The Housewife Assassin's Handbook

Chapter 7: Be the Life of the Party!

Socializing is a big part of a housewife's life. Lots of friends mean lots of invitations! To keep abreast of all the activity, be sure to post a calendar prominently-perhaps on the refrigerator. That way, your hubby has no excuse to "forget" your social obligations. (Hint: Another gentle reminder that works very well is a cattle prod. Don't worry, the burn marks heal quickly...)

*****

"We've got the Crichtons' shindig tonight. Then the Simpsons' gathering on Friday. And from the look of the calendar next week, another three lined up... Jeez, you folks sure know how to party! How many bugs do we have left?" Jack sounds grumpy.

Can't say that I blame him. It's the third night this week that we've had a social engagement. Since his quote-unquote return, we've been inundated with cocktail and cookout invitations.

My neighbors are nosy about "the mysterious Carl Stone."

It's hard for me to forget all those years in which they ignored me while Carl was supposedly on the road.

But I'll save my pity for later. Considering our mission, I guess this sudden burst of popularity is a blessing in disguise since it allows us into their homes in order to plant bugs that sweep the neighbors' computers and their phones for any evidence that they are fronting for the Quorum.

Unfortunately, the bugs we've planted have yielded nothing.

We're having a mission update in the one place I know we won't be interrupted by the children: my bedroom. I pull open my underwear drawer, where I keep all the tracking devices. It gives new meaning to the brand Agent Provocateur.

I do a quick count. "We've got enough for the next six parties. I'll ask Abu for refills."

Before I can shut the drawer, Jack grabs a red lace thong and holds it up to the light. "You mean to tell me that you actually fit into this tiny thing?"

How dare he!

I've learn to ignore his teasing. This time, though, it's a little too close for comfort.

I plant a supreme smile on my face. "But of course. In fact, I'm wearing one now."

"Really?" His tone is a dare.

What does he expect me to do, strip down to prove a point?

As if.

Besides, I'd lose. The briefs I have on aren't exactly granny panties, but still, they aren't the come-and-get-me ass floss he's holding, either.

As if reading my mind, he looks pointedly at the mirror behind me:

It shows my backside very clearly.

I feel my face heating up. "Just what in hell do you think you're looking at?"

He cocks his head to one side. "Well, from this angle, it looks like a VPL."

"Huh...? What does that mean?"

"Code word for 'visible panty line.' But it's not in the official Acme manual, so don't bother to check."

I snatch the thong out of his hands. "Okay, so I lied. Those aren't everyday wear. Only when I have to go ... you know, undercover." Enough of this crap. I shove him toward the door. "Go get dressed, 'dear,' or we'll be late. Remember, we're looking for any newbies: some single woman named Vivian Norman, a retired couple with the last name of Neufeld, and the Kelseys, that couple who moved in beside Hayley."

He stops short of the threshold. "What are you wearing tonight?"

"What's it to you?"

"My interest is purely professional. Think of yourself as the bait. When they bite, we get our man. Or woman."