The Housewife Assassin's Handbook (18 page)

Nola.

I jab my finger in Nola’s direction. “You’ve got a visitor, Romeo.”

“Donna, wait! She—she just wants company when she walks her dog—”

“Give me a break, Jack! What do you take me for, an idiot?”

But I am an idiot. I almost cared about him. Worse yet, I thought he cared about me, too.

I don’t know what stuns him more: the punch to the gut or the slap to his face. 

As I jump out of the car, he croaks, “Don’t wait up,” then guns the car down the block, toward the house.

A wide smile breaks open on Nola’s face when she sees him pulling into the driveway. But he’s not there long. She jumps in and they screech off to who knows where.

Now I really do have to walk Lassie.

As for Rin Tin Tin, I hope he pees all over her brand new white carpet. 

Chapter 11

Mattress Testing Tips

A comfortable mattress makes all the difference for a good night’s sleep! The best way to test a mattress is to lay down on it. First on your back, then turning on both sides, and finally on your stomach. If you feel the springs, it’s not a great mattress. If you feel a gun to your head, it’s not a great situation for you to be in—

Unless you’ve hidden a gun under your pillow. Then it’s a fair fight. Slam your opponent with the pillow to get him off-guard. Recycling Tip: any bedding shot through with bullet holes can be cut into squares, making perfectly proportioned cleaning rags!

“Where’s Dad?” asks Jeff.

Mary and Trisha’s eyes shift toward me. Everyone is waiting for my answer.

It better be good, considering that Jack’s been gone for two nights straight.

I’ve noticed that Nola’s house has been dark, too.

I take Jeff’s half-eaten plate of blueberry pancakes and set it in the sink. As hard as it is, I force my lips into a smile. “He’s on a business trip. But he’ll be back soon.”

“Like, today? Because…” Jeff’s voice trails off.

Yes, I know what he’s thinking. He sees Jack as his good luck charm. Since his arrival, they haven’t lost a game, and he’s got another one today.

“He promised to help me with my algebra, too.” Mary’s brow furrows into two tiny lines.  “The test is tomorrow.”

“What if he never comes back?” Trisha asks in a soft whisper.

Only she has the guts to say what they are all really thinking.

I know this, because it’s what I’m thinking, too.

“I’m sure he’ll be home as fast as he can,” I say, as nonchalantly as I can, but I can’t hide the crack in my voice as I add, “Hey everyone, we’ve got to move fast if I’m to get you to school on time! Let’s move it!” 

Marion, Hilldale’s librarian/Acme operative, hands over an oldie but goodie: Three Weeks by Elinor Glyn. It hasn’t been checked out in five decades, so it is safe for her to presume no one else would have requested it before I get to the library. The message hidden within its pages is our latest lead on the missing yellowcake uranium.

I take it to an empty table beside a window overlooking a grove of weeping willow trees. Their leafy strands are swaying in a gentle breeze.

To view these missives, I’ve got a very special bookmark. Anyone who picks it up thinks it is made of clear plastic, but in truth it is an infrared screen that reads invisible ink.

Within the pages of a torrid love scene I find the name of my next suspect: Armand Fronsdal. He runs an art gallery in Beverly Hills.

“It’s a Larkaro,” Armand Fronsdal hisses in my ear. “Arresting, is it not?”

Yep, that’s exactly how I’d describe an art installation made up of a video projector playing a short film in which three big-breasted nymphs cavort in the woods. But hey, what do I know from art?

One thing I do know: this man’s breath leaves a lot to be desired.

But when I turn to face him, I’ve already set my lips into a come-hither pout. “I’m looking for something a bit more … je ne sais quoi? Ah! Romantique.”

Having one-upped his Lounge Lizardeese with my high school French has scored me major points with this jerk. He crooks a finger at me to follow him.

He is too tall and too slight: think Ichabod Crane in Goth. If his ponytail is supposed to cover up the fact that he’s got a bald spot, he’s failed miserably. He’s wearing more eyeliner than me, which is saying a lot, because I laid it on thick this morning.

Albeit no thicker than the crap he’s laying on me now. “Has ma’amselle been complimented for her resemblance to John Singer Sargent’s magnificent painting of Mrs. Waldorf Astor?”

