The Housewife Assassin's Guide to Gracious Killing (9 page)

In order to kill the next couple of hours, I am tempted to stick my head in the pitcher of mojitos, but I’m stopped by the buzz of my cell phone. It’s a text message from Emma:

Time 2 take out trash! UK hardy OK poolside at HD 4Seas!

In other words, there has been a confirmed sighting of one of Asimov’s possible assassins. The Ukrainian hard man known as Oleksaner Kovalenko has officially been spotted in Hilldale, and he’s hanging at the Four Seasons. Should he die of natural (or for that matter, any) causes, no one would blink an eye.

That’s where I come in. I’m his designated angel of death.

“So sorry, family emergency,” I say to my tablemates. They toast my luck in having the only excuse to leave in which Penelope must forgive.

I give the same excuse to Babette, murmuring in her ear, “It’s Jeff. He forgot to take his basketball uniform to school. I’ll be back before this is over. I promise.”

“And if she’s not, we’ll be happy to give you a lift home,” Hayley offers breathlessly.

Babette winces. I’m leaving her with a den of wolves, and she knows it.

That’s okay. If I don’t accomplish my mission, she’ll have a bigger reason to be disappointed in me.

Arnie has no trouble breaking into the Four Seasons’ reservation software. The security feed, which shows Oleksaner going to his room on the second floor near the back exit, allows Acme to determine his room number and the alias with which he signed in.

James Bond.

In his dreams.

The employee locker room in the Four Seasons is easy to find. What I’m looking for are the uniforms worn by the cocktail waitresses who serve the patrons sitting poolside. I find one. It’s short, sweet, and nautically themed. I put the hat at a jaunty angle on top of my short, blond wig, leave on my very tall heels, and head toward the sun and fun.

It’s a good thing he’s decided to catch a few rays. Otherwise, his pasty complexion would stand out during the summit, since most of the power players attending will be sporting golfing tans. 

Oleksaner is easy to spot. Like most men from anywhere else but the United States (excluding the US Olympic Swim and Rowing teams) he’s in a Speedo. It’s so tight that I am reminded of a two-pound salami in a one-pound bag. Okay, make that a half-pound of salami in a quarter-pound bag. They say most hit men have something to prove. I think I can guess Oleksaner’s hang-up. 

Since he’s just gotten out of the pool, he can always claim shrinkage, but his waitress isn’t buying it. She shrugs when he tosses out a come-on line with his drink order.

I watch as the bartender mixes his drink: a whisky sour. Perfect. He’ll never taste the concentrated aconite I’ll add to it from my pinky ring. This plant-based poison hits its victims like a heart attack. 

When the bartender turns to take care of three more orders, I make my move. The setting on my ring is flipped palm-side, allowing me to snap it open with my thumb and release the poison even as I saunter over to Oleksaner, who is scoping out the poolside cuties. 

But just as I’m about to set his drink on the table beside his chaise, he lowers mirrored Ray-Bans to give me the once-over. “What happened to other girl?” His Slavic snarl doesn’t mask his suspicion.

“She got a headache, and I’m looking for tips.” To make my point, I bend down provocatively and squeeze my cleavage so that it practically bulges out of my uniform’s tight sailor top. 

He slips a fiver between my breasts. 

Wait a minute! I let him cop a feel, and I don’t even get enough tip money to get my car out of the Four Season’s parking lot? What a cheapskate.

I don’t give him a backward glance when I hear him gurgling his last breath.

By the time the hotel staff figures out he’s not sleeping, he should be nice and tan.

Lucky me, I make it back to the Hilldale Women’s Club just as the luncheon is breaking up. Penelope glowers at me. I guess she was hoping I wouldn’t make it back in time, and she’d have the chance to see Lion’s Lair up close. Well, too bad. All I need is for her to barge in, what with all the chaos that may ensue.

For some reason, the whole room is giving Babette a standing ovation. Seeing me, Babette walks over and gives me a hug.

“You were right! They really aren’t so bad,” she seems relieved.

“What just happened,” I shout to her over the clapping.

“Oh, nothing, really. I just invited everyone to President Asimov’s welcoming reception. Jonah likes a packed house, especially when it’s filled with fawning female acolytes.”

“Wow, that’s… great.” Yep, it’s just what Breck needs. 

And just what I need, a roomful of witnesses who can identify me, if and when I have to take out a baddie. 

Unless I can talk her into making the event a masked ball. Now, there’s a thought.

Pleased the luncheon was more air kisses than unsheathed claws, Babette says, "You and Trisha are welcomed to accompany your husband through the duration of the summit. Jonah is so appreciative you've taken me under your wing. Please say yes."

She’s more right than she knows. 

Still, the way she says this gives me the creeps. I’m not some prize. 

Not for Jonah Breck, anyway.

