The Housewife Assassin's Hostage Hosting Tips (Housewife Assassin Series Book 9) (8 page)

Good to know. Should Penelope make me any angrier than I already am, I’ll be testing that claim with all sorts of little tricks that are used at Club Dread.

“Puh-
leeze
, Donna! You know me better than that.” Penelope bats her eyes at warp speed, which causes one of her false lashes to flutter onto her cheek. “If anything, I’ve been making excuses for–I mean,
standing up
for you. Considering all the times the SWAT team has shown up at your place, it hasn’t been easy tamping down the rumors that you abetted a terrorist.” As she pats the lash back into place, she continues, “My gawd, anyone who knows you realizes you’re not some sort of evil mastermind. If anything, you’re naïve when it comes to men.”

“Me–
naïve
?” Suddenly, I look forward to testing the claim that the Savoy suite’s bidet has “Niagara-force cleansing power” by holding Penelope’s head in the bowl for a good four to five minutes.

“Well, duh–
yeah
!” Penelope takes a dainty bite of asparagus. “You marry a man who stays away for so long that half the neighborhood thinks you’ve lied about being married in the first place, and the other half presumes that you’re such a lousy lay that you drove him off.”

“Is that so? And which side did you take?”

“I was in the Runaway Hub Club,” she insists emphatically.

I murmur, “Founding member, I presume.”

Involuntarily, she nods. Suddenly realizing she’s just copped to it, she says defensively, “What else could it be? To start with, you’re not that good of a liar. Secondly, since your kids all look as if they came from the same father, I just assumed he ran away because you were a lousy lay.” She leans in conspiratorially. “But then, when that hunk, Jack Craig, shows up claiming to be him, all bets were off.”

“Sorry we ruined everyone’s fun,” I say dryly.

“Oh, trust me, a whole new betting pool began when the news broke that he wasn’t the elusive Mr. Stone after all. You’ll be happy to learn that no one ever won the pot on that one.”

“What was it for?”

“How long he’d stick around. That’s because none of the bets went beyond the first year.”

The crest of my pinky ring is hollowed out and filled with enough succinylcholine to bring on a fatal heart attack. All I have to do is wave my hand over Penelope’s cup and she’s artisan toast.

I’m still contemplating the odds of the movement being caught on the hotel’s security camera when she adds, “If I haven’t said so before, let me assure you that I appreciate that you’ve taken on this arduous task. No one else had the gumption, and heaven knows, had I lateraled it to either Hayley or Tiffy, it would have been botched for sure.”

“Gee…thanks for saying so.”

“I mean it!” she insists. “I figure that anyone who can juggle two handsome men who both insist they’re her husband–not to mention booty calls with President Chiffray–must be great at time management…or something.” She winks broadly.

“Let me assure you–and by proxy, the rest of Hilldale–that the president and I are merely friends.” Some sleight of hand with the teapot will give me the coverage I need to drop the Sux in her cuppa. “May I pour you some more?”

To my disappointment, she declines my offer with a wave of her hand. “I’ll admit it, Donna, I went overboard in compiling all my notes from past dances, but considering it’s being held here–”

I pause, teapot in hand. “You want the dance to take place here?” I look around at the Savoy’s opulent setting. “But…why?”

Penelope holds her nose. “Who wants to dance in a smelly old gym? My son–that is, our sons, deserve a more fitting setting for their very first prom! Cheever’s new girlfriend, Gabrielle, is sure to be impressed.”

Ah, so that’s why we’re here. Talk about being a helicopter parent.

I drop my teacup back onto its saucer. “Penelope, using the Savoy’s ballroom has got to cost an arm and a leg!”

“You’re wrong about that. The place is so new that right now, they’re begging to have events here,” she declares smugly. “As a matter of fact, I pummeled the hotel manager, Henry Massey, so hard over the contract, he was practically in tears.” She hesitates. “Of course, there are some strings attached.”

“For example?”

Delicately, she glazes a scone with apricot jam. “Well…there is the tiny little issue of thirty guaranteed room rentals.”

