The Housewife Assassin's Hostage Hosting Tips (Housewife Assassin Series Book 9) (16 page)

I hit the speed-dial to Acme at least six times on the way home, each time leaving a message for Ryan to call.
 

I do the same on Jack’s cell phone. Why the hell isn’t he picking up?

If he won’t, then neither will anyone else on my team. Something pertaining to the mission must be going down, right now.

I get home to find Aunt Phyllis cuddling with Trisha on the couch as they watch
Frozen
. Thank goodness, Jack must have asked her to pick up the kids and stay over until all of this stuff blows over.

“Where are Mary and Jeff?” I ask.

“Mary is upstairs, doing her homework,” Aunt Phyllis assures me. “And before you ask–no, she hasn’t used her cell phone, and yes, she isn’t on her computer. In fact, I’m keeping an eye on it right now.” She glances at the iPad beside her, where a security app indicates all live hot spots.

“What about Jeff?”

“He went around the corner to a friend’s house. Don’t worry, I checked his homework. His math went over my head, but he seemed to believe he knows what he’s doing.”

I roll my eyes. Hey, when it comes to sitters, beggars can’t be choosers. “Okay, well, I’ll be in the backyard if anyone needs me.”

Phyllis and Trisha wave me off.
Frozen’s
Elsa is in deep doo-doo.
 

Thankfully, the cartoon heroine is not in it as deep as me. In her case, two others haven’t gotten killed.
 

So that no one sees me, I make my way to the tree house in the backyard, where no one can overhear my conversation, should either Jack or Ryan call in.

I’ve just climbed onto the top step of the tree house when I see them: Jeff, in a lip lock with some girl.

My son…is kissing some girl.

I’m mesmerized. Oh my God–is this my son’s very first kiss?

How…awesome.

And now his hand is sneaking into her T-shirt–

Um…
no.
I’m certainly not going to just stand here and watch him cop his first feel!

My cough is akin to a gunshot, ricocheting through the tiny tree house.
 

Jeff and the girl leap away from each other. Their eyes are as big as saucers.

“Mom! ...Wow! I–I didn’t expect you back so early,” Jeff stutters. He’s enough of a gentleman to help the girl up onto her feet.

“Obviously not,” I press my lips together to keep from smiling. “Care to introduce me to your friend?”

“This is Gabrielle Mathews. We were studying…math.” He points to the stack of schoolbooks tossed in a corner.

I cross my arms. “Oh? Aunt Phyllis informed me you’d completed your math homework.”

“I asked Jeff to help me out, Mrs. Stone,” Gabrielle exclaims. “I was stuck on a problem, and since I live just a few blocks over…I hope you don’t mind.”

“Not at all. I’m just surprised to find the two of you way up here.”

Jeff’s cheeks are flushed. Still, he insists, “We would have studied in the den, but Aunt Phyllis and Trisha were watching TV, and we’re not allowed to have company in the living room. I thought it would be quieter in here.”

“I’m glad to see you weren’t disturbed. But I would imagine that Gabrielle’s mother would feel as I do–that from now on, your study sessions should take place in the house.”

Both children nod guiltily. Jeff let Gabrielle go down the ladder first. His gallantry doesn’t stop there. He offers me the same privilege.

I take it so that he doesn’t see me tearing up.

I give Jeff permission to walk Gabrielle home, if only to keep him out of earshot as I get lambasted by Ryan. His voice thunders, “I don’t understand what you were doing there with her in the first place!”
 

“I told you–she was a little rough around the edges! I was smoothing them out for you.”

“Don’t do me any more favors,” he mutters.

“Wait…does this mean you’d prefer I bow out of the vetting and training of my replacement?”

“Trust me, if I could, I would. But we’re shorthanded right now, remember?”

How can I forget?

“And then there was one,” Ryan grumbles. “Text Ms. Lloyd–the sooner the better. And, Donna, let me make a suggestion:
do not
leave the Acme campus with her, okay?”

“Your wish is my command,” I declare airily.

“Good! Wonderful! Glad I have your word on it. Look, I’ve got to go now.”

I wait for the click that indicates he’s hung up, but none comes.

Finally, I ask, “Ryan? Are you still here?”

He doesn’t answer. Instead, I hear someone else talking now. It’s Arnie. Or, at least I can make out snippets of what he’s saying: “–enough chatter to approximate a date–the week of the fourteenth.”

“So, where is Tatyana?” Abu asks. “She couldn’t have just disappeared into thin air.”

“By jove, I think I’ve got it,” Dominic exclaims.

“This isn’t a tryout for
My Fair Lady
. Let’s hear it,” Ryan growls at him.

Dominic indicates his irritation with a loud sigh. “If you’ll let me finish, I wish to point out that like the CIA, MI6 has also been tracking air traffic in and out of Middle Eastern hot spots. The day after Tatyana landed in Syria, MI6’s surveillance feed tracked a Gulfstream 650ER private jet leaving Damascus and landing in a private airstrip in Caracas, Venezuela. Look here, as the sole passenger boards the plane.”

I can’t see what they’re looking at, but I know it must be Tatyana when I hear Jack mutter, “That’s her alright.”
 

“Caracas was a refueling stop,” Dominic adds. “From there, the plane went on to Mexico City.”

“By now, she would have crossed the border into the United States,” Abu points out.
 

In other words, we’ve lost her again.
 

“I can make out the plane’s ID number to see who it’s registered to,” says Arnie. He must have zoomed in on the satellite feed. “I’ll also hack into the Damascus Airport’s manifest to validate ownership of the plane.”