Certainly Babette’s invitation, coupled with Oleksaner Kovalenko’s sudden demise, will put me back in Ryan’s good graces. But the intel Emma is collecting still has him worried. The Russian dissident and Chechen assassin are still out there somewhere, and it’s odd to have all three after the same target. 

Something's just not right.

Chapter 8

How to Keep a Sleepover from Being a Yawn

Popularity has its price: you are wanted and fêted at all hours of the day and night! When invited to a sleepover, be sure to pack all the essentials: jammies and slippers, toothbrush and toothpaste, face cream and night mask, shampoo and hot iron.

And most importantly, a plastic mattress cover and stun gun. By covering the mattress, you’ll stop any unwanted critters from hopping onto you. However, should the critter be human, stun first, ask questions later, and conveniently remove in the plastic bag. Remember to zip it good and tight!
 

“If it’s okay with Aunt Phyllis, can Cheever and Morton stay over on the first night you and Dad and Trisha are at that big shindig up the hill?” Jeff’s question is delivered with his secret weapon: puppy dog eyes.

He looks just like Carl does—I mean did—after we had sex.

How can I say no to him?

The least I can do is try. The last thing Aunt Phyllis needs while babysitting Mary and Jeff is two more ten-year-old boys raising all sorts of hell around the house.

I shake my head. “ No. Absolutely not.” 

“But, Mom, why not?” Jeff whines. “Trisha will be gone, too, so it shouldn’t be any trouble for Aunt Phyllis.”

“I’m sure Aunt Phyllis will welcome more bonding time with you and Mary.”

Aunt Phyllis shrugs. “Nah, I’ll be bored out of my gourd. All Mary does is yap on her cell phone. Besides, how many times can I whup Jeff at Diablo III?”

Jeff winces when he hears that. “Oh yeah? Well, I bet you can’t beat Morton.”

A devious smile lights up Aunt Phyllis’s face. “You’re on. In fact, I’ll bet a five note, from each of you.”

I’m outnumbered again. No surprise there.

This turn in the conversation is enough to tear Mary away from her ceaseless texting. “If Jeff is having a sleepover, can I have one, too?”

I shake my head adamantly “No! Absolutely, positively not!”

“Jeff gets to have his dweeby friends over, and I can’t? Dad, please tell Mom she’s not being fair!”

Jack looks up from his computer. He’s been trying to bone up on the latest catchphrases being tossed around by the international financial community. Last night he tried a few of them on me. I got him to stop when I pointed out that terms like “financial repression” and “quantitative easing” weren’t exactly the kind of naughty talk that put me in the mood. To minimize any risk to hot hanky-panky, he quickly shut his yap, and instead we engaged in some high-frequency trading of kisses and foreplay maneuvers. In no time at all, the velocity of interconnection between us led to a thorough and fully satisfying systematic inclusion, which left us both panting. 

“Now, that was one insider trading violation,” I gasped.

I guess I’m picking up some of the lingo after all. Pays to stay after school with teacher.

Until teacher sells you out. 

“What… a sleepover? I don’t mind, Mary, honey—if it’s okay with Aunt Phyllis, of course.”

Aunt Phyllis gives Jack a thumbs-up. “Sure, the more, the merrier!”

I give up. Time to pack my overnight bag.

As I walk past him, Jack murmurs in my ear, “Hey, I don’t know about you, but I could use a little hyperinflation.” 

I wave him off as I head toward the stairs. “After that selloff? Dream on.” 

By the time we get to Lion’s Lair, already twenty of the twenty-two heads of state have arrived, as well as CEOs of the five largest international media conglomerates, and representatives from eight of the world’s largest financial institutions.

POTUS won’t be arriving for another three days, whereas Asimov’s helicopter will be here any moment now. Everyone is getting ready for the black-tie dinner to welcome him.

Hopefully, the other two assassins won’t also be in attendance.

The sooner we find out where they are, the better. Arnie has been able to download the summit’s guest room manifest. Audio bugs are in the floral bouquets that have been placed in the rooms of guests who are staffers of the heads of state. Despite the guards’ face-to-eye scan vetting of all guests, vendors and staff, Acme’s facial photographic analysis software has yet to make a match to the visages of the two hard men still on the loose. 

The Breck’s au pair, Antoinette, immediately takes Trisha in hand. As far as Trisha is concerned, she’s in My Little Pony heaven. For the next few days, we’ll be just an afterthought.

How convenient. Our bedroom suite is on the same floor and wing as Breck’s master bedroom and  office.  

As I get out of the shower, I notice that Jack is already dressed in his tux. “Considering Asimov lands in less than an hour, if an assassin is here, we don’t have much time to take him out,” Jack says. “I guess I should head downstairs to introduce myself to some guests, and to do some recon.”