Free The Good Girl's Guide to Murder by Susan McBride Page A

unauthorized biography was in the works, supposedly being written by a thus-far anonymous reporter who was well acquainted with her subject. If any dirt were unearthed, it would surely be gobbled up by the masses.
    Thus far, Marilee had managed to stay under the radar. The National Enquirer still seemed unaware of her existence. But that surely wouldn’t last long, not once The Sweet Life debuted on television sets across the nation.
    I’d dug up articles and interviews online, mostly back issues from D Magazine and Texas Monthly , that didn’t reveal much about my new client except that she’d built her business from scratch after a divorce had left her a penniless single mom. There was barely a mention of her life before that, except to say she came from a hole in the wall called Stybr, Texas, and had attended Texas Christian briefly before dropping out to marry her college sweetheart.
    Still, I couldn’t help but wonder if there wasn’t more to it than that.
    Because I’d come to realize that the image Marilee had created was based more on fantasy than reality. She peddled an illusion of herself as Earth Mother cum Household Whiz, and people seemed to eat it up. Everything she touched suddenly seemed in great demand. Her books and audiotapes sold like hotcakes. There were whispers that she was about to embark on a joint venture with a large retail chain—linens, cookware, furnishings, and paint, all bearing “The Sweet Life” brand—that would net her millions. Well, even more millions, considering her syndication deal was worth a bundle. She wasn’t quite in Oprah’s territory yet, but she was hell-bent in that direction.
    Though all the money in the world couldn’t buy friends.
    Okay, real friends.
    From what I’d seen, Marilee had very few people she trusted, besides her daughter Kendall (and even that seemed iffy).
    And, of course, Marilee’s staunchest supporter: Her Highness of Highland Park. The venerable Cissy Blevins Kendricks.
    Now, there was a story to make an unauthorized biographer drool.
    Mother had met Mari while volunteering at a food bank half a dozen years ago, shortly after Marilee’s divorce. Marilee’s finances had been tight, and she’d been fighting to stay off welfare. While my mother had filled up the food pantry bags, Marilee had started talking. She’d been working at the cleaners by day and writing at night. She’d even sent in samples of her proposed column to the Morning News without luck. To make a long story short, Cissy had stepped in and changed the course of Marilee’s life forever. Though my mother didn’t generally brag about her good deeds (to anyone but me), I never doubted she’d had a hand in Marilee’s swift rise in Big D. Cissy knew all the right people, and Marilee hadn’t known a soul, not then.
    Now Marilee had the world knocking down her door.
    My mother never publicly—or even privately—took credit for her involvement. It was just one of the many “projects” she’d thrown herself into after Daddy died.
    When I’d asked Cissy what else she knew of Marilee’s background, she’d fed me the “you know I don’t like to gossip, darlin’” line before she’d spilled a few measly beans.
    She told me that Marilee used to run around barefoot on a chicken ranch, hardly the Beaver Cleaver upbringing that Marilee alluded to in those interviews where she mentioned her childhood at all.
    The “barefoot” part was tough to imagine.
    The hard-edged businesswoman on display at the office would never run around without shoes much less without full makeup. I’d never even seen her wearing jeans, except on her show’s gardening segment. Otherwise, it was most often twin-sets and trousers or Chanel suits, much like my mother.
    In fact, I often wondered if Marilee hadn’t mimicked Cissy’s style on purpose in order to land on the annual “Best Dressed List” alongside my mother in the Park Cities Press .
    Though I guess that wasn’t a crime. You