The Good Girl's Guide to Murder (2 page)

“The Sweet Life with Marilee.”

It was the title of the column she’d written for the
Dallas Morning News
since shortly after her divorce, since the bad old days when she’d had to use what skills she’d had—a wife’s repertoire of cooking, cleaning, sewing, decorating—in order to survive when Gilbert had dumped them so unceremoniously.

Survive
. That was the word for it, too.

The good ol’ boy judge who’d presided over their divorce hearing had sided with Gil, deciding he owed her nothing but the savings bond for Kendall’s college and whatever had been Marilee’s at the start of their union (i.e., her own hair and teeth).

Gil had sold the place in Prestonwood, kicking them out on the street while he moved into an even larger abode in Northwood Hills with his then bride-to-be.

Marilee had packed up what little she and Kendall had owned, finding them a tiny subsidized apartment on the south side of the city. She’d scrimped and saved ferociously, relying on charity until she could get on her feet. She’d eventually found a low-paying job behind the counter at a dry cleaner, which got her home before Kendall decamped from the school bus. It was then she’d begun to write on a dinosaur of a PC while Kendall was asleep at night, churning out economical tips for making the best of what you had, always with a caustic slant. Because if you couldn’t laugh at yourself when you were sewing kitchen curtains out of garage-sale table linens, then what was the point?

A twist of fate in the form of society maven Cissy Kendricks had earned her a meeting with the editor in chief at the
Morning News
, and she had a job by the time she’d left his office. Her column had been an instant hit, quickly selling to syndication and ultimately to
Good Housekeeping
. Then came the books and the talk-show appearances, a radio show, and finally
this
.

A fissure of excitement dashed up her spine, and she shivered, still amazed at how far she’d come. From a ramshackle chicken farm in the middle of Nowhere, Texas, to a mansion in Preston Hollow a hop, skip, and a jump away from Ross Perot’s.

As a child, she’d had to don the same pair of shoes until they wore clear through, and now she owned a 15,000 square-foot mansion on some pretty high-class turf. She had over an acre of prime real estate for her organic farm—like
Green Acres
in the ’burbs—a seven-car garage, and the pièce de résistance, a big-ass closet (larger than her and Gil’s old master bedroom) made to hold her uncountable pairs of Manolo Blahniks, Kate Spades, Michael Kors, and Stuart Weitzmans. No cardboard in those soles.

You’ve come a long way, baby
, she told herself.

As for what she’d had to go through to get where she was . . . well, that wasn’t something she needed to dwell on.

All the sacrifices she’d made had been worth it. No more paying her dues. No more kissing ass. No, if anyone’s ass would be bussed, it would be hers.

She smiled at that.

The sweet life
, indeed.

About to get sweeter.

Nothing—and nobody—was going to screw it up.

S
ometimes you do things because you want to.

Like eating a pint of Ben & Jerry’s Chunky Monkey in one fell swoop. Or splashing through puddles after a rainstorm in old tennis shoes.

Sometimes you do things because you have no choice.

Like tetanus shots and dental appointments.

Or suffering through the party from hell with a guest list full of Dallas muckety-mucks.

I would have preferred root canal, to be perfectly honest. At least that involved anesthesia. If only I could be pumped full of Novocain before eight o’clock.

If wishes were laughing gas, huh?

Unfortunately, I was going to have to do this one stone cold sober. Well, until the champagne was served; then I aimed to drink like a fish.

The soiree I’d been strong-armed to attend was being tossed to celebrate the national syndication of
The Sweet Life with Marilee
, a local TV show that had skyrocketed in ratings and was on the verge of inundating hundreds of new markets across the country. The show’s creator and host, Marilee Mabry, was a close friend of my mother’s and had recently hired me to redesign her Web site. Basically, I was trapped between a rock and a hard case. So, much as I wanted to, weaseling out was no option.

I know, I know
.

A party may sound like most people’s idea of a good time, and, had it been a quiet dinner with a few of my buddies, I would have looked forward to going instead of dreading it the way I did the annual visit to my gynecologist (however nice she may be).

Events involving pals of Mother were never “quiet” in any sense of the word. They were noisy galas, extravaganzas, or over-the-top affairs whose invitations were coveted by every member of the Dallas glitterati.

