The Housewife Assassin's Hostage Hosting Tips (Housewife Assassin Series Book 9) (18 page)

“What does this have to do with our prom?”

“Leonardo was my college sweetheart. I bumped into him a month ago, and…well, let’s just say the flame was rekindled–not that I let him touch me or anything!”

“You? No, of course not.”
Not.
 

“He told me if I needed anything, to just call.”

“So then, why don’t you?”

“Because I’m not the Prom Committee Chair, or did you forget that?” she declares haughtily. “Must I do everything? My goodness, Donna, I’ve given you a golden opportunity to look good. Use it!”

Suddenly, I’m listening to a dial tone.

I’m sure it won’t be the last one I hear today.

Now, I have to find the binder. Where the hell did I leave it?

Twenty minutes later, I find it in the garage. Jeff’s been using it as part of his skateboard ramp.

I lug it into the house, and open it to page eighty-seven. Beside Leonardo’s name is his telephone number.

A man’s voice barks, “Yeah, who is it?”

A direct line? Maybe Penelope’s right and the guy is still sweet on her. Only one way to find out.

“Mr. Cuthbert, my name is Donna Stone. I’m a friend of Penelope Bing–”

“Penny?” He laughs. “Jesus! She didn’t waste any time. What does
she
want?”

“She mentioned you represented some musical acts. We were hoping that one might be available for our event.”

“What’s the date?”

“It a week from this Friday, at the Savoy. Sorry about the short notice–”

“Taylor’s available. Would you want her?”

What…really?
Taylor Swift
!

“Of course! We’d love it!” Ouch! Forgot, I need to ask: “Um, how much are we talking about?”

“I’ve got to warn you, she doesn’t come cheap.” He hesitates. “She has backup singers–and the band, of course.”

Hopes dashed. I should have known it was too good to be true.

“But because it’s Penny…okay, tell you what: I’ll let her go for, say, fifteen? I’ll tell Taylor it’s a charity gig. Gets her every time. She’s working on some new dance numbers. She can try them out there. You know, impromptu, try it out in front of a small, hungry crowd. She loves doing it that way.”

Yikes! Fifteen thousand is our prom budget for the next twenty years…

Then again, it
is
Taylor Swift.

And it was Penelope’s idea.

“No problem, I’ll send a check by courier, first thing tomorrow,” I promise him.

He grunts before hanging up.

When I call Penelope with the good news, she practically crows. “I told you he’d come through,” she declares smugly.
 

It’s nice to have one thing work my way.

“And, don’t forget, you’ve got a meeting with the palm reader in half an hour. The kids eat this kind of stuff up,” Penelope assures me. She must guess I find her claim hard to swallow, because she then quickly adds, “And besides, a few diversions will keep their pea brains off more puerile activities.”

The memory of Morton’s chest-high handiwork is reason enough to keep the joint hopping with as many bells and whistles as possible.

A half-hour later, I’m knocking on the door of someone who goes by the name of Madame Zenobia. I must have rung the doorbell a million times when, finally, she answers the door.

Madame Zenobia is a tall woman in her late fifties. Her stark-white widow’s peak is in sharp contrast to the raven-hued hair falling loosely down her back.

In other words, she certainly looks the part of a gypsy hag.

I’m taken aback that she is hastily tying a black silk kimono at her waist. Is she just getting out of bed? In any case, obviously, she forgot we had an appointment. Even if she can read the future, her skills for remembering the present are sorely lacking.
 

“Mrs. Stone, is it? So sorry! I was communing.”

“Ah! With spirits?”

“Nah! Mother Nature. Take a teaspoon a day of Metamucil, your bowels will work like clockwork.” She stands aside to let me in. “Care to join me in the salon?” She ushers me out of the foyer.

When we enter the salon, she takes a turban from a hat rack and slaps it on her head before ushering me over to the circular table in the middle of the room. In front of it, two chairs sit side-by-side.

In the center of the table is a crystal ball. Madame Zenobia takes the chair directly in front of a deck of Tarot cards that sits on a silk kerchief. She sweeps an arm over both objects. “I presume you’ll want a demonstration. By the way, I also read palms, and I’m a hypnotist. Which would you prefer first?”

I point to the cards. “Why don’t we start here?”

“Yes, I presumed it would be your first choice!” She grins grandly. “And what question can I answer for you?”

Now, there’s a question I wasn’t expecting. “Hmmm. Okay…” I take a deep breath. The thing most worrisome to me is not the school dance, but Jack’s mission–not that I’ll say that to a psychic. “A major event is about to take place. I’d like to know how it may affect my life.”

Madame Zenobia’s eyes open wide. “Let’s find out, shall we?” She takes the cards and shuffles them. When she’s finished, she turns to me. “Please cut the cards with your left hand.”

After I do as requested, she takes the right stack and lays it over the left one, then lays them out: the first in the center; the second one, to the first card’s left; the third, centered beneath the first; the fourth, above the first card; then the fifth, sixth, and seventh to the first card’s right side, in that order.

With my nod, she turns over the first card. “Ah! The two lovers–reversed! The event you mentioned has the potential to tear them apart.”

Not good.
However, I hold a poker face. “Go on.”

She flips over the second card. It depicts a devil. “He represents captivity, or bondage. Just out of curiosity, is this event that concerns you an S&M party?”

“Hopefully it won’t turn into one,” I murmur.

