The Housewife Assassin's Hostage Hosting Tips (Housewife Assassin Series Book 9) (23 page)

But it was her husband, Robert, who paid the ultimate price when she hooked up with the Quorum.

In the meantime, she ends up at an eight-year weight-loss camp, as she waits for the inevitable pardon from the vice-presidential candidate who took her place: Lee Chiffray.

I must not be doing a great job of hiding my disgust for her because suddenly her eyes narrow. “How do you know what’s happened to him?”

“Since your incarceration, he’s kept in touch with my daughter.”

“Your daughter?” she chortles. “I presume she’s turned into a boyfriend-robbing slut, just like her mother.”
 

Keep your cool.

“None of his other friends have stood by him. It’s why he showed up on my doorstep.” I take a deep breath. “Catherine, despite all we’ve been through together, I’m willing to give him what he needs–a place where he can breathe again, to find his footing and move forward from his grief over Robert and…and over you too.”

“And you’re here to get my permission?”

“No. He won’t need it. He’s started the process of becoming an emancipated minor. Considering what you’ve put him through, I don’t think he’ll have any problem getting it.”
 

She leans back in her chair. “Then why are you here, Donna?”

“Because you’re a mother. Because you’re
his
mother. Despite how he feels about you now, if he hears you care, it may make all the difference for you both.”

She doesn’t say anything. She just stares at me. Finally: “Bullshit! You’re here to rub my nose in it! Not only did I lose Robert to you, but now you’ve got Evan wrapped around your little finger too!”

“Get a grip, Catherine! Robert loved you, not me.”

“You clueless bitch. You may be blind, but I’m not. He pined for you all through college!” Seeing my stare, she mutters, “What? You didn’t know about it? Figures! Then again, there’s a lot you don’t know.” A single brow lifts in unison with the ominous smile on her lips. “I’ll bet you didn’t know that your husband, Carl, was the one who–”

Before she has a chance to spit it out, she’s tapped on the shoulder by the guard. “Time is up, Catherine.”

As she rises, I reach out my hand to stop her. “Wait! Finish what you were saying! Are you talking about his role in Robert’s death?”

She shakes it off. “Sorry, pet. I’ve got another engagement. You know how it is here at the spa–quite the social whirl!” Noting my grimace, she curls her finger at me, as if we’re girlfriends and she has a secret to share.
 

I hesitate, but my curiosity gets the better of me: yes, I want to know what Carl did. When my ear is close enough, she whispers, “No, Donna dearest. He had something bigger planned. Use what little imagination you have–and know that it’s
much, much
worse.”
 

Before I can move my head away, she snaps at my ear. Her teeth catch just a bit of the upper rim. She yelps as my elbow slams into her nose.
 

The guard drags her away, but she cackles as if the last joke is on me.

Maybe it is, who knows?

When I pull my hand away from my ear, it’s smeared with blood.
 

I don’t need this.

Carl is long gone. Evan needs me. My children need me.
 

And Jack loves me.

I’ve got to get some hydrogen peroxide on my wound, before it becomes infected. She’s a politician. Who knows where her mouth has been?
 

Just as importantly: I’ve got to move on from Acme.

I’ve dodged the last two calls from Bosworth Hobart, the Spooks Anonymous sponsor. It’s time that I man up.

That is, show up at a meeting.

He picks up on the first ring. He doesn’t say hello, or even my name. Instead, he mutters, “What took you so long?”

“I want to–”

“Yeah, yeah I know–you want to come to a meeting. Tonight, nine o’clock, Trinity Church, downtown.” He hangs up without waiting for my reply, whether it is an excuse, or a confirmation.

Yes, I will go. It’s time I figure out if I’m addicted to government-sanctioned killing.
 

Probably not. But, if so, I hope it’s like Weight Watchers, where I can still have my sugar-free cupcake and eat it, too.

“Hi, my name is Frank, and I’m a…a recovering spook. I’ve been retired for nine years, six months and twenty-two days.” The bald, portly gentleman confessing at the podium speaks hesitantly. He is sweating profusely, and has a slight Slavic accent.
 

In unison, the crowd murmurs, “Hello, Frank.”

Except for me. I’m too busy thinking that this is just my eleventh day (ninth hour and forty-two minutes) and I can’t imagine I may still be counting the days nine friggin’ years from now!

Realizing that I’m dumbstruck, my sponsor, Bosworth, nudges me into the customary greeting. What the hell–in for a dime, in for a dollar.

All night long, I’ve been listening to sob stories from folks like me: those who, for one reason or another burned out–or for that matter, got out before receiving their burn notice or a bullet to the head.

There’s Jasper, the hard man who plays Russian Roulette to keep from going on a killing spree, and Ursula, the swallow who became a nun. There’s Lionel, the access agent who is visited by the ghosts of those he recruited and outlived, and Lydia, the Betty Bureau who spent her whole life playing Moneypenny and never married.
 
Now that she’s retired, she feels useless. She may have been a mere pawn in the game of Spy versus Spy, but no bridge club, knitting circle, or garden can ever give her the same thrill as knowing what deadly pawns are being moved around on the international chess board.

I am not one of them.

I am still capable. I am still needed.

I am still wanted.

Lydia, who sits behind me, mutters to the man beside her, “Bullshit! His real name is Ivan Balázs. He headed up North American ops for Hungary's secret service–the TEK. Three of our best agents were deported from his country when he defected. Another two disappeared.
”

Bosworth taps her on the shoulder. “Shut up and let him speak.”

