Recipes for Disaster (24 page)

If today goes well, my journey is over. Like Dorothy and her little dog, Toto, I’ve clicked my heels and come home to my Kansas: this nondescript campus of glass office buildings, somewhere over the 405.

I spot Jack standing by Arnie’s cubicle. When he sees me, his eyes open wide. I would have expected a welcoming smile. Instead, a frown tugs at his lips. His eyes shift toward Ryan’s door, as if he’s afraid my mere presence there will cause the world to implode. Little does he know, it has finally righted itself. 

They love me! They really, really love me! 

I’m dying to hear what mission Ryan has lined up for me—

Who’s that in Ryan’s office with him?

Oh … Hell. 
Army Major Blake Reynolds
. 

Well, at least he’s alone. Whenever he comes looking for me, it’s usually with a SEAL team unit because Carl left Reynolds with the impression that I’d helped him escape from Gitmo. 

Okay, maybe the fact that Reynolds found me sunning (make that burning) myself on Musha Cay with 10 six-inch bricks of Euros strewn on the bed of my sumptuous villa led him to jump to the wrong conclusion. Go figure. 

“Donna! So glad you could join us!” Ryan acts as if we’re at a garden party, not another of Reynolds’ Gestapo-worthy interrogations. “You remember Major Reynolds, don’t you?”

“Forget the man who perp-walked me out my front door? Never,” I mutter. “By the way, Major Reynolds, I’m sending you the bill for my ruined flower beds. Your SWAT team isn’t very light in their loafers.” 

“They wear jack boots. It goes with the territory.” He shrugs. “You have an uncanny ability of showing up in the most unusual places, Mrs. Stone. The latest example is a doozy. How is it that you ended up in the room where Presidential Candidate Martin’s husband’s assassin was hiding?”

“I’ve already explained that—several times, in fact. I was the first one to get there before the assassin could take down his target.”

"And your presence there was unsanctioned, too,” he prods.

I feel myself blushing. “Yes, okay, I’ve already admitted to that. It’s why I’m currently on suspension, remember?”

“If that’s the case, you failed miserably.”

“Tell me about it,” I mutter. The sad look on Ryan’s face makes me want to cry, but I hold back my tears. “You don’t need to remind me. Robert Martin was an old and dear friend.”

“Yes, that’s what I’ve heard,” Reynolds says solemnly. “And it certainly fits with the information given to us by the presidential candidate.”

I look from him to Ryan and back again. “What exactly are you talking about?”

“Candidate Martin mentioned your relationship with the deceased—and with her, as well.” He shakes his head, as if grieved. “She blames herself for allowing you on her security squad. She never dreamed that you’d still hold a grudge, more than twenty years later, because she stole your high school sweetheart.”

“
My
 high school sweetheart? Is that what CeeCee said? Bobby was her boyfriend, not mine!”

Reynolds can’t hide his smirk. “Did that upset you?”

“Yes! … I mean, no! It was a silly little crush on an older boy. No more.”

“So when you pulled the trigger, were you aiming at the woman who stole the one you thought you loved, or at the guy who spurned you?”

“Are you crazy? You’ve been reading too many young adult novels, Blake. Better go back to your law journals, or porn mags, or whatever it is that titillates you. I’ve had enough of this malarkey.” I head for the door.

“The investigative reports that land on my desk are intriguing enough for me. For example, your fingerprints are on the murder weapon, Mrs. Stone. Not only that, the security cam footage blows your claim to smithereens that an assassin was with you in the tech room, or that he may have slipped out of the Hollywood & Highland Center through a back exit door. In fact, the only person on camera going into the tech room is you.”

I shake my head. “All that means is that he deleted any footage in which he appears.” I think for a moment. “What about the security stream in the tech room itself?”

He shakes his head. “There wasn’t any.”

“Since every nook and cranny in the place is covered, don’t you find that just a little bit odd?”

