The Good Girl's Guide to Murder Read Online Free PDF Page A

properly set up.
    The worst part of it was that I had no one to blame but myself. I could’ve stood my ground and soundly rejected Cissy’s proposal, and I hadn’t. It was residual guilt. It had to be. I seemed inclined to do anything to avoid upsetting my mother after breaking her heart years ago, because I didn’t want to see that happen again. I couldn’t afford it.
    God help me.
    I’d been eighteen and had declined to go through with my coming out (back when “coming out” had meant into society and not out of the closet , just to be clear). I’d done it for all the right reasons—because it wasn’t what I’d wanted, because my father had so recently passed away, because it had meant so much to her and so little to me—but she still had never fully forgiven me for becoming a debutante dropout.
    The aftermath of that catastrophe continued to ripple through my life, even a dozen years later. I had a feeling it always would.
    “ She’ll actually pay you, Andrea ,” I mimicked in my best imitation of Cissy’s honeyed drawl and, scowling, I pulled open the fridge door to peer inside, scavenging for lunch, or at least something to tide me over until the soiree tonight. I was sure there’d be enough food there to feed every starving philanthropist in Dallas.
    I pulled out a banana yogurt and plucked off the foil top, thinking a little food in my belly might brighten my mood. It nearly worked—that and Yo-Yo Ma on my CD player—and I was humming along to Yo-Yo’s cello going at Rhapsody in Blue , when the phone rang.
    I caught the number on my Caller ID as I snatched up the receiver and groaned, “What is it now? Did you betroth me to some Saudi sheik?”
    “Andrea, darlin’, is that you?”
    “Hello, Mother,” I started over, jamming a spoonful of Dannon past my lips, mostly because I knew how she despised my talking with my mouth full. “I had a feeling I’d hear from you.”
    Mother and I had this psychic connection. She always called whenever I felt the least like talking to her.
    “Sweetie, do you have food in your mouth?”
    “Me? Unh-unh,” I lied and swallowed. “Don’t worry, I’ll be at the party,” I assured her through another mouthful of yogurt, knowing that was the reason she’d speed-dialed my number. “I’ll even comb my hair and put on a new pair of panties just in case I’m in a pileup and they take my lifeless body to the emergency room. ’Cuz, god help me, if I die in ratty drawers.”
    “Don’t be silly.” She didn’t even chastise me for being a smart ass. In fact, she seemed altogether too tolerant of my attitude. Which didn’t bode well. Something was clearly up. “I’ll send the car around for you at eight-thirty.”
    “I don’t need a car, Mother. I’m taking the Jeep.”
    “You might find it hard to shift gears in the dress you’ll be wearing.”
    “What dress?”
    “Well, I was shopping at Highland Park Village and happened to drop by Escada. They’d just gotten in some new things, and this little number just screamed your name from the moment I laid eyes on it. But you’ll have to see for yourself. Come over, sweetie, and try it on, though I know it’ll fit because they double-checked your measurements with your file at the Bridal Salon at Stanley Korshak.”
    My file at the Bridal Salon at Stanley Korshak?
    What the heck was she babbling about?
    For a moment, my mind went blank. Then it hit me like a stucco wall. Cissy had dragged me into the posh shop at the Crescent Atrium when I’d let her prod me into doing a trunk show charity event for a brain injury foundation, two or three years ago. I recall sometime after she’d mentioned having the wedding consultant Nina Nichols Austin hold on to my measurements, “for future reference.”
    Geez, Louise .
    Enough was enough.
    “What if I’ve already got an outfit in mind?” I told her, though I didn’t. My closet wasn’t exactly loaded with high fashion.
    “What outfit?” she prodded. “A