Cissy Blevins Kendricks
lived
for such moments. Hell, she thrived on them. Call me a party pooper, but I, Andrea Blevins Kendricks, her only child and sole heir, avoided such gigs like rush hour on LBJ Freeway.

Which was one of the many ways we differed, despite our DNA.

Even to the casual observer, Cissy and I seemed way too dissimilar to be related. The fact that I had actually sprung from her loins surely belonged on the pages of
Ripley’s Believe It or Not
, alongside the tale of Hillary Clinton giving birth to an alien baby (really, I saw the headline in the
Enquirer
when I was at the supermarket check out).

Cissy and I were like oil and water, night and day, the Rolling Stones and kidney stones.

I liked to be left alone, kept out of Mother’s platinum world as much as humanly possible. I was comfortable with a far more low-key existence, living in my one bedroom condo, driving my years-old Jeep Wrangler, wearing blue jeans stained with chalks or acrylic paint, without standing appointments at the Plaza Park Salon or Elizabeth Arden’s Red Door. In other words, my wants were few and my needs minimal. What I craved most was my privacy and the relative freedom to pursue the thing I loved most: my art, both on canvas and on the computer.

Don’t get me wrong. I didn’t aspire to be Henry David Thoreau, living off the land and all alone—with my easel, acrylics, and laptop—at Walden Pond. I had built a nice little nest in the northern suburbs of Big D, within reach of all the city had to offer but far enough away from my mother to enjoy relative tranquility (translation: at least a twenty-minute trip across town, depending on traffic).

I wasn’t so much granola as Cap’n Crunch with lactose-free skim milk.

Cissy was mimosas and Eggs Benedict.

“Tranquility” was definitely a word that didn’t exist in her vocabulary. Her days revolved around the seasons—the social seasons—her calendar filled with luncheons, sorority alumnae functions, fashion shows, cocktail parties, board meetings, and endless charity fundraisers.

Not exactly my cup of green tea.

I shopped with coupons and had no qualms about buying a bargain brand on sale. Labels didn’t mean much to me.

I couldn’t even recall the last time Mother had set foot in a grocery store, especially since Simon David delivered. I’m not sure she’d ever even seen a coupon; though I’m damned sure she’d never clipped one. (She didn’t even clip her own nails, for Pete’s sake.)

If that wasn’t enough proof for the pudding, there was always our opposing sense of fashion; or rather, my lack of one and her overabundance.

I felt uncomfortable in high heels and designer gowns with price tags that exceeded my monthly mortgage payment. My usual attire consisted of button-down jeans, T-shirts, and a well-worn pair of sneakers.

Conversely, my mother wouldn’t leave the house unless she had on Chanel from head to toe . . . or Escada, Prada, Nicole Miller, whatever suited the occasion; so long as it was something she hadn’t been seen in before,
God forbid
.

I was the apple that had fallen so far from the tree I’d landed in another orchard entirely.

Still, Cissy was nothing if not persistent. She kept trying to lure me over to the dark side, and tonight was merely another example of her handiwork.

As I said before,
sometimes you have no choice
.

So I wasn’t at all looking forward to Marilee’s swanky get-together at her new TV studio in Addison, even if it meant all the Dom Perignon I could swig and bruschetta out the wazoo.

Attending the gig was more like a payback, a debt I owed my mother because she’d helped bail an old friend of mine out of a sticky situation a couple months ago. My best pal from prep school, Molly O’Brien—“that scholarship girl,” as Cissy had long ago dubbed her—got herself in a tangle that nearly cost her everything. Thankfully, all was resolved, in no small part due to Mother’s connections, though I thought I’d paid my penance by attending a fancy gig at the Morton Meyerson Symphony Center. I’d even let her drag me to José Eber’s salon for hair and makeup, and I’d put on a pair of Manolo Blahniks that redefined “torture” as far as my feet were concerned (forgive me, Sarah Jessica).

Little did I know that was merely a down payment. I’d hardly had time to recuperate when Cissy had plucked another IOU out of her red Hermès crocodile bag and waved it in front of my face.

Talk about a bad day at Black Rock.

The mere recollection was enough to bring on hives, and, the more I tweaked the details into focus, the itchier I became.

