The PMS Murder (10 page)

I was right in the middle of an X-rated fantasy of me and Andrew on our honeymoon in Tahiti when I remembered Marybeth’s murder. And just like that, my bubble burst. For crying out loud, they’d never hire me once they found out I was a murder suspect. Banks tended to be fussy about stuff like that.

I hauled myself out of the tub, in a deep funk.

But then, as I dried my hair, I began to look on the bright side. After all, I reminded myself, nobody in the media had mentioned my name. Andrew and Mr. Weinstock had no way of knowing I was involved with the PMS murder. And technically, I wasn’t a suspect. The cops hadn’t accused me of anything. All they’d said was that they wanted to question me. And maybe even that wouldn’t come to pass. For all I knew, they’d already arrested Marybeth’s murderer and I’d never hear from them again.

It was at that moment, just when I was wiggling into my pantyhose and feeling hopeful again, that the phone rang. I hobbled over to get it. Wouldn’t you know? It was the police. They wanted me down at police headquarters for questioning later that afternoon.

Okay, big deal,
I told myself when I hung up. Just 96

Laura Levine

because they wanted to ask me a few questions didn’t make me a murder suspect. All it made me was a witness. I forced myself to be upbeat as I finished dressing and put on my makeup. At last I was ready for my interview. Bathed, blown dry, shaved, plucked, and Prada-ed.

I surveyed myself in the mirror. Not bad, not bad at all.

I checked my attaché case for any unwanted gifts from Prozac. Say, a hairball or a Tampax or some delightful eau de kitty piss. I breathed a sigh of relief to find nothing amiss. Then I grabbed my car keys and started for the door.

“Aren’t you going to wish me luck?” I asked Prozac, who was still sprawled out on the sofa. “It would mean an awful lot to me. You know how much I love you.”

Tell it to the tush.

And with that, she rolled over, showing me exactly where I could put my love.

I showed up at Union National, where Queen Elizabeth the receptionist greeted me with an icy smile and pointed me down a plushly carpeted hallway toward Sam Weinstock’s office.

Now I don’t know what you think of when you hear the name Sam Weinstock. I pictured a short, fat fellow with more hair in his ears than on his head.

Well, I pictured wrong.

For starters, Sam was short for Samantha. And far from being short, fat and bald, Sam was tall, slender and impossibly beautiful. Her finely chis-eled features were straight out of a Clinique ad.

Her gleaming auburn hair was parted in the cen-THE PMS MURDERS

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ter, a fringe of perfectly cut bangs framing her face. Not a single hair on that spectacular head dared to stray out of place.

She and Andrew were laughing about something when I poked my head in the door. It was an intimate laugh. Something about the way they looked at each other told me they were more than just coworkers.

“Jaine!” Andrew said, jumping up from where he’d been comfortably slouched on Sam’s sofa.

“Come on in,” he said, waving me inside. His hair, I couldn’t help noticing, was still curling most seductively at the nape of his neck.

“I’d like you to meet our CFO, Samantha Weinstock.”

“Everyone calls me Sam,” the auburn-haired stunner said.

She stood to greet me, her hip bones protrud-ing from her slim pencil skirt. I felt like a tugboat in comparison.

“Hi,” I said, no doubt bowling her over with my conversational skills.

“Lovely to meet you,” she said, shaking my hand.

For such a tiny little thing, she had a surprisingly strong grip.

She looked me up and down, taking in my un-ruly curls and my drugstore makeup. Under her wilting gaze, my Prada pantsuit suddenly felt like one of Ethel Mertz’s housedresses.

Obviously deciding I was no competition for Andrew’s affections, she permitted herself a faint smile.

“Sit down, and let’s have a look at your writing.”

“I think you’re going to be very impressed with what Jaine’s going to show you,” Andrew said, winking at me. “I know I was.” 98

Laura Levine

Was it my imagination or had he just made a sneaky allusion to my pantyhose?

“She’s really an excellent writer,” he added.

“I’ll be the judge of that,” Sam said, with a tight laugh. It was meant to be a joke, but we all knew she wasn’t kidding.

I reached down into my attaché case. In spite of the fact that I’d checked it for booby traps, I was still nervous. Could Prozac somehow have managed to sneak in something that I’d overlooked? I took a deep breath and pulled out my sample book, saying a tiny prayer of thanks when no kitty turd tumbled out onto Sam’s desk.

