Death on Heels by Ellen Byerrum Read Free Book Online

how often her mother said it would be impossible for a monster to crash through the thick block windows. Monsters can do
anything
, Lacey would remind her.
    Last, but not least, Lacey suspected the crawl space, with its tiny door hidden in the bottom of the linen closet, might lead to another dimension entirely, just waiting to pull her in. Rose Smithsonian told Lacey she had a too-active imagination and she would grow out of it. But in the meantime, no more late-night television for
you
, young lady.
    The floor-to-ceiling windows in the living room and dining room were another source of anxiety for young Lacey. There weren’t enough walls. People looking in could see everything, and Rose liked to keep the sheers open to let in the light. Not to mention the stares of curious neighbors. The one floor-to-ceiling brick wall had an opening at the bottom that they called a fireplace, though no wood was ever burned there, which frustrated Lacey no end. She would have given anything for a two-story, center-hall colonial, roaring fireplaces with ornate mantels in every room, and bathrooms with actual curtains over the windows. And no glass blocks to tempt the monsters.
    Then there was the furniture. The weird furniture that changed with Rose’s redecorating schemes. It always seemed to be square or angular and made of blond wood (except for her chrome-and-glass phase). It was never comfortable. Lacey didn’t care if it was an authentic Eames chair if you couldn’t sink down into it. Rose adored the modern, the new, the hard-on-your-bottom. That may have been why Lacey loved visiting Aunt Mimi in Washington, D.C., where there were comfy plush velvet couches,deep-pile colorful Chinese carpets, and a traditional dining set carved out of splendid dark cherrywood.
    It was funny how her parents’ house now looked harmless and much smaller than the one that loomed in her memory. Lacey pulled the rental car to the curb. She wasn’t out of the door before Rose and Cherise came racing out of the house to greet her.
    Cherise grabbed her bag and Rose gave her a quick hug. The three evaluated each other in a split second. Lacey assumed she passed muster or they would have said something. Or they were saving it for later.
    Her mother was fit, trim, and attractive. Her dark hair had grown out a bit since Lacey had seen her last, just a few months before. Rose was wearing purple corduroy pants and a baby blue V-neck sweater. She looked like anybody’s semi-harmless mother. Prettier. But with a suspicious gleam in her eye, full of questions and curiosity.
    Cherise was younger, taller, skinnier, and about three hundred percent perkier than Lacey could ever hope or want to be. Cherise rocked on the balls of her Nike-shod feet as if ready to take off on a marathon. She wore tight, faded blue jeans and a pink turtleneck. Her blond hair was in its inevitable ponytail.
    “I just painted. I hope you like it,” her mother said.
    “I’m sure I will,” Lacey said, trying not to sound either sarcastic or amused. She and Rose disagreed on so many things, and décor was just one of them. Rose loved projects and painting and improving things—things like her daughters. However, Cherise, a former high school cheerleader, was light-years ahead of Lacey in the mother-pleasing category. She needed less improving.
    In her spare time, aside from golf and tennis and improving her daughters, Rose devoted herself to her home, which Lacey felt didn’t deserve all the attention. But there was only so much that could be done with a dumpy midcentury modern ranch-style home, even one with their house’s odd architectural quirks. Lacey didn’t know how she had lived through Rose’s Neon-Orange-and-Lime-Green Phase, the Eye-Popping-Primary-Colors Assault, and the Dismal-Eggplant-and-Ochre Period.
    Lacey took a deep breath and stepped into the living room, gazing at the carpets and the half wall dividing the living and dining rooms. “Mom?