The Housewife Assassin's Guide to Gracious Killing by Josie Brown

cost him, big time. 
    Just like Trisha’s “silly gooses” declaration is sure to cost me something with the Bitches of Hilldale. 
    I have no desire to find out what. “I’ll be right there,” I holler down the stairwell. Not really. Better to send Jack instead. He’ll schmooze, flatter, make promises I can’t keep, and walk them out the door.
    Damn. The risky part is all those promises. Still, I can’t keep Emma hanging on the line, so I wrap my arms around Jack’s neck and nuzzle his ear. “Jack, sweetie, how about going down and make up some excuse as to why I can’t see them?”
    He groans. “You’re not serious, are you?” 
    “They like you! They’ll buy anything you’re selling.”
    “Yeah, that’s the point. There’s nothing I wish to part with. Not to them, anyway.”
     “Please? Pretty please? With sugar on top?” I make a frownie face. It works for Trisha, so why not for me?
    Jack shakes his head and stretches tall, as if that will overcome a night of just three hours of sleep. Then he rummages for a T-shirt, finding one at the foot of the bed, and pulls it on over his drawstring running pants. It’s tight around his broad back and his bulging muscles. He hasn’t shaved yet, and his five o’clock shadow is prickly.
    Aw, hell. If I send him down there, Penelope will never want to leave.
    “Mommy!” Trisha’s yells, even more frantic now. “They brought a cake! Can I have some?”
    Cake? That means Penelope is after something. And when Penelope has her mind set, even Jack won’t be able to get rid of her. “Wait, I’ll go down instead—”
    “What, are you crazy? Penelope brought a cake? I’m outta here!”
    “Remember,” I hiss at him, “promise her nothing! Nothing!”
    Too late. Jack can’t hear me because he’s already halfway down the stairs.
    Oh well. The way he looks, Penelope certainly won’t miss me for another ten minutes. I turn back to the phone receiver. “Emma, what were you saying about the Russian assassin?”
    “Um… I’ll tell you in person. If you’ve got cake for breakfast, I’m coming right down.”
    “But I was going to make oatmeal for everyone.” 
    It’s no use. She has already clicked off. She can’t stand wearing that silly blond Inga wig, but she hates my oatmeal even more.
    They all do.  Too bad. It’s good for them. Heart-healthy, lots of fiber.
    Oh, who the heck am I kidding? I better get my ass down there before all the cake is gone.
     

    Coffee has been poured. Apparently, the women have brought a Bundt cake.
    By the time I get downstairs, Emma is already digging into a piece. As Inga, her bad Swedish accent allows her to beg off any attempt at conversation.
    I get no such reprieve, despite knowing firsthand that nothing these women do or say makes any sense.
    Trisha’s mouth looks as if she’s sporting a chocolate mustache, and Penelope Bing, Tiffy Swift, and Hayley Coxhead are giggling like little school girls. Not at Trisha, but at Jack, who has to bend down as he rummages through the fridge for some crème fraiche to lighten their brews.
    Needless to say, no one looks up when I enter. The view is too captivating.
    My taxi whistle grabs their attention. “What a nice surprise,” I murmur as I air kiss Penelope. “Excuse me for not opening the door for you. We had a late night, and as you can see, we were still in bed.” I nod toward Jack, who is cutting a wedge of cake for himself that’s the size of New York’s infamous Flatiron Building.
    Considering he has a size forty-inch chest, thirty-two-inch waist, washboard abs and the ass of a twenty-six-year-old fireman, I’m sure they’re wondering where he puts it all. 
    Wouldn’t they like to know.
    Tiffy nudges Penelope out of whatever fantasy she’s having about Jack. I guess it is show time. 
    Penelope takes one last, longing glance at him. When she’s done, the dewy look in her eyes hardens even before they reach me. Game on. “Donna, darling, this is