The Good Girl's Guide to Murder by Susan McBride Read Free Book Online Page A

softly of perfume and powder. “You’ll look like a princess,” she whispered.
    I felt like a child playing dress-up.
    This wasn’t right. This wasn’t me.
    And I thought of the girl in the tiny house in Grand Prairie—the one I’d been switched with at birth in my fantasy—and I figured she’d kill to wear Escada.
    It was just one night, after all. Would it really be such a terrible thing?
    Tipping my head, I studied my image, the sequins gently glistening in the light, little beacons screaming, “Take me, take me!”
    “Well, what do you think?” she asked. “Isn’t it to die for?”
    My self-restraint shot to hell, I found myself saying, “ Yes, yes, yes ,” like one of those libidinous shampooers on the Herbal Essence commercials. “Thank you, Mother,” I further gushed, instead of telling her, “no dice.”
    Sucker , I chided myself. Wimp .
    It was damned pathetic.
    I did stand firm on something, however, convincing her that I didn’t want her car to pick me up. I had to be at the studio early, in order to check on the web cams, and I was certain Mother wouldn’t want to arrive ahead of schedule for the event. In her world, that was a fate worse than death.
    So I was off the hook on that count. No chauffeured car for me.
    Score one for the deb dropout.
    Okay, a wee one.
    In my ongoing battle with Mother, even the smallest victories counted.

Chapter 4
    C issy headed off for her appointment at the Plaza Park Salon, where they’d primp and pamper her in readiness for Marilee’s studio unveiling, and I sat with Sandy on the glassed-in sun porch with a great view of the terrace and rose garden, drinking lemonade and second-guessing my decision to keep Mother’s gift.
    “Am I analyzing this too much?” I asked Sandy between ice-cold sips. “With all that’s going on in the world, it seems silly to worry about a dress . . . and a pair of shoes and a handbag . . . but I can’t help feeling like I’ve been bribed.”
    “Well, sweet pea, you have.” Sandy patted my knee, her eyes bright beneath soft folds of skin. I do believe she was enjoying this. “You surely have. And it won’t be the last time as long as your mother’s alive and kicking.”
    “So should I give it all back?” I heard the reluctance in my voice and blushed, because I knew she’d heard it, too. So much for standing firm on my convictions.
    “Listen, Andy, I can honestly say that the rest of the world isn’t going to care one way or another what you wear to Marilee Mabry’s party. But if it makes you feel bad then don’t do it. Leave everything upstairs for Cissy to find when she gets back.”
    I wrinkled my brow and pondered that one.
    How disconcerted would I really feel if I donned a designer dress tonight? Who would I betray if I did? Cissy had reared me in fancy labels. It had been my choice to stop wearing them. Would it truly make a difference in the scheme of things? Throw the cosmos off-balance? Ruin my karma for life?
    It wasn’t like putting on leather pants with a PETA T-shirt.
    Or serving blubber-burgers at a Save the Whales rally.
    Right?
    Sandy read the struggle in my face and tapped my leg more insistently. “Land sakes, child, stop agonizing over this. Rejecting that darned dress and making your mother unhappy will not solve anything, and you know it. So be a good girl, put on the pretty dress, and have yourself some harmless fun.”
    “It’s as simple as that?”
    “Yes.”
    Harmless fun .
    “Okay,” I said, because she made sense. I was making far too much of this. Some mothers baked apple pies. Mine went shopping with a vengeance.
    “Glad that’s settled. Now we can discuss less difficult topics, like peace in the Middle East and lack of funding for the arts.”
    “Ha ha.”
    Sandy grinned and tugged her cardigan tighter as the vents began to hum, blasting us with frigid air.
    I reveled in the gooseflesh on my arms, deciding it was a far, far better thing to be cold than damp with