The Housewife Assassin's Handbook (19 page)

It takes me a full half hour to figure out that the only way to break free from the seven-foot penis is to heave it off its tripod. Top-heavy, it topples over, resting on its head. At least now I can slip out through the bottom. 

In the meantime, the Mylar on my chest has stiffened. 

My breasts haven’t been this perky since I was twenty-two.

But I can’t look down. Forget vertigo. From the mirrored slope between them, I see some slack under my chin. Maybe Armand was right and it’s time for a little nip/tuck.

I get dressed, then scour the gallery for the yellowcake, but it is nowhere to be found: not in Armand’s office, not in the delivery room, and certainly not in any of the exhibits. 

I’m so frustrated over this that I slam one of the mirrored balls into another—

Both crack open. A shower of yellow powder sprinkles onto the floor.

For once, Rodeo Drive is paved in gold, literally.

Covering my face with my hands, I get the hell out of there. Before slipping through the back door and into an alley, I text Emma: I picked up the cake, but then dropped it. Please send the maid to mop up the kitchen. 

Obliterating Beverly Hills would not endear me to my shopaholic neighbors, so I hope Ryan sends a clean-up crew quickly.

I’m making dinner when Jack saunters into the kitchen, as if he doesn’t have a care in the world.

Emma looks up from her crossword puzzle and gives him a high-five as he walks past her. The kids run to give him hugs.

Me, I don’t even look up.

Instead, I grab a cleaver.

“So, you’ve made it home for dinner tonight.” I practically spit out the words at Jack as I toss a large raw chicken onto one of the chopping blocks. The other holds the fixings for our family’s Waldorf salad. 

Damn him! Once again, he’s drinking orange juice straight out of the carton, as if he’s the only one who has a right to it. Well, he isn’t! My God, who knows where his mouth has been?

I can only imagine. 

I stab the romaine savagely with the cleaver.

The kids and Emma skedaddle. They can read my moods, even if Jack hasn’t yet bothered to learn them.

And now that I’ve found the yellowcake, he won’t have to. Mission accomplished! He can just leave.

Good riddance.

Jack chokes on the pulp. “Hey, no need to pull out the fine china, or anything. And salad’s just fine with me. I’ve been eating a lot of unhealthy crap these last couple of nights—”

“Oh? I’ll just bet you have.” Is it my tone of voice that has him backing toward the door, or the way in which I slam the chicken down onto the cutting board and rip into it with the boning knife?

I’m guessing a bit of both. “I’m sure you and your—your friend—had quite a night. Well, while you were away—”

“Save it. I’ve already gotten the memo. You go, girl!”

His patronizing thumbs-up earns him a flick of raw chicken skin, catapulted from my paring knife.

Despite my anger, I’m somewhat impressed that he’s able to keep his cool, what with that sliver of free-range carcass clinging to his forehead. He closes his eyes for a moment before murmuring, “Okay Donna, I get the hint. You’re upset. Now can you tell me why, for God’s sake?”

“No—yes!… I mean…”

What I really mean is that I don’t like the fact that I don’t know where he goes when he disappears.

And why he’s got to disappear with Nola, of all people. 

But I can’t really say that, now can I?

“The kids were worried about you.”

His forced smile disappears. Good, he’s taken that at face value—the idiot.

“How about you? Did you miss me, too?”

 Instead of answering him, with one quick yank, I rip the skin off the chicken. Then, with a flick of my wrist, I toss it in Lassie’s direction.

She catches it in mid-air. We make a great tag team.

And to think I once thought that could be true about Jack and me.

His eyes open wide. “Okay, well, that says it all.”

“Glad you’re taking the hint. I suppose you’ll pack up and leave now.”

He shrugs. “I wish. Nope, turns out the yellowcake was just part of the Quorum’s overall scheme. Chatter indicates that their mission is still in play. Bigger than ever, in fact.” He moves toward the sink, where he grabs a towel to wipe his face of any clinging chicken gristle. “Listen Donna, maybe you should take the kids out of town until this blows over.”

“What? You’ve got to be kidding me!”

“No, I’m not. I’m completely serious.” He turns to face me. “I know you’ve got that pretty little head of yours set on snagging the Quorum, but trust me, it won’t be worth it if you have to give up something more important to you.”

“Oh yeah? And what would that be?”

“How about Mary and Jeff and Trisha? Don’t our kids mean anything to you?”

“Our kids? How dare you!” I pick up an even larger cleaver and gouge the romaine to shreds. My salad is quickly turning into coleslaw. I wonder if I have any cabbage in the house.

Does he truly believe he can just waltz into our lives and own us, body and soul?

Of course he does. And he’s right. I know by the way the kids rush into his arms when they see him, and how they pat his arm, just to reassure themselves that he’s really there.

For them.

For me.

But he’s not. And I rue the day they find this out, when this mission is finally over and he just saunters off into the sunset without even a backward glance. Will he care that he’s broken their hearts? Not a bit. Because he doesn’t really care about them at all.

Or about me.

“Damn it, Jack! To you, playing ‘father knows best’ is just a game. Well, here’s a news bulletin: real dads don’t just walk away from their families.”