“Yeah, okay, I grant you that.” He shrugs. “But when I weigh that little anomaly against the word of someone who has ongoing dealings with known terrorists—”

“You’re bringing up Carl—again?” I shake my head in disbelief. “I took Carl out myself, Blake—unless there’s something you know that I don’t.”

“Yeah, sure, whatever you say.” He smirks. “Just like you insist that your feelings for Bobby Martin died long ago.”

Realizing I can’t hide the pain I feel whenever I hear Bobby’s name, I turn my head down. I am now looking down at my feet. 

The seams of my stockings are crooked.

Story of my life.

“Right now, you’re our lead suspect in an ongoing investigation,” Reynolds informs me. “Despite Mr. Clancy’s insistence on vouching for your motive for being there, I must warn you that any attempt to leave the country will be seen as an admission of guilt. You will be tracked down as a terrorist, and as a threat to national security. In the meantime, should you come within even a mile of Presidential Candidate Martin, her security detail has orders to shoot to kill.”

I dismiss his concern with a wave. “No need to worry. I have no desire to see CeeCee Martin again, in my life. As for leaving the country, I’ll be around as long as Robert’s killer is still at large.”

Someone has to track him down.

I look forward to proving Reynolds wrong, yet again.

Chapter 18

Dark Horse

A little-known candidate who is considered a long-shot in winning an election is called a “dark horse.” The term, which dates back as far as 1842, originated in the horseracing profession. 

There may have been a few times in your life when you were the dark horse. For example, you may have thought you lost the adoring affections of some man to another, only to have him circle around again. Or you may have arrived late to your airline gate. But instead of giving your seat away, they upgraded you to first class.

In either case, you’re the winner.

The lesson here: the race isn’t over until it’s over.

Another lesson: there are different recipes for horseradish. This one adds a tang, and a little color:

Dark Horseradish Recipe

(From Alexa Tierney, Louisville, Kentucky)

Ingredients

1 cup peeled and cubed horseradish root

2 teaspoons white sugar

3/4 cup dark infused vinegar

Salt to taste

Directions

1: In an electric food processor or blender, process horseradish root, vinegar, sugar and salt.

2: Carefully remove the cover of the processor or blender, keeping your face away from the container. Cover and store the horseradish in the refrigerator.

“How was your day, honey?” The tone of Jack’s voice is even more effervescent than the splash of tonic in my now thrice nightly vodka tumbler. 

He asks out of courtesy. We both know I am bored almost to tears. 

While he’s off making the world a safer place, I’m relegated to the role of just another housewife in the OC. 

Yep, it’s official. My services at Acme Industries are no longer required—

Thanks to November’s landslide victory for the ticket of Martin and Chiffray.

Perhaps changing their slogan from “Government: Pay Off!” to “Government Secure and Successful” had something to do with it. More than likely, the voting public hasn’t yet figured out that “secure” is short for “more spying on everyone” and that the word “successful” only describes those lucky enough to secure the government contracts to do the spying on the rest of us.

It’s been two months since the election. While there has been no further word from Major Reynolds of any impending arrest, it’s no secret that I, for one, am under constant surveillance. Anything can and will be used against me—albeit not necessarily in a court of law. Gitmo isn’t co-ed yet, but Catherine will see to it that I’m the exception to that rule.

I’ll admit it, orange does nothing for my complexion, so I plan on behaving myself. Maybe there’s no better time than now to convince Jack to move the whole family to Paris. From what I hear, the French don’t like to be wiretapped any more than I do.

My guess is siccing Reynolds on me was CeeCee’s way of punishing me for deleting her computer’s personal files. Hey, I know better than anyone that there is nothing more dangerous than a woman shorn of her famous apple pie recipe. 

She’ll survive.

In the meantime, Ryan has informed me that my employment is terminated. If anything, he’s honest as to why. “Sorry Donna. Our biggest clients are POTUS, the CIA, the NSA, and the DOJ, in that order.”