I choke on my cupcake. “Even a closet here has to go for, what, four hundred dollars a night?”

She frowns. “Okay, yes, the rack rate starts at five-hundred-and-thirty dollars. But I figure the kids can sleep four to a room–”

“A class sleepover, here at the Savoy? Are you crazy? No way! Not with all those raging hormones!”

She slumps into her tufted throne. “Calm down, Donna. We’re not talking coed dorms. And, of course, there will be an adult chaperone on each floor.”

Adamantly, I shake my head. “I don’t know of a parent who would consent to it!”

“No? If you’d taken the time to open ‘the doorstop,’ as you so caustically call it, you’d discover that last week’s parent survey proves you’re wrong. Or, as one parent wrote, ‘I’ll do anything for one night away from my little pituitary gland in heat.’”
 

“Oh, great. So tell me: have any of the parents volunteered to chaperone?”

She rolls her eyes. “Are you kidding? Unlike you, none of these women are helicopter parents. They want their children to have new experiences–”

Like, say, jumping off balconies, or raiding mini-bars? Or playing Truth or Dare?

“–to spread their wings–”

For the girls, hopefully not their legs, too.

“–and to have the most memorable night of their young lives!”

I’ve no doubt it will be that, and more, especially when the hotel calls the cops and the kids do their very first perp walk.

When she realizes that I’m not buying her malarkey, she shrugs. “Look Donna, some parents will pay through the nose for a night without their kids around. Not only will we earn enough to cover the event’s expenses, we’ll double the PTA’s revenue from last year.”

I nod slowly. Look at it this way: should any of their little scholars pull a fast one, they’ll have me to thank for saving their kid’s ass. It’ll be great to have a few chits to call in.

“It won’t exactly be a cakewalk. For example, we’ll have to keep a very close watch on
die kinder
, what with all the alcohol floating around,” Penelope points out.

“Alcohol? But of course we won’t allow the kids to spike the punch!”

“How quaint, but no one said anything about ‘spiking the punch!’ I’m talking about the minimum amounts of liquor, beer and wine purchases that are written into the contract.”

I wince. “Can the hotel at least leave it in bottles, so that the PTA can resell it?” I’m sure the parents will need a swig or two after they get the bill for damages to the rooms.

She sighs mightily. “Must I ask for everything? I’ll let you negotiate that niggling detail with Henry.” She nods toward the reception desk at a tall, courtly gentleman with a pencil-thin mustache. He’s perhaps in his mid-forties, and buff beneath his custom double-breasted Brioni suit.

Seeing us, he rolls his eyes. Yep, Penelope left a lasting impression.

To sweeten her wave, Penelope adds a wink.
 

Finally he waves back. If anyone got pummeled, it was her. No doubt, she enjoyed every minute of it.

“Seriously, Penelope, maybe it’s not too late to get out of this deal.”

Her eyes narrow like tractor beams. “You’re wrong. Your signature just now was the PTA’s co-signature. We are locked and loaded.”

This new little bombshell makes my trigger finger itchy. To tamp down the urge to reach for my gun, I use the finger to motion her closer. When only she can hear me, I whisper, “You owe me big time for this. And by that, I mean no more innuendoes about my love life. Do you understand, Penelope Bing?”

Maybe it’s the way I hold my head high and proud. Or perhaps it’s the look in my eyes. Or maybe it’s the fact that I’m holding her wrist in such a way that she knows one little move will snap it, like a twig. In any case, she nods and mumbles, “I…promise.”

Slowly, I release her wrist. “Good! Glad we understand each other. I’ll call Henry later this week, to set up an appointment–alone.”
 

She frowns, but at least she knows better than to argue with me.

I hold up one hand and start counting down fingers. “As for chaperones, you and I will be there, so that’s two. I presume Hayley is volunteering, too–”

“Hardly! Do you remember what happened the last time Hayley was around so much alcohol?”

I wince. “The father-daughter dance, two years ago? Actually, it was pot, not alcohol.” I take a closer look at her face. “If it’s any consolation, your eyebrows grew in nicely after the flash fire.”