“Should you think otherwise, keep my card handy. I excel at such gatherings. Go figure!”
 

She shrugs then turns over the third card. It shows a man in a chariot. “Some interaction during this time will force you to make an important decision.”

“Can you be more specific?”

She snorts. “At the rate Mrs. Bing negotiated?” She knits her fingers over her eyes. “Sorry, things are too cloudy.”

I sigh, but nonetheless I slap a twenty-dollar bill on the table.

“Clarity comes with the next card,” she promises, as she pockets the cash.

Yeah right, we shall see.

As she turns over the lone card on the top row, her eyes grow big. “Ah, the Tower! With whatever decision you make, old allegiances will crumble, and new ones will be built in their place!”
 

“Your statement could mean anything,” I point out to her.

Adamantly, she shakes her head. “Duh! You’re not supposed to take it so literally. The point is to look
inward,
to
draw the true meaning out of yourself!”
 

If I did that, then why would I need you?
 

When she flips over Card Number Five, she gasps.
 

I stare down at it. “What is that, a compass?”

“It’s called the Wheel of Fortune. It portends that this event will change your destiny for good, one way or another.”

My destiny will be decided on that night?
It’s unmitigated malarkey! She doesn’t know what she’s saying…

Then why the hell am I so scared?

Card Six depicts a king on a throne. In one hand, he holds a sword. In the other are the scales of justice. Madame Zenobia’s caterpillar brows arch into bat’s wings. “It’s the card of judgment. Unfortunately, it’s reversed.”

“Why is that bad?”

She shrugs. “Depends. Let me put it this way. If you get stopped for speeding, don’t expect to beat the ticket.”

She doesn’t know it, but much more is at stake. Will whoever commits the crime get away with murder?

The final card, Number Seven, is also reversed. It shows the World.

Madame Zenobia sighs mightily.
 

“What?” I implore her. “What do you see?”

“It ain’t pretty. Whatever you’re planning, don’t expect it to be a cakewalk.”

Noting that the color has left my face, she picks up my hand and turns it palm up.
 
“Maybe we’ll have better luck with this,” she promises.

She spoke too soon. She winces as she looks at my lifeline, then asks, “Are you in charge of paying my fee?”

I nod.

“If you don’t mind, I’d like to get paid in advance–you know, just in case.”

Despite being insulted, I write out a check in her fee amount and hand it to her.

As she walks me out the door, she has one more word of advice: “Don’t buy any green bananas. You may not be around long enough to enjoy them.”

Chapter 11

Last Minute Cancellations

It’s inevitable that some of the invitees to your party will try to bow out at the very last minute. It’s your party, but no need to cry, even when you wanna. Here’s what you do instead:

1: Lay on the guilt trip. Tell them that you’ve made their favorite dish. Remind them that you haven’t seen them in too long. Lie about inviting someone who you know they’re gaga to meet. Sure, they’ll be disappointed when their crush is a no-show–even more so when they discover he was at the party they missed.

2: Invite your B-List: Yes, I know–the reason they’re so far down the totem pole is that they aren’t the scintillating conversationalists of those who have cancelled. Then again, maybe this time they’ll surprise you by keeping their feet out of their mouths. Wishful thinking, I know. That being said, if the faux pas fly, send them on an emergency errand–one that takes them out of the house, and out of your hair until the party’s over.

3: Beg your A-Listers to reconsider. If the reason for bowing out was the lack of a babysitter, hire one for them. (Just don’t tell them that you picked the sitter up where all the local streetwalkers hang out. Oops!) If they’re passing because they’ve gotten a better offer, guilt them with your tears. If that doesn’t persuade them, perhaps it’s time to go after the competition. It’s hard to throw a party when your house has burned down. Molotov cocktail, anyone?
 

Tally Lloyd walks with purpose. Be it her ramrod straight posture, her take-no-prisoners poise, her long, lush mahogany brown hair or her honeyed Southern drawl, everything about her commands your attention.
 

Abu is more than impressed with the ease in which she converses with him in three of the Arabic dialects used commonly in Pakistan, Afghanistan and Iraq, as well as the languages of Urdu and Farsi. Arnie is happy that she’s already up to date on all the Pentagon-approved tech programs, and can clue him in to what Acme can do to get a foothold into the DOD’s various agencies based on our own tech gadgets and expertise. Her assault weapon marksmanship scores easily rival those of Acme’s exterminators. To top it off, Dr. Bellows is pleased that Tally’s psychological tests show no phobias, disorders or psychoses.
 

And everyone is having a blast hearing her and Acme’s pilot, George Taylor, swap dogfight stories.
 

In fact, Dominic is so smitten with her that he offers to be her assaulter for the martial arts test.

“She’ll whip your ass,” I warn him. “It’s not as if she’s one of your fawning Dominic-imbos.”

He winces at the reference to his Spooklandia fan club members, but his comeback has me smarting, too: “Perhaps you should stay away from this one, old girl–at least until tomorrow. Wouldn’t it be nice to break the curse put upon you by whatever gypsy you’ve offended?”

He is the only one being offensive. To make this point, I poke him hard in the gut with my elbow. “I’m glad you lost your wager.”

“If I take her home tonight, I’ll be happy I did too,” he gasps.

While Acme’s martial arts instructor is putting Tally through her paces (or I should say, while she’s putting Dominic through his), I head to Acme’s rooftop deck–the one place I can make a call to Lee Chiffray without being overheard.