it’s not that hard! Just follow this pattern:

Intro, verse, verse, chorus, break; verse, verse, break; bridge, breakout.

See? Easy, peasy!

After working through two or three verses, which express your prayers of thanks (example: Dad avoided the drunk tank, little Tommy didn’t fail the fifth grade again) and hopes for the coming year (a raise, some much needed weight loss, peace for all mankind, yada yada), you’ll move onto the chorus, which crescendos into a catchy ditty—about Santa, snow, stars, elves, or whatever—in four-part harmony.

If you don’t murder each other by the time the song is completed and up on YouTube, you’ve witnessed the biggest Christmas miracle of all: a family collaboration!