“Thank you.” The way she’s smiling reminds me of a feral cat. “Still, her substance abuse issues are not something we’ll want to test on the big night.”

“Agreed. Okay then, it’ll be you, me, and Tiffy, of course–”

Penelope frowns. “Fortunately for her, if not for us, she and the mister are taking a much-needed couples getaway. In fact, I recommended Fantasy Island to them.”

I shudder at the thought. It might have been where Penelope got her groove back–with and without her husband, Peter. Still, it would have been far off my bucket list, what with the pygmies and their poison darts and the slave trafficking, the place has bad mojo. Considering that Tiffy’s marriage has more downs than it has ups, a place with less going on is certainly in order.

“At the very least, we can count on Peter,” I insist.

Penelope shakes her head. “Wrong. He claims he’s going hunting with his pals that weekend.”

I’ve seen Peter when he’s on the hunt. It’s usually in a bar, where he can prey on two-legged, large-breasted birds perched on five-inch heels and sipping fruity drinks out of large glasses with tiny umbrellas in them.

“Speaking of husbands, I presume at least one of yours will be here–Jack, for instance?” Penelope practically salivates at the thought.

I shrug. “Lately, he’s been working nights, so we shouldn’t count on it.” She need not know that his dance card might already be filled with whatever terrorists may be on the loose between here and New York.

“‘Working late?’ How…original.” She tries to hide her smirk by munching a sandwich wedge, but we both know what she’s thinking.

Well, she’s wrong. Jack is nothing like Peter. He’s sweet, and loyal and loving and hardworking–

Soon, with a new partner.

I’d drop Sux in Penelope’s tea if it weren’t for the fact that so far she’s the only other chaperone on the big night. Lucky us.
 

Lucky me.

Chapter 6

Entertaining on a Budget

Few of us have a billionaire’s budget for parties, or can write off our parties as business expenses. Just because your own measly bank account falls somewhere between barely there and nonexistent doesn’t mean you can’t show your nearest and dearest a good time. Here’s how to slash your budget without cutting corners:

First, invite others to bring the food. Gauche, you say? Not if you make it part of the fun–say, give a prize for “Best Dessert” or “Best Appetizer” or “Best Main Dish.”
 

Of course, every dish gets a prize–proof yet again that you only hang with winners!

(And for those who show up empty-handed: they are stripped naked, collared, and chained to a wall, where they must beg for scraps from those who followed the rules.)

Next, make your guests the entertainment. Have the one with the best musical taste play deejay. Better yet, invite musicians and singers, and encourage them to jam. Or stage a live reading of a book or play. A good time will be had by all! (And if you’re smart, you’ll charge admission in order to fatten your bank account.)

Last, but not least, make it a no-host bar. Yes, people will actually pay for booze–or they’ll BYOB, in which case, feel free to charge a corkage fee. Cha-CHING!

“Oh, my God, Donna! Blackened salmon sandwiches with fried green tomatoes? And your world famous apricot brandy pound cake? I’m in heaven!” Emma Honeycutt hands me her six-week-old son, Nicky, as she digs into one of the sandwiches with both hands.

Acme’s ComInt manager has been on maternity leave for about six weeks. I came bearing a picnic basket because I figured–correctly, as it turns out–that, by now, the mind-numbing joy of holding her newborn son has finally worn off, and she’s ready for a little adult company.

Don’t get me wrong. Taking care of a newborn baby is no prance through the posies. Nicky–formally christened Nikola Franklin, in homage of two of the world’s greatest technological visionaries, Nikola Tesla and Benjamin Franklin–has just now locked into a sleep pattern that allows his parents a little shut-eye. That being said, a day in which the highlights are breastfeeding, diaper duty, laundry, grocery shopping, and keeping house in the two-bedroom apartment she shares with her betrothed–Acme’s very own Arnie–won’t frazzle a woman who is used to tracking insurgents via satellite surveillance, providing geospatial intel to field agents, and managing Acme’s crack team of cryptologists.