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

instead of Carson’s.
    Hop to it , I told myself, deciding things would go a lot faster without Marilee looking over my shoulder and grilling me like the Spanish Inquisition.
    After doing a quick inspection of the web cam locations and finding everything as I’d left it, I headed away from the soundstage, down a mazelike rear hallway, with various cubicles and offices shooting off right and left.
    Though the overhead strip lights were on to illuminate my passage, most of the rooms appeared dark and deserted. The members of Marilee’s production staff were either en route or out in the studio, buzzing around like worker bees under the close inspection of their queen.
    My destination was the queen’s office. I’d been there quite a few times in the past two weeks, and it was a sight to behold. The space was at least the size of my condo if not a couple hundred feet beyond. It was as plush and pretty as the pages of House Beautiful magazine, and I fleetingly considered hiding out there for the duration.
    I approached the closed door, marked with a star (of course) and MARILEE MABRY lettered in delicate calligraphy. With a twist, I turned the knob and pushed my way in, reaching for the light switch and flipping it on.
    Realizing, too late, that I wasn’t alone.

Chapter 7
    A sudden squawk emerged from the silence: a masculine, “Oh, Christ,” along with a feminine squeal along the lines of “eeeek!”
    Then two bodies popped off the butter-cream leather sofa, each grabbing at various items of loosened clothing, hastily buttoning and zipping.
    I stood in the doorway, strangely mesmerized, not sure of what to do exactly. As far as I knew, this wasn’t a subject covered by Emily Post.
    So what’s a not-so-good girl to do?
    I gawked.
    The man came toward me first—once he’d shrugged back into a dove-gray jacket, white shirt unbuttoned at the collar, sans tie—combing fingers through silky blond hair, face flushed but otherwise cool as the proverbial cucumber. He checked the red rose boutonnière in his lapel, reassuring himself it was there.
    A red rose , I noted, just like the rest of the hired help .
    If Marilee was making a statement by having Justin wear one, I wondered if he realized what that meant.
    He approached, ducking his handsome head to avoid looking me in the eye. He murmured, “excuse me,” before he rushed past, leaving only the faint scent of almonds in his wake, making an escape that would’ve done Houdini proud.
    Before he disappeared entirely, I glanced with blatant admiration at his well-shaped posterior. It was plain enough to me why Marilee kept him around and showered him with expensive treats.
    Woo-doggy, indeed .
    But wasn’t he playing it awfully fast and loose, messing with his lover’s teenaged daughter?
    I tried to come up with a good excuse for what Justin had been doing with Kendall—a quick check of her body fat that required both of them to disrobe, perhaps?—knowing that their activities had less to do with any real personal training than with cuckolding Marilee on her own sofa.
    Tsk, tsk.
    The young woman took her time setting herself to rights, adjusting a black under-wire bra and slipping her sticklike arms into a pair of spaghetti straps, before tugging a zipper up her side.
    I summoned a calm I didn’t feel and shut the door behind me. Stepping farther into the room, I shook my head with disbelief.
    “Kendall, Kendall, Kendall,” I murmured, for want of anything remotely witty. “What on earth are you doing with your mother’s boyfriend? And in her office, too?” I clucked tongue against teeth. “You must be clueless or completely insane.”
    “Don’t you know how to knock?”
    The heavily made-up eighteen-year-old scowled as she fiddled with the elaborate French twist on the back of her head, trying unsuccessfully to tuck dismantled strands back in place. She looked like a skinny kid playing dress-up.
    “Don’t you know how to lock a door?” I said.
    I mean,