Excerpt:

When it came to wicked stepmothers, Cinderella had nothing on me. My stepmother, Rose, was pure evil. That’s why, when I got the call about my father’s death, I knew she was somehow responsible. I just had to prove it.

Since I hadn’t spoken to my father for years, I was wearing an abundance of guilt right along with my best dress when I slunk into St. Philomena’s just as his funeral service was about to start. I was surprised to see that not many faces had changed since I had been gone. I even saw Pinky Jones, dressed in his best department store suit, sitting in the third pew. I hadn’t seen Pinky since graduation, when we shared a fifth behind the bleachers and discussed our life goals—mine being to get away from Lake Loon and my stepmother; his being to play professional ball for the Bears. He never did make the team. I, however, achieved my goal that very night when I packed my bag and caught a Greyhound north. I hadn’t been back since. Something, that now as I gazed upon my father’s casket, I regretted.

Unfortunately, Rose, my stepmother, who was always easy to pick out in a crowd, hadn’t changed a bit. I spotted her right away, seated in the front pew and dressed as her usual flamboyant self—bright red hair, even brighter lipstick, and eye shadow three layers deep. This morning, she stood out among the darkly dressed mourners like a hooker at an Amish quilting bee. Nonetheless, I felt obligated to sit next to her. After all, being that I was the only real family left, I had as much right as her to be in the front pew.

With some clever sidestepping, I did manage to make it through the service and the burial without actually speaking to my stepmother. However, my luck ended afterwards at the luncheon when we came face to face over a dish of tater tot casserole.

Narrowing her eyes, Rose made a bold move and snatched up the serving spoon just as I was reaching for it. “Well, Julie, you decided to come back,” she started in her nauseating voice. “It would have been nice if you would have visited while your father was still alive.”

The buffet crowd grew silent—all ears preened for my reply, but I bit my lip and moved down the line, past a heaping bowl of fried chicken legs and straight to a large, spiral-cut ham.

Rose, however, just couldn’t let it drop. She pursued me like a hungry coyote with a wounded rabbit in sight. “But that doesn’t surprise me,” she continued. “You were always an unappreciative little brat. And, to think that I gave up my best years to raise you. Why, I had a promising career as an actress before I met—”

I wheeled around, facing her. For a fleeting second I considered using the long-tined ham fork to skewer one of her eyeballs. “The only successful role you ever played was that of major bitch!” That drew a collective gasp from crowd.

“Now, ladies!” Father O’Neil interrupted. “Let’s remember where we are.”

“Sorry, Father. You're right,” I said, out of respect for the collar. Inside, however, I was wondering why he wasn’t pulling out the holy water and commencing with an exorcism—the Devil was standing just three feet away from him. Although, in his defense, maybe he just didn’t recognize Rose for what she was. After all, in Rose’s case, the Devil wasn’t wearing Prada; it was wearing Jaclyn Smith and two inches of Maybelline.