A Set of Sisters: A We Sisters Three Box Set (Books 1-3)

by Melissa F. Miller

“Is that what he did to you?” I asked softly. For an instant, a shadow of pain replaced the rage in her face, and she blinked. “Yes, of course. He’s a coward. Afraid that the vapid twit would tell his daddy about him and the Mexican girl. He didn’t want to risk losing his allowance. Eh, Felix?”

standing closer to me than societal norms would dictate.

vegetable dye paints we'd made ourselves using beets, carrots, and spinach rescued from the compost bin.

In the background, faint world music played—the latest from Putumayo Kids.

The island's Chinese Kite Festival was coming up, and they were so excited to make the kites they'd be flying over the beach. All in all, it was a picture perfect morning in the life of an attachment parenting consultant, also known as a nanny, also known as yours truly.

Muffy rarely came into the craft room—not because she wasn't interested in her kids' art, but because, for someone so polished and put together, she was surprisingly clumsy.

"Chip's eight iron was lying next to the body, covered in blood. Sage, they took him to the police station for questioning. The police think Chip killed him."

"Wow, that's colorful. Let's put it on the counter to dry," I said as I carefully transferred the newspaper kite, heavy with multiple coats of paint, to the counter that sat under the windows. "We can show it to your mom when she gets back."

the 'command center'—a large chalkboard/whiteboard/bulletin board monstrosity that took up almost one whole wall of the room.

My entire child care philosophy could be summed up by a handful of maxims: don't lie to the kids; model respect and self-respect; and meet them where they are.

"Can you talk?" Ever since she'd quit her job as a personal chef and started her own catering company, she had more flexibility, but more responsibility. I never knew when she'd be available. But I knew that right now, I wanted to talk to my big sister.

she still swallowed the Moores' public persona of carefree wealth. Sure, Chip and Muffy seemed prosperous. They lived in a breathtaking beach house on Hilton Head Island. They belonged to an exclusive country club. Their faces were plastered all over the society pages, showing them at black-tie galas, silent auctions, theater openings, you name it. But it was a carefully constructed house of cards. The Moores came from landed gentry—old money—but while they had all the trappings of wealth, they had very little actual financial stability. Not that it was any of my business.

I knew, though, that they were cash-poor. My degree is in accounting, and I'd worked briefly as a forensic accountant for the government

Chip's endorsement contracts with various brands were all that was keeping the Moores afloat.

Just because you think you know this man, doesn't mean you do. I'm speaking from experience here—there are lots of people out in the world who aren't who they appear to be. People have secrets. And sometimes they're deadly."

He's just an extremely decent man—pleasant and maybe a little bland. But wasn't that what every co-worker and neighbor of a convicted murderer always said to the local reporter? He was such a nice guy. We can't believe he was capable of murder. It’s unimaginable to think the police found all those heads in his freezer; why, he plays the bells in the church choir!

although I'd watched enough CSI to know that not having a motive and being innocent were, like, twenty-two minutes apart with commercial breaks.

I'm worried about Chip's image. He's the All-American. Clean-cut. Maybe if he were a bad boy, we could weather this. But this is too off-brand. It's not good." And just like that, Muffy Moore uttered the coldest words I'd ever heard her speak.

television reporters from the Savannah and Charleston affiliates. They'd set up outside the front door and, so far, had been courteous enough to stay right there. I imagined it wouldn't take long for Southern politeness to give way to journalistic cut-throatedness

Our dinner of shrimp, grits, and a green salad was interrupted only by the occasional gull swooping by the wall of windows on its way to the ocean to catch its own dinner.

Sage showed us how to use old veggies to make paint,"

"You boil them for a long time then wait for them to cool down."

"We made the kites out of newspaper and water. Mine's a dragon. Skylar made a panda." "A dragon and a panda," Chip repeated. "Nice." "Not just a panda," Skylar said indignantly. "A ninja panda."

It seemed like this was just an ordinary dinner in the happy life of a relatively privileged family. But the respite was brief.

