The Good Girl's Guide to Murder (5 page)

Beyond Sandy, there was the housekeeper, a part-time cook, the gardening and landscaping crew, and Cissy’s sometime-driver (when she didn’t feel like taking the wheel of her champagne-hued Lexus). Most came and went; keeping schedules that afforded them time to be with their own families.

I remember Mother remarking that the world had gone to hell in a handbasket when her former staff had started retiring—or dying off—and she’d had to replace them with a younger generation of employees who weren’t about to give body and soul to tend to the needs of a widowed Dallas socialite.

“It’s a different world,” she’d said to me, and I’d agreed that it was. Some of it for the better, some not.

Occasionally, I found myself wondering if Mother and her ilk would ever completely adjust to the twenty-first century when they seemed so inclined to cling to a past where there weren’t so many gray areas, where men behaved like men and women like Southern belles who knew the importance of finger bowls and never wore white shoes after Labor Day. (Though a belle wearing white go-go boots on the Dallas Cowboys’ kick-line during football season was forgiven the faux pas.)

In some ways, I likened Cissy and her posse to the incredibly resilient Texas tree roach. No matter how much time passed or how many superpowered bug sprays came on the market, the critters adapted. Though I doubt they’d appreciate the comparison (Mother’s friends, I mean, not the cockroaches).

Regardless, it made me smile, and, momentarily, I forgot the soaring temperature and my damp T-shirt.

The Jeep’s old AC started spewing cold air by the time I turned onto Beverly Drive, though, at that point, I was beyond redemption. My face was pink and slick, and my bangs stuck to my brow. I hoped that Sandy had a pitcher of fresh lemonade in the fridge. It would take at least two glasses to revive me.

The thought made me want to move faster, but I found my progress impeded by a huge moving van that clogged the street, giving cars a narrow strip in which to pass around it. Adding to the congestion was a camera crew from Fox News.

Funny.

I raised my eyebrows.

It’s not like I’d never seen an orange Atlas truck on Beverly Drive before—or something akin to it—though it usually signified that someone had died and the heirs were loading up the merchandise for auction. The folks who resided in this part of Highland Park often stayed for generations. It wasn’t a place for transients, other than the occasional pro sports figures who came and went, largely ignored.

So I was curious about who was coming as much as who was going, particularly if the new homeowners warranted TV coverage.

Cissy hadn’t mentioned anything about a neighbor moving out. I was less sure of who lived where since I’d left home over a decade ago, but my mother had kept track. She not only knew names but also who was related to whom, who worked where or owned what company, and, most important, who had eligible sons or grandsons of marrying age.

Never let it be said that Mother didn’t have her priorities in order.

I pulled slowly past the enormous truck and the media van, catching a glimpse of the movers drenched in perspiration, a dark-skinned woman with her head tied in a red kerchief hovering at the massive front door of the residence, swinging her arms as if she were directing traffic. A reporter with microphone in hand and a fellow with a video camera wedged on his shoulder followed the woman’s every move as if she were a film star.

I squinted hard at her, reassured it wasn’t Oprah. Otherwise, she didn’t look familiar. Though I didn’t watch enough television to be sure she wasn’t some kind of celebrity. With all the reality shows hitting the airwaves, she might’ve been the sole “Survivor” or someone who’d found love and a million dollars by smooching in a hot tub with a bevy of bachelors in front of the nation.

With a twist of the wheel, I swept up the curving drive that led to Mother’s house, feeling anxiety flutter within my chest as I parked in front of the whitewashed terracotta lions that stood guard on either side of the front door.

For a moment, I sat in the car, fussing with my bangs and wiping sweat from my upper lip. My usual delay tactics.

Finally, I shut off the engine, pocketed the keys, and got out, ambling toward the carved front doors. I pressed a finger to the bell, hearing its clear chimes, and rested a shoulder against yellow limestone, the surface smooth and cool against my flushed skin.

I practiced saying, “No, thank you, Mother, but I don’t need no stinkin’ dress” several times before the door swung inward, and Sandy Beck stood smiling behind it, her lined face crinkling merrily beneath the cap of gray hair. Despite the soaring mercury, she wore an ever-present cardigan. This one was yellow with tiny pearl buttons.

“Andy,” she said and opened her arms. “Always good to see you, sweetheart. Cissy said you might drop by.”

Might drop by?

“I was summoned,” I confessed before getting enveloped in a bear hug. Sandy rubbed my back, and I breathed in the scent of roses. “Seems she’s intent on dressing me tonight for Marilee’s bash.”

Sandy tugged me into the foyer, frosty with conditioned air, and closed the door behind us. “Well, she does have good taste.”

