The Housewife Assassin's Killer Christmas Tips (20 page)

 Remember, it is a time to break bread, not crack heads. Bury the hatchet during this joyous and peaceful meal.

Just don’t bury it in someone’s back.

“Here, take a sample of my newest flavor,” Abu says. “I call it ‘lemon coconut.’ Not exactly original, but I’m not Sprinkles or Martha Stewart. I’m a zookeeper. Just look at these animals!”

He’s not kidding. His line of hungry customers wraps nearly around the block.

As I’d predicted, the cupcake truck has been a big hit in the neighborhood. No need to exert energy to get your four o’clock sugar fix when it can come directly to you, right?

“Yum! Lemon coconut?” asks the ever-nosy Cheever. “Hey, how come that one’s not on the menu board?”

Abu frowns down at him from his window. “What, you want another? Jeez, kid, you’ve already had four—and none of them were the vegan ones. Your mom’s going to kill me.”

“What she doesn’t know won’t hurt her.” Cheever flashes that annoying little smirk of his.

“Well, at least save some for your pals.”

“My money is just as green as anyone else’s, ain’t it?”

Abu shrugs. The kid has a point. “Go ahead, pick your poison,” he finally says.

While Cheever peruses the bakery case, Abu hisses at me, “Don’t eat it. When you jump in the car, pop a finger in the center. And remember that time is of the essence.”

After hopping into the car, I lock the door, although I don’t know why. Like most thirty-something women in SUVs, I’m practically invisible to the outside world. Following Abu’s instructions, I break open the cupcake. Inside, an edible note reads:

Yesterday  plus 11 / Big Bird / Temp Nest / Lily Bart / at home

Deciphered, that means I’m to go to LAX (Big Bird) tomorrow at eleven o’clock (Yesterday plus 11) to the lost suitcase office (temp nest) and pick up some item under the name of Lily Bart, which is one of my fake IDs. I’m then supposed to drop it back at Acme’s office.

Easy enough to do. And the timing is good, because the kids will be in school.

I’m glad to have something to get me out of the house. Otherwise, all I do is lie in bed and cry over Jack. 

And fantasize about ways to torture Carl.

“So,
you’re
Lily Bart?” The lost-and-found clerk says as he stares at me as if I’ve got a third eye in the middle of my forehead.

I tap the photo on my Lily Bart passport with my index finger. “What you see is what you get.”

The woman stares down at it, then back up at me.

I smile innocently. Shit. What did Ryan send me to get, and why am I getting the third degree?

She shakes her head in wonder. “Huh. Well, you were shorter, younger and blonder five minutes ago, when you asked me to hold onto it until you came back from the ladies’ room.”

 “Oh, really? That must have been my sister. We’re twins, just not identical.” I hold my passport next to my face. Obviously I am who I say.”

The clerk shrugs. Giving me grief isn’t worth putting aside
People
magazine’s expose on Honey Boo Boo. She lumbers over to a shelf and pulls down a candy-apple red zip tote with big black buttons. It’s got a lock on it.

Very nice! Kate Spade. I wonder if Ryan will let me keep it, after he removes the brick inside, which makes the thing so damn heavy.

“Hey, there’s your sister now.” The clerk points to a woman coming out of the restroom, who is coming our way—

Until she sees me.

Valentina.

She has a twin of the make-up case on her arm. My guess is that it’s the one I was sent for, which would make this one a decoy.

I’ve always been proud of the fact that no one runs faster in heels than me. Valentina is giving me a chance to prove this theory, as I take off after her.

Los Angeles Airport’s Tom Bradley International Terminal is truly a sight to behold, accommodating over forty airlines whizzing off to dozens of far-flung ports of call.

Valentina’s flight, a Boeing A-320 jet flying non-stop to San Salvador on TACA International Airlines, is in Terminal Two and has almost completed boarding. She jumps line by walking up to the already-boarded first class passenger line. With ticket already in hand, she smiles graciously while she hands it over to the gatekeeper.

But before making her way down the gate’s breezeway, she turns back, spots me in line, and gives a tentative wave.

I wave back with a one-finger salute.