Muffy didn't really have a lot of rules, but the ones she did have were more or less sacrosanct. And the most important of them all was 'no interruptions during family meals.' Television was banned from her dinner table. The house phone's ringer was silenced. All adults were expected to turn off their cell phones and deposit them in the tasteful rosewood bowl that sat on her kitchen island for the express purpose of holding guests' and family members' electronic devices while they shared a meal.

"It's okay, guys. Daddy is waiting for a very important call," she explained. "More important than quality family time?" Skylar asked.

"Kung Fu Panda."

the island was small, both in terms of land mass and in the sense that everyone knew everyone else's business.

Skylar and Dylan fell for the oldest trick in the parenting book. Distracted by the prospect of a rare mid-week visit to the ice cream parlor, they abandoned their quest for information and started shoveling shrimp and grits into their mouths in double time. "Slow down," Muffy and I said in unison.

It's my endorsement deals. I'm tainted as a brand ambassador, now.

Ah, the sponsorships and endorsements. Muffy's earlier comment now seemed prophetic rather than cold.

I adjusted the chamomile teabags that were draped over my eyes. I'd brewed the tea to drink, so I could start the day with a relatively low stress level. But when I saw my red, puffy eyes in the mirror, I figured the bags could be pressed into double duty to calm my eyes and reduce the redness and swelling—an old trick my mom had taught me and my sisters.

Twister? Shaving cream finger painting? Edible play dough? Dance party in the living room. No. This called for the big guns. Butter. Sugar. Chocolate. The utter destruction of Muffy's spotless kitchen. "Come on," I trilled. "Let's bake cookies." Skylar whooped with glee, and Dylan raised his fists overhead like a conquering hero. "Yes!" he shouted. They scurried to return the playroom to order, working together to clean up so cheerfully that for a few moments I felt just like Mary Poppins.

"Nice work, team," I managed. "To the kitchen!"

"We did! All by ourselves," she said, bouncing happily on the balls of her feet. Then she shrugged. "Well, we let Sage help."

“Chip says the PGA is doing its own investigation. Even if he’s not found guilty of killing Fred, they might still boot him off the tour for the sake of appearances. And he’s probably going to lose his sponsor exemptions.”

“Basically, he can’t keep paying me now in the hopes that he’ll be allowed to go on tour later. It’s messed up.”

Two, if you weren't an idiot, your goal would be to blend. So, some kind of pink and green Lilly Pulitzer get-up would be better than dressing like a cat burglar.

sartorial

a lemon yellow polo dress and pastel pink cardigan.

I rolled my eyes and wished someone had gotten around to inventing honest-to-goodness videophones. FaceTime just wasn't the same.

He's a suspect, all right, but he's also a good old boy. Fashion's not the only thing that's different down here, you know."

Muffy rarely missed the weekly cocktail party. She claimed it was the best source of information on the island—she

"Pretty rich that the Moores' help would show their faces here when everyone knows Chip skipped town with his tail between his legs," she elaborated.

"It's strange then that Muffy was supposed to host a luncheon this weekend and asked me to step in for her at the last minute, don't you think?"

Everybody knows his sponsors are dropping him faster than you can say 'scandal' and the club's calling an emergency meeting of the membership to vote him out." The triumphant note in her voice was unmistakable.

Shoot, I think anybody being honest would say it's an ugly mess, for sure." He paused and shifted his weight from foot to foot. "Ain't nobody mourning Fred though. It's a good riddance sort of situation."

I don't think even Marilee's weeping over her husband's death. The only reason she's not sitting over there knocking back wine spritzers with the rest of us is that it would look bad."

But I told you, nobody liked him much. I guess you could say the vibe around the course was that Fred kind of ... sucked." "As a golfer?" "Mainly as a person," he said in a soft, sad voice.

"Well, he had a knack for figuring out a person's weakness or flaw—the thing that embarrassed him the most—and just homing in on it. He'd taunt guys, kind of bully them." "He sounds delightful." He nodded. "And I wouldn't go so far as to call him a cheater, but he sure did play all the angles. He wasn't exactly a good sport on the course."