“She makes me feel like her toy poodle.”

“Oh, please, Andy, you know Cissy would never allow a dog in her house. All that chewing and shedding.”

I made a face.

“You’re her only child, sweet pea”—my fairy godmother wrapped an arm around me, walking me toward the curving staircase that would take me upstairs to Mother’s room, where she held court—“so she can’t help but . . . well . . .”

“Meddle?” I finished for her when she hesitated, keeping my voice low for my own sake. Mother had ears like a bat.

Sandy chuckled and gave me a squeeze. “I was going to say ‘dote on 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 vanished into the labyrinth that was her closet.

As I waited for her to return, I looked around me, inhaling Joy with every breath.

Mother loved pink, and her bedroom reflected it. Drapes of pearly pink damask, an embroidered raw silk duvet that softly shimmered; and buried beneath, pink Egyptian-cotton sheets with impossibly high thread counts rendering them soft as a baby’s bottom. The furniture was antique, mostly French, the wallpaper imported, and gently worn Chinese silk rugs smothered the floor, so exquisitely done that you could hardly tell which side was up and which was down.

Such a far cry from my own bedroom, full of flea-market finds and sale-priced irregular sheet sets from Bed Bath & Beyond.

Atop her bureau sat a cluster of silver-framed photographs, and I went over to look at them, as if I hadn’t seen them a dozen times before. Most of the shots were black-and-white chronicles of my parents’ time together. Cissy and Daddy on the beach in Key West. At the palace in Monaco, a villa on the French Riviera, a yacht on the Mediterranean. In London and Kenya. Posing, laughing, smiling, dancing. There were several of Baby Andrea, cradled in Daddy’s arms, him gazing down in adoration. One of Cissy and me, when I couldn’t have been more than five. We were dressed identically in blue coats with big black buttons. Mother had on white gloves and patent leather pumps. I wore bobby socks with lace and patent leather Mary Janes. We each had wide blue headbands smoothing back our hair.

So long ago
.

And what felt like a galaxy far, far away.

I ran a finger across our faces and felt a lump in my throat.

“Here we are.” I heard the swish of plastic and my mother’s voice as she swept back into the bedroom. “
Violà!
”

I’d imagined—okay, hoped for—a horrible monstrosity with yards of chiffon and ruffles, garish and overblown, something I’d have no trouble rejecting.

I turned around to see her fussing with a ripple of color spread atop the pink duvet. Tentatively, I stepped closer to see a short dress with skinny straps and gently ruffled skirt covered in tiny sequins. Deep pink, orange, and green splashed across the design like a painting by Monet.

Double rats
.

It was gorgeous.

I felt my resistance weaken.

Stay strong
, I told myself.
Be tough
.

“It’s Escada,” Mother reminded me, as if I’d forgotten our earlier conversation. She had her hands pressed together beneath her chin, almost prayerful. “Do you like it?”

Beside the dress she’d set a matching pink bag and heart-shaped pink slingbacks, also Escada, and I figured I could live for a couple months on what she’d shelled out for the ensemble.

“It’s all . . . beautiful,” I told her honestly, “but I . . . no, I can’t.” I was actually stammering. “It . . . it’s way too much . . .”

“No, it’s not,” she interrupted, coming up behind me and snaking an arm around my waist. “Nothing’s ever too much when it comes to my little girl. Let me do this for you, Andrea. Let your old mother have some fun, all right? I’d rather spend it on you now than have you give it all away to animal charities when I’m gone.”

“Well, if you put it that way.”

I stared at the lovely creation on her bed and nibbled on my lip, telling myself to be firm, to remember the reason I’d driven down here.

“Try it on,” she urged, and I felt a little like Snow White being cajoled into biting the poisoned apple.

“Oh . . . no, I couldn’t . . .”

“Sure you can, baby.”

“But I’m all sweaty.”

“Then stand in front of the full-length mirror, and we’ll improvise,” she instructed, nudging me in that direction. So I went, waiting with my arms at my sides until she’d removed the dress from its hanger and pressed it into my hands. I held it up against me, while Mother fiddled with my hair, drawing it off my neck in a makeshift chignon.

She leaned her cheek against mine. She smelled softly of perfume and powder. “You’ll look like a princess,” she whispered.

I felt like a child playing dress-up.

This wasn’t right. This wasn’t me.

And I thought of the girl in the tiny house in Grand Prairie—the one I’d been switched with at birth in my fantasy—and I figured she’d kill to wear Escada.

It was just one night, after all. Would it really be such a terrible thing?

Tipping my head, I studied my image, the sequins gently glistening in the light, little beacons screaming, “Take me, take me!”