High Heels Are Murder by Elaine Viets

other nine-year-olds in her class, was fascinated with cuss words. She knew better than to say the f-word, the b-word, or even the s-word. They were completely off-limits, punishable by revoking computer and phone privileges, even grounding. But the a-word offered intriguing possibilities.
    Zoe, the annoying midget adult in Amelia’s class, had invented the ass game. The idea was to see how many times a kid could get by with using “ass” legally around her parents. Words that had “ass” in them also counted, but not as much as the actual a-word. Josie hated the ass game, but at least it kept Amelia searching the dictionary.Tonight, Josie was in no mood. She ended the game after one try.
    “Justin said Hilary was sitting on all her assets,” Amelia said. She hit the first syllable hard.
    “That’s enough,” Josie said. “I don’t want to hear you talk like that again.”
    “Like what? It’s in the dictionary,” Amelia said.
    “‘Sitting on her assets’ has a double meaning,” Josie said. “I don’t want you to say that about any woman, ever. It’s demeaning.”
    Amelia stuck out her lower lip. Josie sighed. She wished she could sound as wise as the people in the parenting magazines.
    Dinner was fast and sullen. Amelia dropped silverware and slammed plates on the table. Homework wasn’t much better. Amelia had to memorize the Gettysburg Address. She stumbled over the same section again and again.
    “But, in a larger sense, we cannot dedicate—we cannot consecrate—we cannot hollow” she said, in a singsong voice.
    “It’s ‘hallow’,” Josie said for the umpteenth time. “It means we cannot make it sacred.”
    “It’s stupid,” Amelia said.
    “It is not,” Josie said. “It’s one of the greatest speeches of all time. It’s also the shortest. It’s about honoring the people who died before us, so that we can live in freedom. It’s about—”
    Josie realized her speech was longer than Lincoln’s. Amelia looked tired. “It’s about eight thirty,” she finished and stroked her daughter’s glossy dark hair. “Why don’t we call it a night? We’ll go over it again in the morning.”
    Amelia raced down the hall to her room, her phone, and her computer, grateful to be free. Josie flopped on the couch and closed her eyes. The next thing she knew, the doorbell was ringing, loudly, insistently. Josie jumped up and shook herself like a sleepy pup. What time was it?
    The wall clock said nine thirty, late for visitors in thisneighborhood. Something must be wrong. She cautiously peered out the peephole on the front door.
    Mrs. Mueller was standing on Josie’s porch, looking like her old formidable self. Her hair was once more sprayed into submission, her back was straight, and her chins were firm.
    Josie opened the door cautiously. The great Mrs. Mueller never went to anyone’s house on this street. Important committee meetings were held at her home. She swept into Josie’s living room and chose the best chair as her throne.
    “Mrs. Mueller,” Josie said in surprise. “I’ll go get Mom.”
    “No, I need to talk to you,” Mrs. Mueller said. “Sit down.”
    Josie sat in her own living room on the second-best chair. “Can I get you some coffee or a soda?”
    “No,” Mrs. Mueller said. There was a long silence.
    Josie finally said, “What can I do for you?”
    “It’s Cheryl. She’s in trouble.” Most mothers would burst into tears at those words. But Mrs. Mueller had subdued countless unruly boards of directors. Her eyes were drier than Arizona.
    “The police arrested her, as you know. Cheryl’s attorney said it was a sneaky way to get her fingerprints. They got a search warrant for her house, too. The police are trying to pin a murder on my little girl.”
    Josie blinked. She would have voted Mrs. M least likely to say those words.
    “Do you know why?” Josie asked.
    “Not officially. But my nephew George is a police officer in Richmond Heights. He called in some favors