Realizing I’m in need of some TLC, Jack pulls me into his lap. “You can’t just wallow away in a bottle of vodka. What do other ladies of leisure do?”

I laugh through my tears. “They do just that—wallow. Okay, maybe the libation of choice is vodka. Unless you mean I should make a pass at the neighborhood DILF.”

“You’ve already won my heart.”

“I’ve always appreciated your modesty.”

“And I’m always in awe of your tenacity. Perhaps it’s time you took up a hobby—something that matches your many excellent skill sets.”

“That being, spycraft and assassinations?”

He sighs and pours a drink for himself—a double. “I was thinking more along the lines of baking, or crafts. You know, take time to have a little fun!” He thinks for a moment. “Here’s an idea! Why not offer to plan Dominic’s housewarming party for him?”

“Good thinking! If there’s one thing I do well it’s throw a stellar soirée. But Dominic isn’t exactly talking to me these days.”

Jack raises a brow. “Don’t leave me in suspense.”

“Truth is, I’ve been banned from Chateau Fleming because I … well, I broke in last week, and re-arranged the furniture.”

Jack’s brows come together, perplexed. “That’s easy to spin. You were, I don’t know, testing his security system. And no doubt his bachelor pad could use a woman’s touch.”

“I thought so, too—in all thirty-four rooms, in fact.” Yes, I am that bored. “But apparently my kindness left him somewhat disgruntled.” 

Seeing the look on Jack’s face, I stutter, “Okay, maybe I lost something he was particularly enamored with—a life-size portrait of Princess Catherine! Did you know he still calls her ‘Waity Katie?’ Perhaps it’s a good thing I’ve forgotten where I put it, considering that ship sailed long ago.” 

“I’ll do what I can to work around it.” He winces. “So that I’m fully prepared before I enter the lion’s den, can you think of any other reason he may consider you 
persona non grata
?”

I shrug. “And I guess he didn’t like the fact that I changed the workout grotto into a real torture chamber. But hey, it’s Dominic. As if listening to his jokes isn't torture enough, right? Other than that, I’m sure he’ll come to his senses soon and realize I’m the right gal for the job.”

Jack snaps his fingers. "Oh, by the way, Arnie found out that Penelope's volunteer wheel was in fact rigged."

"I knew it!" I slam my martini glass on the table.

"So, are you going to quit?"

"Heck no. Being the lunchroom lady is one of the few reasons I have to leave the house these days."

Jack frowns. “Since you're spending so much time at home, why not ingratiate yourself to Penelope and her coven by throwing a party here? After your gracious intervention with Cheever’s election scandal, she needs another reason to hate you. Your party platters always get raves. Certainly that’ll do the trick.”

I hold both arms in front of me, palms up. “Let me see—” I lower the right one, just slightly. “I can make Penelope jealous—” I lower the left one, practically to my thigh. “Or I can exterminate a third-world dictator who orders the genocide of his country’s indigenous people while he hits the poker tables in Vegas. A weighty dilemma if there ever was one.”

“Okay, I’ll admit it. Acme could have used your help in getting to that target. Ryan realizes it, too. But Donna, in this political climate—” 

“Trust me, I get it, Jack. The president-elect is looking for any excuse necessary to cut Acme out of the picture.”

“Ryan thinks it’s a matter of biding our time.” Jack has always been great at spin. 

“Are you saying you’re optimistic that I’ll be able to shake the DOJ’s surveillance sometime in the near future?”

He winces. 

Thought so. We both know the reality of the situation: Catherine Connelly Martin may be running the country for eight years.

Ergo, I’m as good as retired.

“I wanted to walk away from this profession on my own terms, not those dictated by Catherine. She won’t keep me from doing my job. I’m here to stay, and here to play,” I declare loudly and proudly. “If need be, I will bide my time.” 

That alone is excuse enough for Jack to take another gulp, this time straight from the bottle. Then he passes it to me, and I do the same.