“Oh no? Isn’t that what Carl did?”

Forget the piddly nutcracker. I’ve decided to open the walnuts’ shells with a hammer.

Noting this, Jack positions one of my polished silver trays below his waist. 

The coward.

“Don’t you dare compare yourself to my Carl!” Unconsciously I raise the hammer over my head—

But only because I’d planned on smashing the nut next to his hand.

Not that he’d know this, which is why he grabs the hammer in mid-air.

For just a moment we struggle, but he’s too strong for me. Wrenching it out of my hand, he tosses it onto the window seat.

Lassie, who is curled up under it and gnawing at something, yelps with surprise.

“Nobody will ever measure up to Carl, will they, Donna? Then it’s a good thing you enjoy sleeping with a gun under your pillow. It gives you something to cozy up to.”

Jack’s face is so close to mine now that I can feel his breath on my cheeks. But I don’t flinch. Instead, I lick my lips slowly and smile. “Cold steel beats a cold heart any day.”

His wince lets me know I’ve hit my mark.

“Admit it, Jack. You’ve wanted me off this mission since Day One, so that you’d get the scalp for the Quorum. You couldn't care less that you’ve put my kids in danger—”

“Damn it, Donna, speak for yourself! Well, you’re right about one thing, my dear Mrs. Stone: they are your kids, not mine.” He hurls the tray onto the kitchen island.

This has Lassie scurrying deep into her cubby for cover.

“So, what’s it going to be, Donna? Are you going to stick it out so that you can complete your life mission and bring down the Quorum in Carl’s memory, or are you going to protect your kids from—from…”

He stops cold. Whatever he wants to say, whatever pain and fear and anger I detect lurking in his eyes, isn’t something he feels safe to say to me.

Instead he flashes that lazy smile of his, as if it’s all that is needed to placate me. “Let’s just say that I’m doing you a big favor here.”

I’m so angry that the chicken breast is being pulverized beyond use. “And in what form will you take your ‘thank you’? Oh, wait! Let me guess! I’m supposed strip naked on a pole, invite you into my bed, and perform all kinds of naughty acts while you regale me with all your spy stories. Tell the truth, Jack: aren’t you tired of that routine?”

This stops him cold. “You’re absolutely right, Donna. I am tired of it. Bone tired. That’s why I’m here, with you. Now. Tonight. Or haven’t you noticed?”

I stop the cleaver in mid-air. “Is that really why you’re home, to be with me? Or did your girlfriend make other plans?”

“She’s not my girlfriend! She’s—” For once he looks more exasperated than I feel. Not that he wants to let me know that I’ve gotten to him.

Instead he says, “But yeah, sweetheart, if you’ve got a pole somewhere in that bedroom—not that I saw one anywhere, but my experience is that you suburban types are sometimes kinkier than you look—then bring it on.”

Turning to leave, he takes one last gulp of orange juice before tossing the empty carton into the sink behind him—

Bullseye.

Well, almost. The cleaver misses his ear by a mere inch.

He stops short, but he doesn’t turn around. Instead he squares his shoulders then resumes his stroll out the door.

But he and I both know that the only reason I don’t finish the job is because Acme could never forgive me for taking out such an important asset.

It’s then that I notice what Lassie has been chewing on: one of Jack’s $3,800 shoes.

“Good girl!” I hand her a dog biscuit, knowing that she’ll find it a poor second next to the chewable loafer.

That’s the point. 

Chapter 12

Can She Make a Cherry Pie?

Pies are so much fun to make—and so simple! All it takes to make a tender, flaky crust is the right amount of vegetable shortening, cut into flour with a sprinkle of cold water, and just a pinch of salt.

Cherries have the right sweet-to-tart taste—and are also a good source of poison! Just crush the pits or stems. There you’ll find prussic acid, also known as hydrogen cyanide: easy to sprinkle into both the filling and the crust. How sweet it is!

We have less than three weeks to figure out what the Quorum is planning. Needless to say, the stress has turned all the adults in the Stone household into the “Grumpensteins,” to use a phrase coined by Trisha.

The only good bit of news: Jeff keeps winning games for his team. They have advanced to the California World League finals.

True to his word, Jack hasn’t missed a game, but he still refuses Whitey’s entreaties to coach Jeff and the team’s other two pitchers.

I wish he’d keep his word to me and clean up his room. Or at least do his laundry.

Oh yeah: and he could be honest about the fact that he’s slipping out of the house at least three nights a week. Seriously, is Nola that great of a lay?

Not that I give a crap.

Just to prove the point, I’ve tossed his laundry in with ours. Oops, my red thong went into the wash with his Oxford shirts! Tsk, tsk, they’ve turned a pretty pink hue.

It’s dinnertime. Jack, Mary, and Trisha have gone to pick up Jeff from practice. I’m in the pantry when they walk back in through the kitchen door. My kids are giggling and shushing each other. When I see their guilty faces, I know why: their mouths have turned blue.

“What the heck have you been eating?” I ask suspiciously.

“Nothing,” they say in unison.