She looked through my writing samples slowly, not saying a word, turning the pages with all the enthusiasm of an undertaker.

Finally, when I was convinced she was about to send me packing, she slapped the book shut and said, “Nice work. Very nice indeed.” She liked it! She actually liked it! Did this mean she was going to offer me the job?

Apparently not. Not yet.

“I’d like to know a little more about your work history,” she said. “Tell me about yourself, Jaine.” She folded her arms across her chest and sat back in her chair, waiting to be impressed.

“Well, I started out as a hooker, but then I hit hard times and had to take up writing.” Okay, so I didn’t really say that. I didn’t say anything. Because just then, Sam’s secretary, another elderly aristocrat, came to the door and reminded Sam that she and Andrew were late for their lunch reservations.

“Damn,” Sam said, checking her watch. “You know how crowded it gets at Simon’s. If we don’t get there, they may not save our table. Why don’t THE PMS MURDERS

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you come with us, Jaine, and we can continue the interview there?”

“Fine,” I said. I’d heard about Simon’s. It was a hot new steak house, an expense account destination, where the three-inch thick sirloins cost as much as a midsized Hyundai.

I couldn’t wait to wrap myself around one of those steaks. Medium rare. With a heaping side of thick-cut fries. I was salivating already.

We rode over in Andrew’s car, a jet black BMW

convertible. Up to then, I’d always thought guys who drove BMWs were arrogant jerks, but suddenly BMWs didn’t seem so pretentious, after all. I was certain Andrew must have bought his for the expert German engineering, that he wasn’t even thinking about using his car as a shallow status symbol. Come to think of it, hadn’t I read somewhere that
Consumer Reports
actually liked the BMW? Why, for all I knew, Ralph Nader drove one.

Sam and Andrew sat up front, while I jammed myself into the tiny backseat, my knees poking uncomfortably into my chest.

Like most convertible owners in Los Angeles, Andrew had the top down to take full advantage of the invigorating Southland smog. As the BMW tore along the streets, the wind turned my normally un-ruly mop into a Brillo patch. Needless to say, it didn’t touch Sam’s. It wouldn’t dare. She got out of the car looking every bit as perfect as when she got in.

I, on the other hand, got out bearing an un-canny resemblance to the Bride of Frankenstein. I caught a glimpse of myself in the restaurant’s plate glass window and choked back a gasp. It looked like my hair had been styled with a salad spinner.

The minute we were in the restaurant, I excused 100

Laura Levine

myself and dashed to the ladies room. I tried to tame down my curls, but it was hopeless. Finally, I gave up and headed back to the table. Oh, well. At least there was a steak at the end of the rainbow.

I joined Sam and Andrew, who were ensconced side by side in a plush leather booth. If she were sitting any closer, she would’ve been in his lap. I wondered if they, like Kandi and Steve, would soon be playing footsy under the table.

I slid in across from them, blushing as my slacks made a godawful squeaky noise against the leather.

“The steaks here are marvelous,” Andrew said.

“You’ve got to try one.”

“Oh, Andy,” Sam said. “Jaine’s not going to order a steak. Not if she expects to keep her girlish figure.” Hey, if I didn’t know any better, I’d have sworn that was a dig. And I
did
know better, and it
was
a dig.

“You men are so lucky. You can pack it away and it never shows, but not us. Right, Porky?” Okay, she didn’t really call me Porky, but after that girlish figure crack, I knew that’s what she was thinking.

When the waiter showed up, Andrew ordered the top sirloin medium rare with fries. With all my heart and soul, I wanted to say, “I’ll have that, too.” But I couldn’t, not with Sam having practically ordered me not to. So I ordered what Sam was having, the chopped salad.

“So,” Sam said, when the waiter was gone, “tell us about yourself, Jaine.”

I launched into my spiel, telling her how I’d worked for years as an advertising copywriter before striking out on my own as a freelance writer, how I enjoyed the challenges of varied accounts THE PMS MURDERS

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and the satisfaction that comes from a job well done, all the while trying not to use the word
Toiletmasters
too much.

Finally, when I’d finished my tap dance, our lunch showed up. Andrew’s steak was sizzling on the plate, a pat of butter melting on top. His thick-cut fries were golden brown and glistening with crystals of salt. It was all I could do to keep myself from reaching over and grabbing one.

