The Housewife Assassin's Handbook (16 page)

“I’ve been dying to meet you, too,” murmurs Midge Kelsey.

“I guess Rave-On gives us a wonderful excuse to get to know each other.” I’m grinning so widely that I’m sure I look like a lunatic. “Mind if I come in?”

“Not at all!” Midge opens the door wide.

The Kelseys’ home is done up in shades of beige and beiger. There are just a few pictures scattered around: of just her and Dave, a burly guy, balding, and a gap-tooth smile.

Strange. Particularly if, as Patty insisted, they have a teenage boy.

I perch on the Ethan Allen divan while Midge saunters into the kitchen for a pitcher of ice tea, and according to her, “the best chocolate cake you’ll ever put in your mouth.”

I’m tempted to ask her for a vodka martini instead. She’s my sixth house call today. Thus far the Badgley’s poodle has humped my leg, I broke up a fight between the Mortons, and the Callahans’ sick toddler sneezed in my face while I was cooing at him.

Yes, they can all be eliminated as suspects.

No, they had nothing to divulge that sounded suspicious about their neighbors on our hot list.

To top it off, I’ve only made nineteen dollars in commission. Maybe I should get an ice cream truck instead.

I’m still contemplating the long-term repercussions that career move may have on my figure when I realize Midge has complimented Jack, “—a marvelous golfer! Dave met him just the other day. You two make such a cute couple. How did you meet?”

The question throws me for a loop. In my mind, I still can’t reconcile Jack in the role of Carl.

No, he will never be Carl. No one can.

“We met in my last year of college.” I can hear my voice shake. “It was love at first sight.” I steady my voice before adding, “Three children later, and we’re still here, so I guess it’s a match made in heaven.” Or something. A Black Ops manual, perhaps. “How about you?”

“We met in school, too.”

“You have a son, don’t you?”

Midge falters just a bit. “Yes.”

She cuts the cake, but says nothing else. 

That’s it?

Her way of changing the subject is to point to my hatbox. “My, how pretty! What goodies have you brought with you?”

I take the hint, and go through my spiel. After ten minutes of oohing and ahhing over my samples, she buys a trove of them: sixty dollars, in fact.

It is her way of getting rid of me.

I’m about to offer her the bugged sample when her husband, Dave, opens the front door. He’s a large, balding man with sad dark eyes. He gives my hand a vigorous pumping, but in a serious voice, says to Midge, “Honey, if we want to get to the cemetery before the afternoon rush hour, we better leave now.”

She murmurs goodbye to me and leaves the room.

As I stare after her, he whispers, “To visit our son. He died last year, in a car wreck.”

Well, that explains her behavior.

I can’t blame her for lying to Patty. If I had lost a child, I too would have found it hard to tell a perfect stranger. It is certainly no way to sum up a life, let alone a love. 

I know this firsthand.

When I get into the car, I cross the Kelseys off the list of suspects.

Well, at least I didn’t have a reason to plant one of Acme’s precious bugs in their house. 

Chapter 9

Dressed to Kill

A wife should always look her best for her husband. Granted, sexy dresses make it so difficult to hide a weapon! You can’t exactly strap a Magnum to your sparkly belt or an AK-47 over your shoulder as if it were a pashmina.

Helpful Hint: Some Berettas are compact enough to fit into even the smallest evening clutch. For example, the Tomcat is only five inches long, and yet it packs quite a punch! And in a really tight squeeze, there’s always the folding stiletto. (Down to three inches! Fits into most hollow-heeled Louboutins.)

“Mom! Mom, wake up! We’re late for school!” Mary’s voice comes to me through a fog of bad dreams, a pounding head, and mucus congestion.

I groan and roll over. Try as I might, I can’t open my eyes. They are crusted over. Maybe that’s a good thing, since opening them will mean seeing what I already hear from the digital clock, which is droning its Bad Mommy wail. 

We are sooo late.

“Um… I’ll be up in a minute.” Even as I say this I realize I’m too woozy to sit up. If I do, I may upchuck all over the floor.

I have some kind of crud, thanks to a Rave-On stop at the Callahan’s house. Bitsy Callahan’s toddler nephew hadn’t quite gotten over his cold. Of course she waited to tell the Nice Lipstick Lady only after I picked him up.

I feel Mary’s hands gently pushing me back down onto my bed. “Mom, Jeff is asking Dad to drive us, so don’t worry.”

Dad.

I still find it hard to hear how easy the children have transferred their affection for Carl to Jack. My guilt over this is enough to propel me off the bed—

And into Jack’s arms.

“Whoa, cowgirl! Didn’t you hear the little lady? I’ve got everything under control. Here, gulp this down.”

