The Good Girl's Guide to Murder Read Online Free

eye, as she said ever so sweetly, “I’m told that Molly O’Brien’s doing very well over at Terry Costa. They’ve had her cutting patterns, but I believe they’re considering a few of her designs for next summer’s collection.”
    Ah, geez .
    My chest constricted when she brought up Molly’s name, because it showed me how dead-set she was on bending my will to suit hers, yet again.
    “Oh, and here’s some more good news you haven’t heard. Little David’s been enrolled at St. Mark’s this fall. On a full scholarship.” She wiggled her slender fingers dismissively. “Don’t look so stunned. It was nothing, really. I just had to talk to a few people, press a few buttons to put things in motion.”
    Talk to a few people? Press a few buttons?
    David was Molly’s six-year-old son. And St. Mark’s was a private boy’s prep school with a waiting list a mile long. I wondered whose string my mother had yanked—and yanked hard—in order to pull off such a coup. And to think that she’d done something so unbelievable for the child of “that scholarship girl” showed that Cissy had endless surprises up her silk sleeve.
    Too many for me to anticipate.
    It was maddening. Infuriating. Discombobulating.
    And oh-so typical.
    I was tempted to wave my twisted napkin in surrender, because I knew—right then and there—she’d scored a TKO. And the winner is Cissy Blevins Kendricks in the pink Chanel trunks!
    “Wow,” I squeaked, surprised that Molly hadn’t told me. That is, if Mother had even informed her of the news before springing it on me (probably not). “That was very”— oh, rats —“generous of you.”
    Generous was another talent Mother had honed to perfection. Only she usually expected something in return, particularly when her generosity involved friends of mine. Her good deeds had a way of turning around and smacking me upside the head at the strangest times.
    At such moments, I thought of her as a subversive Mother Teresa without the vow of poverty and the ugly outfit.
    So what could I do?
    I opened my mouth, wanting like hell to say that I wouldn’t be blackmailed, that I wasn’t going to cave. But the only sound that emerged was a sigh of defeat.
    “All right, all right,” I moaned. “I’ll fix the Web site for Marilee.”
    “And you’ll attend the unveiling of her studio.”
    It wasn’t even a question, not the way she said it. “Yes, I’ll go.”
    Doomed, I tell you .
    “Don’t pout, Andrea sweetie. I’m sure there’ll be eligible men there to make things more bearable for you.” She had a familiar twinkle in her eye, the hopeful glint of a nearly sixty-year-old mother who wanted to live to see grandchildren.
    Eligible men?
    Good God, not this again, too?
    I felt a headache begin its gentle throbbing at my temples.
    It didn’t seem to bother her that I’d been seeing someone steadily. A fledgling defense lawyer named Brian Malone who worked for the firm that handled all Mother’s affairs. It was clear we were moving too slowly to suit her. I mean, it had been several months and my third left finger was still bare. Which Mother assumed made me fair game for her insufferable matchmaking.
    “I’m not looking for eligible men at the moment,” I reminded her. “Does the name ‘Malone’ ring any bells?”
    “Not the kind of bells I’d like to hear,” she said dolefully, and I was surprised she didn’t start humming Wagner’s “Wedding March” to rub it in.
    Subtle.
    “How fickle can you be?” I asked, knowing the answer already. Very . “I mean, you’re the one who threw us together, remember? And you liked Brian well enough then.”
    “Darling, you’ve got it wrong. I like Mr. Malone very much . . .”
    “But?” I prodded.
    She sighed, giving me a very motherly look of concern. “But I don’t like that he’s taking advantage of you.”
    “Taking advantage?” What on earth was she talking about? Brian didn’t borrow money from me. He had his own job,