I shrug. While it is flattering, we both know it’s a stretch. Edvard Munch’s The Scream, maybe…

“Ah, well, perhaps we shall find some petit amusement, oui?” I murmur. Playing the bored art patroness has meant dressing up in a shiny ass-grazing red leather dress that zips up the front, black fishnet stockings that end in four-inch Louboutin thigh-high boots, and a veiled chapeau perched atop my French twist. What with the tightness of the dress and the tiny heels of the shoes, keeping up with his long strides is a bitch.

The gallery is really a warehouse broken up into several rooms. He doesn’t stop until he reaches the one farthest to the back of the building. One wall is made up of medieval pitchforks in a lattice pattern. Near another, a seven-foot hot pink and purple polka-dot penis rises, thick and proud, among two humongous blue balls.

Ouch.

The center installation is made up of abstract mirrored balls of varying sizes, hung from the ceiling. They are dripping some substance the color of blood.

If this is his idea of romantic, I’m guessing he doesn’t go on many dates.

“Voila,” he purrs in an accent as bad as mine.

“C'est magnifique,” I whisper as I stare up at the mirrored balls.

“This is my private atelier,” he hisses proudly. “Everything in here is my own creation. If this piece speaks to you, I’m sure we can come up with some arrangement: say, forty thou? That’s a third off the catalog price.”

“Such a steal. Almost wholesale.” I tilt my head. Unconsciously I straighten the seams of my stockings. In truth, I am taking aim with the toe of my right bootie. It is loaded with truth serum. The sooner I take this guy down, the better. This place gives me a bad case of the creeps, and I want out of here fast—

Ah, darn! His cell phone just buzzed. I wave him off as he excuses himself to answer it.

In one of the mirrored balls hanging from the ceiling, I see that he is almost at the door when he freezes. His back straightens. Then slowly he turns around.

He has a wary look on his face. He doesn’t think I see him as he plucks one of the pitchforks from the wall. And steps up behind me—

But I’m too quick for him, swinging the largest of the mirrored balls toward his skull.

It knocks him down but not out. The pitchfork skitters on the slippery floor. As I lunge for it, he grabs my ankle, and I fall hard—

Damn. These. Heels…

I’m. So. Cold!

What brings me back to consciousness is the sticky gel being applied to my breast.

 I open one eye to find that I am naked except for my fishnet stocking and heels. 

Oh yeah, and my hat.

Not a great look when you’re tied to a seven-foot penis.

Armand is painting me with a small roller. The crap is hardening fast. When I glance down, I see my face reflected on my breasts. 

From the looks of things, I’m to be the centerpiece of the mirrored ball exhibit.

Over my dead body…

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” I try to kick him away, but he shifts just out of reach.

“Painting you with liquid Mylar. Soon you’ll be as shiny—and as stiff—as these mirrored balls. You’ll make an arresting centerpiece, to say the least.” His smile curdles whatever Mickey Mouse pancakes are left in my gut from this morning’s breakfast. “At first I was going to keep you in the leather dress, but I find it oh so much more titillating in just the stockings and heels—oh, and that cute little veiled hat.”

“Glad you approve of my fashion taste.”

“Yes, well, the booties are classy, for sure. You know, I’ve always considered that particular Louboutin a work of art, so it’s appropriate that it will now be part of my installation.”

“Let me down NOW!”

Instead he stops to scrutinize his handiwork. “You’re flawed, you know. Too much cellulite—”

“Listen, you bony asshole, I don’t need you to tell me where I’m packing a few too many el-bees—”

“Just being honest.” He bends down to drench the roller again with Mylar from the paint bucket at his feet. “Some men love a little too much meat on a woman’s bones. Frankly I find it will be a great visual pun, considering the way you’ll be positioned—”

Before he can look up, I kick him—

Unfortunately with the wrong foot. To top it off, my kick sends him reeling.

After he stumbles back over, my penance is a backhanded slap. “What a bad, bad girl, you are! Did you really think I’d divulge all my secrets to you?”

“No,” I say through rattled teeth and a bloody mouth. “Just one—”

With that, I lift my leg high enough to stab him in the thigh—hard—with the needle in my shoe. “Tell me where you’re keeping the yellowcake, Armand.”

Angrily he slaps me again. 

I’ve had enough of his crap. 

With all the force I can muster, I give one of the blue balls an over-the-head kick that sends it flying into Armand’s gut.

Stunned, he stumbles backward—

Right into a medieval pitchfork angled perpendicular to the wall.

It pierces him through the heart.

I’m guessing the last words he’s gasping has nothing to do with the whereabouts of the yellowcake.

Aw heck, I blew it again.