Dateline: Two weeks ago.

The setting: Trinity Hall, a wonderful Irish pub at Mockingbird Station.

The setup: Mother had lured me there for lunch, presumably to spend some quality time together, catching up.

I should’ve known that the choice of location was a Freudian slip on her part. I mean, an Irish pub? That might make some think of “Guinness” right off the bat, or even leprechauns and four-leaf clovers. For me, it conjured up “blarney,” something my mother was so often full of, and that day proved no exception.

We had a nice enough conversation during our meal—a Gaelic club for me and, fittingly, a Blarney Cobb salad for Cissy—and, it wasn’t until we’d finished dessert that she relayed her true intentions.

“There’s a little favor I’d like you to do for me, darlin’,” she drawled, reaching across the table to squeeze my nail-bitten fingers between her perfectly manicured ones.

A little favor?

Right.

Nothing was simple when it was Mother doing the asking.

“What’s that mean, exactly?” I squirmed, feeling the Irish Cake I’d just consumed churn uneasily in my belly.

“I bumped into Marilee at Chanel this morning”—Cissy dropped by the boutique in Highland Park Village as often as I shopped at Tom Thumb for groceries, which was at least twice a week—“and she happened to mention that her latest web designer had quit on her, smack in the midst of redoing her site and setting up a video river to showcase the opening of her studio . . .”

“A video stream?” I suggested.

“River, stream, what does it matter?” She made a moue. “That was her sixth web designer to quit in as many weeks, and Mari was in a state of sheer panic.”

I should’ve made a run for the hills right then, anticipating where Cissy was going with this. But, instead, I sat there in a food-induced stupor. Maybe the whiskey in the cake was to blame, since I wasn’t exactly known for holding my liquor. (One hot rum toddy, and I was snoring like a baby.)

Otherwise, I would have used my head, made up some excuse about dashing off to meet a made-up new client or a just-remembered appointment for a high colonic and bamboo-shoot manicure. If it wasn’t the whiskey in the cake, what else could have so thoroughly impaired my senses?

Didn’t say much for my repeated showings on the Hockaday Headmistress List throughout my prep school years, did it?

“Well, I felt awful for her, simply awful,” Cissy went on, gripping my hand more tightly, further preventing me from flight. “Marilee’s had some bad luck since they finished her new studio a month or so back, a few minor mishaps. Her wardrobe mistress was bitten by a brown recluse spider that had somehow gotten in a box with a pair of Marilee’s shoes. The poor woman’s arm swelled up like a watermelon, and she had to take a medical leave for treatment. Then Mari’s director got bumped on the shoulder by a falling boom microphone during rehearsal before a taping. Nearly dislocated the joint, Mari said, and narrowly missed hitting
her
in the head.” Mother’s eyes danced with worry.

“Mother, I’m sorry about Marilee’s problems, and the fact that she can’t hold on to a web designer but . . .”

“Yes, the Web site, that’s where you come in, darling,” she ran right over me, patting my hand. “Mari had planned to broadcast the party on the Internet to celebrate the syndication of her morning show, and now she’s afraid it won’t happen. She was near to tears. So what was I to do? I couldn’t leave her in a lurch, not after all the poor dear’s been through.”

Mother flashed a most disarming smile that set off a warning bell in my head, like the Robot on
Lost in Space
, flailing his arms and screaming, “Danger, Will Robinson! Danger!”

Though, somehow, I knew it was too late already.

My eyes flickered over the shelves of books in the library area of the restaurant where we’d been seated, usually a calm and secluded place. But that afternoon, it seemed almost menacing, like a trap that had been set. I glanced longingly at the tables filled with other diners who chatted, ate, and laughed, all of them blissfully unaware of what was happening to me. The bribery, the blackmail, and coercion: wrapped up prettily and disguised as a mother-daughter luncheon.

“Help!” I wanted to cry but instead stayed silent, my butt glued to the seat.

Mother had that effect on people.

She would’ve made a brilliant snake charmer.

Or a damned fine secretary of state.

“Of course, I told Marilee not to worry,” she said, honey-smooth, her lips curving coyly. “I reminded her that my darling Andrea was a genius on computers and could have her fixed up in no time flat.”

My gut clenched. “You didn’t?”