His words are lighthearted, but by the tone of his voice, I know he means business. What’s the use of struggling? 

Besides, I’m parched from my fever. So I take a sip. It goes down smooth: lemon, honey, some thyme.

 As I go limp, I feel him move me back onto the bed. The blanket goes around me, but I’m still shivering, from chills and fever—

Or is it his touch?

Something is stirring, here in my bedroom.

I’m still woozy, but my fever has broken. Instinctively I pry open my eyes—

There he is: tall, dark, and those large deep-set eyes so sad, just as I remember him. He sits there with his laptop, unaware that I am awake; that I need him, want to hold him in my arms—

“Carl…” My voice sounds so far away.

My whisper has garnered his attention. He puts down his laptop and leans forward—

The haze clouding my eyes drifts away. The man I see before me is not Carl.

It’s Jack.

I turn my head toward the wall. This moment of weakness leaves me ashamed.

He doesn’t say a word. Not the usual jibing taunt, nothing.

It takes me a few moments to pull it together. Finally when I do, I turn back toward him, with a smile. “Thanks for covering the kids, Jack.”

“No problem at all. They’re a delight. Mary made the lunches while Jeff made Trisha’s breakfast. I checked their homework—”

His façade of nonchalance cracks when he sees the tear of pride rolling down my face. His hand reaches for mine. When our fingers touch, the heat I feel from him makes my heart beat faster. “You’re so lucky to have them in your life, Donna.”

“I know that.” My voice breaks. “It’s why I do … well, you know what we do.”

He nods as if his head is weighted down by all the evil in the world.

All the evil in Los Angeles, anyway.

It’s then that I realize that I know nothing about him. Sure, he is a legend on the spook loops. But we are all more than the sum parts of our missions.

The greatest collateral damage is our emotional psyche.

“I owe you.” Do I sound flippant? For once, I hope not, because truly, I mean it.

A grin settles on his face. “I think so, too. And I know just how you can settle up.”

Oh, no, here it comes.

He’s a pro, all right. He plucks at a woman’s heartstrings the way Yo-Yo Ma strums a cello. Though my hand tenses under his, he holds onto it, firmly. If he tries something stupid, he’s a dead man. There is a reason I have a stiletto strapped to the back of my bedpost—

“When you’re feeling up to it, let me take you out to dinner. You know, an adult night out.”

“That’s it? Just—dinner?”

Perplexed, his eyebrows mesh. “Sure. No shop talk, just two people getting to know each other. Frankly, I really don’t know all that much about you, and sometimes I get tired of all the pretending as if I do. It would be great to just … talk.”

I know what you mean.

But that’s not what I say to him. Instead, I nod. “I’m sure Emma won’t mind hanging with the kids for one night. And I’m already feeling better. I don’t know what you gave me, but it certainly did the trick.”

“It’s an old family recipe. Works every time.” Hesitantly, he releases my hand.

Why am I missing his touch?

He’s not Carl, I remind myself. No one will ever be Carl…

But he’s not offering me that. He’s only offering friendship.

Yes, that is what I so desperately need: a friend.

“Why don’t we shoot for the day after tomorrow?” I pull the blanket up to my chin.

“Perfect. Then it’s a date.”

I blush at the thought.  Here’s hoping he thinks it’s the last vestiges of my fever.

I should be out hustling some Rave-On.

Instead I’m standing in front of a rack of on-sale designer dresses in Hilldale Mall’s Nordstrom. I know it’s stupid, but I’d like something new to wear tomorrow night, on my date—

I mean, my get-together—with Jack.

Because that’s all we’re doing: getting together.

And not in the Biblical sense, either.

It’s just for a quick bite, maybe a drink or two…

“Go with the pink one. You’ll look fabulous.” 

I recognize the voice behind me: it’s Midge Kelsey.

She has three frocks flung over her arm. Her husband, Dave, is standing by the entry of the dressing room lounge. He is holding another five dresses for her. He waves warmly at me. “Why hello, neighbor! Fancy meeting you here.”

Unlike some guys, he doesn’t seem at all uncomfortable in the couture department. The closeness between them is an endearing trait. I wonder if Carl and I would have been that close, had he lived. I’d like to think so.

Then again, he had so much to hide.

I return a broad wave. “Great sale, isn’t it?”

He shrugs skeptically. “Even so, it always shocks me what clothing manufacturers can get away with. One of these little flimsy nothings costs more than a man’s suit.”

I nod and laugh as I move past him into the dressing room with my pick: the hot pink it is.

The stall I choose is far in the back. All the rooms are large. The door is mirrored, as are the walls, which must be as thick as they look, for the place is as quiet as a tomb. They are studded with ornate hooks that can hold as many dresses as your bank account can spare.