Read The Good Girl's Guide to Murder for Free Online Page B

you.’ Now go on up and face the music. When you’re done, I’ll have a glass of lemonade waiting for you in the kitchen. You look like you could use a cold drink.”
    “What say we do the lemonade first?”
    “Your mother’s got an appointment at the salon, so you’ll be down soon, I promise.” Sandy gave me a gentle swat on the rump. “Scoot,” she said, then shouted up ahead of me, “Andrea’s here!”
    “As if she doesn’t know,” I muttered, listening to Sandy chuckle as she shuffled off to the kitchen. Cissy had probably stood at her sitting room window, watching for my Jeep.
    Exhaling slowly, I paused and stood at the base of the stairwell, glancing up.
    Let’s get this over with , I thought and grabbed hold of the banister as I ascended.
    My gaze fell to the worn pattern of the Oriental runner underfoot before I noticed the chips in my pale green-painted toenails. I hated that I was sticky and less than perfectly groomed. I felt rumpled enough around Mother when I was combed and pressed, but felt absolutely frumpish now, sweating through the armpits of my T-shirt.
    I hesitated on the landing, lifting my chin and telling myself to buck up. I didn’t have to stay any longer than it took to glimpse whatever dress she’d picked out for me, tell her “thank you but no thank you” firmly but sweetly, and be on my merry way.
    Piece of cake.
    The boards creaked as I reached the second floor, and my gaze swung left, settling on the door to my father’s study. It was the first room I had to pass, so I poked my head in for good measure, inhaling his lingering scent and looking around me, at the leather-bound volumes on the bookshelves, at the enormous desk and empty chair behind it.
    “Hey, Daddy,” I whispered. “Wish you were here.”
    Boy, did I ever. My father had always been the buffer between us. He could smooth things over like aloe on a burn.
    “ Andrea? ”
    My mother’s drawl floated up the hallway.
    “Darlin’? Is that you?”
    “Yes, it’s me,” I replied sotto voce. Then I took yet another deep breath, straightened my shoulders, and headed toward her suite of rooms, my thongs slapping on the runner.
    When I entered her sitting room, I saw her pink damask-covered chaise empty save for a folded newspaper. Filmy sheers muted the sun so that only an ethereal glow touched the antiques and watered silk paper that covered the walls.
    “I’m in here, sweetie.”
    Her boudoir.
    The inner sanctum .
    When I was a child, it had been a “no-no” to go into Mother’s room uninvited. Though I used to sneak inside when she was out with Daddy. I’d go into her dressing room and fiddle with her cosmetics. Then I’d try on her shoes and parade in front of the mirrors, pretending to be a high society lady. Pretending to be Cissy.
    But I’d grown up to be someone else entirely, hadn’t I?
    Life is a funny thing, indeed.
    I forced my feet to move and crossed the threshold.
    “Well, there you are.”
    “In the flesh,” I said and smiled, catching sight of my damp and disheveled self in a gilt-framed mirror and wishing I hadn’t.
    Cissy approached, looking crisp in linen slacks and a short-sleeved blouse with a string of pearls peeking out of the opened collar, brown croc belt at her waist and matching croc slingbacks on her feet. She had not a hair out of place, the blond chin-length bob brushed back from her slimbrow to frame her carefully made-up face, which broke into a smile as she approached with arms outstretched.
    I tipped my cheek as she swooped in for a kiss, sweeping left to right, barely a butterfly’s touch of her lips on my skin. Air kisses. Her specialty. At least I knew she wouldn’t be leaving lipstick marks. That was for amateurs.
    She backed away a step and clasped her hands together, looking me over. Her mouth parted, as if sorely tempted to comment, but I was pretty sure she wouldn’t. Not if she wanted me to stick around.
    “I’ll fetch the dress,” she finally said and