I looked down at my chopped salad and cursed the day God ever invented lettuce.

I had no idea what we talked about during lunch.

I was too busy watching as Andrew demolished his steak, piece by succulent piece. Oh, Lord, this was torture. At one point, a bit of ketchup from his fries landed on his chin. I swear, I almost leaned across the table and licked it off.

Then suddenly I realized Andrew was talking to me.

“What’s that?” I said.

“Are you sure you’ve had enough to eat?” he asked, looking down at my plate.

I followed his gaze and saw to my amazement that I’d picked my plate clean. Somehow, I’d managed to shovel down every last shard of my salad.

“Oh, yes. I’m stuffed,” I said, my stomach rum-bling with hunger. “I couldn’t eat another bite.”

“Of course,” he said, nodding solemnly. Was it my imagination, or was that a smile I saw lurking at the corners of his mouth?

Eventually, having barely touched half her salad, Sam proclaimed herself full.

“We don’t want dessert, do we?” she asked.

“Hell, yes!” were the words I wish I’d been brave enough to utter. Instead, I just shook my head no as Sam signaled the waiter for the check.

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Laura Levine

“So, Jaine,” she said, turning back to me. “Would you like to be editor of the Union National
Tattler
?” Was this a trick question? If I said yes, would she say,
Haha
.
Fooled ya. You can’t have it!
?

“Yes, I would,” I took a chance and assured her.

“Well, then,” she said, with a stiff smile, “the job is yours.”

“Congratulations!” Andrew beamed. “Welcome aboard. When can you start?”

“As soon as you like.”

“Great. I’ll call you tomorrow and set up a meeting with the branch managers.” Sam settled the bill and we headed out to the parking lot. I was practically walking on air. Forgotten was my ghastly chopped salad; the only green I saw now were the paychecks heading my way.

The three of us stood in the parking lot, making idle chat while the valet got Andrew’s BMW. Then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw Sam slip her hand into Andrew’s pants pocket. It was a subtle gesture, but I got the distinct impression that she wanted me to see it, like a cat marking her terri-tory.

When he realized he had more in his pocket than his spare change, Andrew flushed and shot Sam a shy smile.

Obviously Sam Weinstock was living out my bathtub fantasies.

I picked up my Corolla from the Union National parking lot and headed home, ravenous. There hadn’t been enough food in that salad to keep an anorexic rabbit alive.

I almost felt like driving back to the restaurant and ordering a steak. But I didn’t have a paycheck THE PMS MURDERS

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in my hot little hand yet, I reminded myself. So instead, I stopped off at the first eatery that I came across, a bastion of haute cuisine called Tommy’s Taco Stand.

I ordered the beef burrito and a Coke, and I practically jumped over the counter to fix it, I was that hungry.

As I waited what seemed like an agonizingly long time for the guy behind the counter to get my food, my mind kept drifting back to the sight of Sam’s hand sliding into Andrew’s pocket. I know I should’ve been doing cartwheels of joy about my new job, but all I could think of was Sam sitting with Andrew in
my
fantasy house in Malibu in
my
fantasy hot tub with
my
fantasy strawberries dipped in chocolate.

At last, my burrito came, and I tore into it like the starving woman that I was. I didn’t even bother to take a seat at Tommy’s outdoor wooden picnic table. I just stood at the curb gobbling down the burrito at the speed of light.

So there I was, my mouth full to capacity, burrito grease dribbling down my chin, when I happened to glance up at the cars at the stoplight.

Suddenly the burrito turned to cement in my mouth. There, sitting at the light in his black BMW

convertible, watching in disbelief as I stuffed my face, was Andrew Ferguson.

Then the light turned green, and he sped away.

It’s at times like this that you have to look on the bright side. I mean, some day, when I’m in my eighties and taking a memoir-writing class, at least I’ll have something to write about when the teacher asks us for an essay on “My Most Humiliating Moment.”

Chapter 11

An hour later, I was sitting across from Lt. Luke Clemmons, trying not to stare at his cowlick and the way it jutted out from his scalp like a hairy question mark.

I finally managed to avert my gaze to his desk. It was immaculate. Not a hint of clutter anywhere.