“If you hack into the air traffic control feed during takeoff, I’ll do a translation of any conversation between the controllers and the pilot,” Abu offers. “I may be able to pick up a clue or two that way.”

Then I recognize Jack’s voice: “What events are taking place on the week in question?”

“Let me check,” says Emma, but the sound is tinny, as if she’s on speaker. The soft moan of a baby confirms it. Everyone is quiet, waiting for what she digs up. It doesn’t take her long. “The Clippers game, for one thing. And a town hall debate between Los Angeles’ mayoral candidates.”

“Neither of which can be it,” Jack counters. “Granted, a terrorist attack at a sports game would make a statement, but if this is to be ISIL’s first attack on U.S. soil, it’ll go for an even bigger target.”

“He’s right,” Ryan declares. “Emma, look for something very big and very public, with either national or international overtones.”

“I’ll keep searching,” she assures him, “but right now, absolutely nothing fits that description.”

“Maybe it’s not within the Los Angeles metro area,” Jack muses out loud. “Maybe it’s within the region–”

“Oh, hell!” Ryan exclaims. “This new damn phone! I thought I hit the off button after my call with Donna–”

The click I hear next means we’ve been disconnected.

Half of me wants to laugh, but the other half wants to cry over the fact that Ryan–and Jack, for that matter–are actually concerned that I might have overheard them.

When Jack gets home, he’ll drop hints to see if I give away what I know.

All the more reason to be in bed when he gets home, and fast asleep.

Between Pucci and Jenny’s deaths, I hope I don’t have nightmares.

Chapter 10

Tot Party No-No’s

Choosing the entertainment for a children’s party isn’t as easy as one might presume. Here are a few things to avoid:

No-No Number 1: Don’t choose a theme previously chosen by those in his playgroup, or you’ll look like a copycat–or worse yet, the parents of those in attendance will compare the successes and failures of both parties. The chances of you ending up with the fuzzy end of the lollipop? Fifty-fifty–lousy odds, both in and out of Las Vegas.

No-No Number 2: Don’t hire a clown. More than likely, at least one of the kids you’ll invite is afraid of them. The moment the child cries, it sets off a domino effect, and pretty soon you’ll have a sobfest on your hands–not to mention that years later, it’ll be the first thing your own child will bring up when leaning back on his psychiatrist’s couch.

No-No Number 3: Stay away from stripper-grams, too. Both men and boys stare and giggle when they’re around comely, young women with large breasts, no pants, and tiny tops. To top it off, those under the age of three will view them as their typical liquid lunch.

“So, what’s on your agenda today?” Jack asks casually as he slathers his bagel with cream cheese.

“You mean, besides meeting with my replacement?” I pause what I’m doing: pounding chicken breasts for tonight’s dinner,
cordon bleu
. “Well, let me see–I’m interviewing the entertainment vendors for the middle school prom. There’s the photo booth guy, then there’s the fortune-teller–”

“Wait…” He looks up, surprised. “By that, I take it she hasn’t cancelled on you?”

“Who, the fortune-teller?”

He almost chokes on his coffee. “No, I meant the last replacement candidate for your job.”

I frown. “No. Why should she?”

He winces at my tone. “Oh…I don’t know. Just something I heard at the office.”

I smack one of the filets–hard. “It’s not my hang anymore, so perhaps you’ll enlighten me.”

“Only if you don’t take it the wrong way.” He can’t take his eyes off the meat mallet in my hand.

I put it down. “Cross
my
heart,” I promise.

“That’s what I’m afraid of,” he mutters. He smiles anyway. It’s his way of making the best of this sticky wicket of a situation. “There may have been a betting pool in the office as to whether and when Tally Lloyd calls in and passes on the gig. I guess it’s no surprise to anyone that word’s gotten out about…well, about the series of unfortunate events that have taken place.”

“Is that what they call it–‘unfortunate events?’ How very…Lemony Snicket.” Just the thought that my Acme colleagues are betting on my mistakes makes me pulverize another chicken breast.
 

Jack winces. “Frankly, I’m putting a light spin on it. Truth is, the spook loops are calling it ‘Hotel California.’ You know, like the song says”–and then he has the audacity to actually sing it–“
You can check out any time you like, but you can never leave
–”

I pound the chicken so hard and so fast that it practically disintegrates. “Yeah, okay, you Don Henley wannabe, I get the drift.” I stop and take deep breaths.
One, two, three…

No, I don’t make it to ten. But I can control myself enough to place my hands on the counter with some semblance of calm. “Just out of curiosity, what time did you bet on?”

He lays down his bagel and cream cheese in order to look at his watch. “As long as she doesn’t call between now and one-twenty, I’m still in the running.”

“
Et tu, Brute
?” With a fork, I stab a sliver of smoked lox off the serving platter in front of him. When I jab it into his bagel, I barely miss his fingers.

He whips his hand away, and fast. “But, Donna honey–the pot is up to a thousand big ones!” Rubbing his knuckles, he mutters, “If I win, I have every intention of splitting it with you.”

“How comforting.”

He changes the subject to the weather. But there’s only so long you can jabber on about the perpetual southern California sunshine.

Finally, when he can no longer take my stony silence, he changes tactics. “So, what’s your guess as to where and when ISIL will strike?”

I stare up at him, innocently. “How should I know? Here’s a shocker: I’m not on their mission team either, or even their need-to-know list, for that matter.”

“Admit it, you were listening in on last night’s conversation.” He now feels it is safe to dig into his lox and bagel, and does so, with gusto. “I’m asking your opinion as one professional to another.”

He’s throwing me a bone. We both know it.