She hawks a loogie in disgust.

Frank-slash-Ivan is undeterred. “It’s been six-hundred-and-eighteen days since I’ve acted on my tendencies toward covert ops.” He winces. “But old habits die hard.”

Several people nod in appreciation of this revelation.

Encouraged by the support, he continues, “I see shadowy figures everywhere. I circle the block and double back to make sure I’m not being followed. Once, I punched out a waiter because I thought he was Micah the Exterminator.”

“Micah has been dead for three years. Drowned, in Cuba,” Jasper yells from the back of the room.

Frank–a.k.a. Ivan shakes his head. “I don’t believe you!”

Insulted, Jasper stands up. “I should know! I killed him myself.”

A woman on the other side of the room snorts loudly. “You say that about everyone.” Her accent pegs her as a Castilian.

He shakes his fist angrily at her. “Can I help it if I was good at what I did?”

“We were all good–until we couldn’t live with ourselves anymore. That is why we’re here,
idiota
!”

“It’s not your turn, Viola,” Lionel hisses. “Sit down!”

She pulls out a stiletto. With lightning speed, it flies through the air toward him.

The intended victim ducks just in time.

The person behind him isn’t so lucky.

Take it from me, when it comes to a roomful of spooks who may or may not have diplomatic immunity, nothing clears it out more quickly than a dead body.

“What will happen to the victim?” I ask Bosworth as we shuffle out the door with the others.

He looks around. “Not to worry! There are at least six expert cleaners in the crowd tonight. It happens about once every couple of months.”

Why am I not surprised?

Ursula nudges Lydia. “Have you heard the rumor? Mara is back in play!”

My ears perk up at my replacement’s name. Maybe they know something Jack doesn’t, and should.

Lydia sighs longingly. “So, there’s hope for the rest of us.”

Ursula shakes her head. “Speak for yourself. I’ve found what I was looking for: redemption.”

Is that what I’m seeking, too?

If so, I doubt I’ll find it here.

However, there is an Alcoholics Anonymous meeting after ours. I wonder how much of the crowd hangs around for it. My guess is at least half.

Not me. There’s a Lodi Zin at home with my name on it.

Chapter 15

Meeting and Greeting

The manner in which you greet your guests sets the tone for your event. With that in mind, here are a few considerations:

1: Form a receiving line. Despite the fact that your family consists of your pit bull, a cockatiel, and your deaf aunt, it’s a great way to have your guests show their respect. (Hint: DO NOT place the pit bull beside the cockatiel unless you want your family to shrink by one. “Cockfight” is an exciting theme, but one you may want to save for a time when your aunt is occupied elsewhere.)

2: Hire a trumpeter and an announcer. You’ve seen it at royal functions and coming out parties: as each guest enters, his or her name is announced. The horn blowing adds a flourish of fanfare. Granted, your guests will leave with headaches and a few may claim that their hearing aids are shot to hell, but it’ll be one party they’ll never forget!
 

3: Know everyone by sight, and by name. If it takes testing yourself with a photo chart, just do it! Even more endearing is to greet your guest with a shared memory that reminds him or her why their attendance means so much to you. Remember, however, there is no need to pronounce to the wife of an old boyfriend that you too appreciated how well he’s endowed, or to remind your old college roomie of the night you spent together in jail.
 

When in doubt exercise discretion.

Édouard Archambault, the head chef at the Savoy, appears unclear as to what constitutes a square meal for a bunch of ’tweenagers.
 

He winces when I cross certain items off the menu–say, smoked white sturgeon caviar layered with Dungeness crab on ember-roasted yams, or for that matter, duck liver toffee infused with olive oil, smothered with raw milk jelly, nesting on a bed of seaweed.

“But–but…” he sputters, “The delicacies have already been approved by Madam Bing! In fact, the caviar has already arrived and cannot be returned!” He points to several large wooden boxes against the kitchen wall.

Our prom’s profit has been spent on fish eggs.

I’ve heard Penelope’s name so often today that I want to scream. Despite her insistence that I’m in charge, she seems to be micro-managing the event behind my back.

I just don’t get it! Tickets were selling briskly even before the announcement of Taylor Swift as the party’s entertainment. Of course, now the dance is a sell-out. And because we went over our income goal, I hired Margot Sutcliff, one of Los Angeles’s premier event planners, so that I wouldn’t have to deal with Henry’s salacious remarks.

Penelope’s abuse of her is far worse. For example, Margot and I agreed on eight-person round tables, but Penelope changed the order to ten-person rounds. I also asked Margot to order pale blue and silver linens and balloons in the school colors. Penelope canceled my order, asking for gold and black instead, insisting it was “far more elegant.”

The good news: Not only did we sell out the dance, we got rid of all the hotel rooms, too! Thirty rooms, ten each on three floors. Two chaperones are in one of the rooms on each floor, while four children of the same gender share the other nine rooms, for a total of one-hundred-and eight young’uns.
 

And, of course, I’ll have the Academy Awards Suite.

And, luckily for Jack and me, it shares the penthouse level and an exclusive elevator with just two other suites–neither of which are Penelope’s, thank goodness.

I pat Édouard gently on the shoulder. “I’m sure that the dishes are quite delicious. It’s just that I don’t think they’ll be appreciated by the guests. Trust me on this, Monsieur Archambault. I’d hate for you to hear your masterpieces be compared to ‘boogers and snot.’”