Drip Dead Read Online Free PDF Page A

shoulder. No way she managed to pack all that in ten minutes.
    I met her at the door and took one of the suitcases. I rolled it back to the bedroom and left it at the foot of the freshly made bed.
    “You don’t have to give up your bedroom, Georgiana,” she said crisply. “I can take the guest room.” She glanced down the hall toward the closed door. “Is that it?”
    I shook my head. “That’s not a bedroom, Mom. It’s where I work out. You go ahead.” I waved toward the bed with a gesture that took in the whole room. “I can sleep on the couch for a few days.”
    I was already regretting my decision to offer her a place to stay. She had only been in the house three minutes and already I could feel my shoulders knotting.
    Silently I said a little prayer that it would only be a few days. Any longer than that and I knew we would be at each other’s throats.
    Mom’s eyebrow shot up. “You have a workout room? I am impressed. What kind of equipment do you have?”
    Before I could stop her she swung the door wide. She stopped in the doorway, her mouth drawing into a thin line. She turned to stare at me, arching one eyebrow in a way she knew annoyed me.
    “This is what you call a workout room?” She waved one hand dramatically. “It looks more like a padded room.” She let the phrase hang in the air, the tight lift of her lips suggesting I might really need a padded room.
    “You know my workouts are based in martial arts, Mom. We’ve talked about this before.” I clamped my mouth shut. No sense starting an argument within her first quarter hour in my house. Not when I would have plenty of time to argue with her in the days—or, heaven forbid, weeks—to come.
    I picked up the laundry basket I’d brought from the bedroom and began stacking the sort-of-folded shirts and underwear on the empty shelf in the closet.
    I made a mental note to get a new pair of pajamas. I couldn’t actually sleep on the couch in the buff—my usual practice—and Mom would never approve of my alternative of a worn-out T-shirt.
    There was a more pressing matter however. My refrigerator was in its usual state: mostly empty. In spite of repeated vows to shop and eat healthier, I always fell back into the bad habits that came from my years of hundred-hour workweeks in the high-tech industry.
    Without looking I could inventory the contents: a few bottles of microbrew, leftover pizza, and a plastic container full of condiment packets from various fast-food joints.
    The cupboards weren’t much better. I needed to do some grocery shopping if I didn’t want Mom to take control of that, too.
    “Why don’t I give you a little time to get settled, Mom?” I led her back to the bedroom. “You can unpack—I emptied the dresser for you—while I go pick up some groceries.”
    Mom opened her mouth but I continued before she could get a word out. “I won’t be long. Just go ahead and make yourself at home.”
    “We’ll see.”
    I bit back the impulse to laugh manically. Mom was a control freak. She would not only make herself at home, she’d take over completely. The only question was how long it would take.
    I grabbed my wallet and keys and whistled for the dogs. If I took them with me there would be one less thing for Mom to complain about when I returned.
    As soon as I parked the Beetle I pulled out my cell phone and called my best friend, Sue Gibbons, at Doggy Day Spa. I needed help if I was going to survive Mom’s invasion.
    “You’re coming to dinner tonight,” I told her when she answered the phone. “No argument, okay?”
    “Why would I argue?” Sue laughed. “I love Garibaldi’s.”
    “No pizza. Sorry. I’m going to cook.”
    “Whoa. What’s the occasion? And what should I bring?”
    “No occasion,” I lied. “And you don’t have to bring anything. I’m thinking spaghetti and garlic bread. I can handle it.”
    “Six?” Sue asked.
    “Works for me,” I replied.
    “Uh, Georgie? You don’t just randomly decide