I
planned to write a Malice Domestic recap, filled with insights from a Malice
newbie. But the sad truth is I have a cold that leaves me with a tissue
permanently clasped in my hand and a cough that makes typos likely. Instead, I
offer you a quick peek at Clouds in my Coffee which will release on Tuesday, May 10th.
Max took off at a run. I followed more
slowly. Aunt Sis must truly be driving Mother nuts if Daddy had bundled her out
of the house and delivered her to me in less than fifteen minutes.
I donned a
welcoming expression and opened the door.
Marjorie
stood on the other side.
My smile
morphed into slack-jawed shock.
Max whined softly.
“What are
you doing here?”
“Is that
any way to greet your sister?” She bent, picked up a Gucci suitcase, and
brushed past me, stopping in the front hall to assess my house. “Did you paint?
Is this the same color as the last time I was here?”
“No. I mean,
yes. I mean, no, I didn’t paint. It’s the same color.” Surprise had rendered me
witless. “Mother said you couldn’t come.” Yet Marjorie was here, flawlessly
made up and dressed as if she’d stepped off the pages of Vogue in a pair of decadent wool slacks and a silk shirt far too
fashionable (unbuttoned) for my foyer. I suppose when you’re married to the
condom king of Cleveland, looking more chic than Halston’s muse is probably the
strongest armor available. My armor is designed by Diane von Furstenberg.
My sister
dropped her expensive suitcase but kept her Hermes handbag hooked in the crook
of her elbow. “I changed my mind.”
“Does
Mother know you’re coming?”
“I thought
I’d surprise her.”
I gaped.
Mother liked surprises the way Nixon liked Woodward and Bernstein.
Marjorie
stepped forward and kissed the air next to my cheek. “It’s lovely to see you.”
“You too.”
I returned her air kiss and upped the ante with a half-hug.
“I can’t
wait to hear all the things you’ve been up to. Mother says you’re dating Hunter
Tafft.”
Typical.
Marjorie skipped right over multiple murders to ask about a man. “Not exactly.”
A slight
furrow appeared between her brows. “But Mother said—”
“Mother is
wrong.”
She tilted
her head and smiled the superior smile of an older sister—one who was prettier,
more experienced, more popular, and certainly better dressed. “Who’s taking you
to Mother’s gala?”
My fingers
smoothed the wales of my corduroys. “Hunter Tafft.” His name somehow slipped
through the tightly barred gate of my teeth.
“There you
have it! You are dating Hunter.”
“A date and
dating are not the same thing.” Why did I sound like my teenage self?
She lifted
her gaze to the ceiling and shook her head slightly. “When it’s a date to Mother’s
gala, they are.”
I had a
sneaking suspicion she might be right.
And, I'd be remiss if I didn't mention that book two in the Country Club Murders,
Julie Mulhern is the USA Today bestselling author of The Country Club Murders.
She is a Kansas City native who grew up on a steady diet of Agatha Christie. She spends her spare time whipping up gourmet meals for her family, working out at the gym and finding new ways to keep her house spotlessly clean--and she's got an active imagination. Truth is--she's an expert at calling for take-out, she grumbles about walking the dog and the dust bunnies under the bed have grown into dust lions.