Times a wasting, and the line is much too long. A teary couple near the front of the coach line are clenched in a lip lock. They are too busy to notice the line has inched forward. The woman’s ticket hangs halfway out of her coat pocket, along with her scarf. I snatch both as I saunter in front of them. And no, I don’t feel guilty. If she really wanted to leave him, she wouldn’t let her hand linger on his crotch.

Ah, love.

“
Buenos dias, Senorita Gonzalez
,” says the gate agent who perforates my ticket, leaving me with my stub. I walk past him and down through the gateway, as if I don’t have a care in the world. I wrap the scarf around my head and shoulders, and flip my jacket inside out. It’s not much of a disguise but it will have to do.

Valentina has already taken her seat. She has her head buried in TACA’s in-flight magazine. Every now and then she glances up, but she can’t see me because I’m standing directly behind a guy who could be a linebacker with the New York Jets.

As I pass her, I notice she doesn’t have the bag in her lap, or even under the seat in front of her, which indicates it’s in the baggage compartment above or behind her.

I stop and pop open the two bins nearest her seat. In the bin just behind her I see it: bright red and just begging me to take it. I snatch it and do an about-face, nudging my way past the passengers still inching their way onboard.

“
Perdone, señorita, el avión está a punto de despegar!
Por favor, tome asiento,” a flight attendant declares sternly, pointing down back down the aisle.

I point to the two red bags on my arm. “
Dejé el tercero por ahí! Yo ya vuelvo
,” I plead, indicating that I’ve left another of my bags in the gate area.

“
Pronto, por favor
,” she says, as she shoos me away.

Like many of the passengers, Valentina glances up to see what all the ruckus is about.

Now it’s my turn to wave goodbye with a smile.

Adios, bitch.

Chapter 18

Lawn Mangers

This year, forgo the secular yard tableau of blow-up snowmen and plastic Santa-and-reindeer with blinking red noses. Instead, go with the rarely used lawn manger.

Why? Because this holiday isn’t about shopping, or overeating, or getting upset with your in-laws.

And it’s certainly not about snaring the teenagers who think it’s funny to steal the plastic baby in your manger.

Okay, maybe it is.

That said, three rotating stop-motion security lights, a trip wire tied to an alarm bell, and a Doberman will do the trick just fine.

Here’s hoping they’ll released from Juvie by Christmas eve!

“Well, this is quite a conundrum.” Ryan stares down at the Kate Spade bags. “Two identical cases, holding identical items: bricks wrapped in Saran Wrap, each with a note attached. The paper is from the same ream, and the notes were generated from the same printer. Unfortunately, neither have traceable prints.”

“The only thing different is the coded messages on the notes,” Arnie informs Ryan, Abu, and me. “One of them lists the landing coordinates, flight number and flight manifest of a Boeing 787, which is flying in tomorrow to Orange County’s John Wayne Airport. It’s a junket to thank Arabian Airlines’ CEO, Sheikh Abdul Saeed Bakar, for switching its purchases from Boeing’s competitor’s aircraft, the Airbus 330, to the new Dreamliner 787. Bakar also happens to be a vice president of the United Arab Emirates. Other prominent members of the UAE are also onboard. Many are shareholders in the company’s largest investor group, which is based in Qatar.”

“If they are murdered on US soil, diplomatic relations with the Arab world’s power elite will be at an all-time low,” I say. “And for it to happen on Christmas Eve day, too, would mean all hell breaks loose.”

“Which is why we have to stop it,” Ryan continues. “The message puts the shooter on the back patio of a sandwich shop adjacent to the runway. We’ll have eyes all over the shop’s customers and staff.”

I’m almost afraid to ask, but someone has to. “And the other note?”

Arnie pulls out his encryption. “It’s got the flight information for POTUS’s trip into LAX tomorrow: landing time, coordinates, everything. Before spending time with his wife’s family in Cheviot Hills, he’ll be glad-handing the UAE contingency.”

“Not if their brand new Dreamliner goes up in smoke,” I murmur.

“That’s just it.” Ryan glances at me. “Since we can’t tell the bags apart, we don’t know if the Quorum plans to shoot down the Dreamliner, or Air Force One. They’ve only got one launcher and one rocket, so it’s a fifty-fifty chance either way.”