Free Murder on the First Day of Christmas (Chloe Carstairs Mysteries) by Billie Thomas

marks with her fingers as if the disdain in her voice wasn’t enough. “Combat boots, black leather pants, no shirt. I know, so I said wear whatever you want. I mean, put on a shirt obviously, but come on. It’s a party, and we haven’t been to a party together in so long, at least one that didn’t get busted up by the cops.”
         Why did you have to ask about Dan, I telegraphed to my mother, as if she wasn’t already asking herself the same question. Catch Dana in the middle of one of her rants about Dan, and she goes from polished and pulled together to girl uninterrupted with alarming ease.
         “But then he gets all huffy and says that if I’m going to be that way about it, maybe I should just go alone. And I’m like ‘what way?’ and he’s all like, ‘Oh so I never take you to any parties, I never take you anywhere nice.’ And I’m like, as a matter of fact…”
         “Oooh, prawns!” I tried to move off down the buffet, but Mom blocked my escape.
         Dana didn’t seem to notice we had lost interest. In fact, she seemed fully prepared to recount the fight in real time for Mom’s benefit, lest there be any doubt as to how unreasonable her fiancé was and what a saint she was to put up with him. And remember, this girl is a lawyer. Arguing her point is what she does for a living. God help us.
         “I mean we’re not even married, and it’s like the romance is already dead. Well, not dead, but on life support. And he’s like, you’re such a princess, you’re such a yuppie, which is his idea of, like, the worst insult ever.”
         It was then that I had a feeling of déjà vu, a sense of talking at a party when something strange happened. Oddly, a silence had rippled its way across the laughter and chatter of what had been a lively party. I thought people were reacting to Dana’s tirade that had grown steadily louder.
         “So I’m like, oh yeah? Well, guess what? You’re…”
         But the silence wasn’t around us and moving outward. It had started at the door and moved toward us, until finally Dana was the only one speaking.
         “…such an asshole!” Dana covered her mouth.
         “That’s telling him.” Mom quickly put down her plate. “Excuse me dear.” She made her way to the Browley’s soaring foyer.  There, looking both nervous and defiant, stood Robin Woodall.
         Rustling in peacock blue taffeta, Nancy reached Robin at the same time as Mom.
         “Robin, you came!” The consummate hostess, Nancy made it sound like a good thing, not the utter surprise it obviously was.
         “I just wanted to get out of the house tonight.” Robin’s tone was almost apologetic.
         “I’m glad you did,” Nancy stated firmly, though a tightness around her mouth told a different story.
         “And you look lovely,” Mom added.
         True. Her jade gown - Narciso Rodriguez, if I wasn’t mistaken - was a little over the top for woman in mourning, but it did set off her green eyes quite nicely.
         “Come look at all the good things on the buffet.” Mom took her arm. “Nancy’s put out quite a spread.”
         “I am a little hungry,” Robin said gratefully.
         They headed for the dining room, and the crowd noise picked up, although it carried an anxious, whispering tone with it. I didn’t even have to guess at the topic of conversation.
         Instinctively, my eyes searched the crowd for Angela as I, too, headed for the buffet. She wasn’t talking to Jack Lassiter anymore. He was staring intently at Robin, while Dad waited patiently for him to resume their conversation.
         Mom smiled at Dad, and he smiled back, a hundred things communicated in their exchange, not the least of which was we’ve got to get some new friends.
         Finally, I spotted Angela back in her chair in the keeping room. Her smile was mocking, and I turned away. That chick needed a