The PMS Murder (12 page)

Then I wandered into the kitchen to get myself an apple (okay, an Eskimo Pie). I was about to open the freezer when I looked down at Prozac’s food bowl and gasped in surprise. The little angel had actually finished her Lite ’N Lively Liver Tidbits! Every last one of them!

I raced into the dining nook, where she was dozing on my computer keyboard.

“Oh, Prozac, honey,” I cooed, scooping her up in my arms, “I’m so proud of you.” 114

Laura Levine

She was so thrilled to hear it, she almost stopped yawning.

See? I knew if I hung tough with her, she’d eventually weaken. And everyone said she had me wrapped around her little paw. What did they know, huh? I was a lot tougher than people gave me credit for.

Then I grabbed my Eskimo Pie and tiptoed off to the bathroom, hoping Prozac wouldn’t hear the wrapper crinkle when I pulled it off.

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YOU’VE GOT MAIL

To: Jausten

From: Shoptillyoudrop

Subject: Can’t Show My Face
Oh, Lord! I can barely show my face in Tampa Vistas. You know how fast news travels around here. Everyone, just everyone, is talking about how Daddy stole a fork from Mimi’s restaurant.

And if that weren’t bad enough, Daddy actually went out and bought a listening device to spy on poor Reverend Sternmuller! A silly piece of junk called the “I-SpyMaster.” He paid $69.95 for that thing and all it is is a headset they rent out at movies for people who are hard of hearing.

I told him if he used it in public I’d never speak to him again, but did that stop him? Noooo. He marched right over to the clubhouse with the

“I-SpyMaster” on his head and plunked himself down a couple of tables away from Reverend Sternmuller. He pretended that the SpyMaster was an ordinary headset and that he was listening to his Walkman. But really he was shamelessly eavesdropping. Although why he expected Reverend Sternmuller to confess to being the Hugo Boss Strangler while playing backgammon with Greta Gustafson and Emmy Pearson, I’ll never know.

It turns out all he heard was static, and it served him right.

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Laura Levine

Thank heavens for my Stress-Less pills. I don’t know what I’d do without them, although I must admit they seem to be far more effective when I take them with a glass of sherry.

Your loving,

Mom

P.S. By the way, Reverend Sternmuller and Greta Gustafson are quite an item. People say wedding bells may be ringing any day now.

To: Jausten

From: DaddyO

Subject: Under Surveillance
I had Reverend Sternmuller, aka The Hugo Boss Strangler, under surveillance today, using a sophisticated listening device. But unfortunately, I didn’t have much luck. The Strangler probably had an even more sophisticated blocking device that created a wall of static around him.

But don’t worry, lambchop. I’ll catch him sooner or later. Just you wait.

Your persevering,

Daddy

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To: Jausten

From: Shoptillyoudrop

Subject: Bingo

Tonight’s Bingo Night at the clubhouse. I hate to miss all the excitement (last week I won twelve dollars!), but I’m sure all the tongues will be wag-ging about Daddy.

I guess I’ll have to stay home. But if I do, I’ll only sit and stew and get more upset. And besides, why should I let Daddy’s moronic behavior keep me from enjoying a perfectly lovely evening?

No, on second thought, I’m going! I’ll just pop another Stress-Less pill and wash it down with an itsy bitsy glass of sherry. That should get me through the night.

To: Jausten

From: DaddyO

Your mom just left for bingo. I told her I was stay-ing home because I had a headache. And she fell for it!

What a perfect opportunity to spin my web and trap the Hugo Boss Strangler. Yes, sweet pea, it’s time for The Nose to spring into action!

Chapter 12

Ishuddered when I checked my e-mails the next morning. Lord only knew what mischief “The Nose” was up to. Really, sometimes I think Daddy shouldn’t be let outside without a leash.

Back on the home front, Prozac continued to be a good little Weight Watcher and dug into her Lite ’N Lively Liver Tidbits with gusto.

“Oh, sweetie,” I gushed as she hunkered over her bowl, “I’m so proud of you.” I considered celebrating my victory in the battle of wills with a nice big plate of bacon and eggs and a toasted English muffin dripping with butter but decided against it. For one thing, I didn’t think Prozac would appreciate my pigging out on bacon and eggs when she was stuck with her Lite ’N Lively liver glop. And for another thing, I didn’t have any bacon. Or eggs. Or English muffins. Or butter, for that matter. A quick survey of my refrigerator yielded little more than a chunk of moldy Swiss cheese and jar of martini olives.

So I nuked myself some instant coffee and settled down with the morning paper.

I took one look at the front page and gasped in THE PMS MURDERS

119

dismay. There, smiling out at me from under the headline PMS MURDER VICTIM, was a picture of Marybeth Olson, taken in the days when she was alive and well and driving everybody crazy.

But it was what was underneath Marybeth’s picture that set my heart pounding. Yes, lined up beneath the unnerving caption AT THE SCENE OF THE

CRIME were snapshots of the six remaining PMS

Club members: Pam, Doris, Ashley, Rochelle, Colin, and yours truly, Jaine Austen.

There I was plastered on the front page of the
L.A. Times
—a murder suspect. Even more horrify-ing, they’d used my driver’s license photo. The one where I looked like an extra from
Dawn of the
Dead
. (If only I’d returned their calls last night, maybe I could have dashed over with a decent picture.)

I looked down at that awful picture and groaned.

I looked like a poster girl for schizophrenia. If a jury had to convict one of us by looks alone, I’d be doing time in the pokey before the afternoon was out.

By now, I was in an advanced state of panic.

What if the police thought I was the killer? What if they arrested me? And worst of all, what if my parents saw the paper? They’d be on the first plane out here—moving into my apartment, putting cro-cheted covers on my Kleenex boxes, and making me wear my retainer at night!

And just like that, I couldn’t breathe. Yikes. I was hyperventilating. I had to force myself to calm down. I told myself to take deep breaths, but I couldn’t suck in the air.

What was it that you were supposed to do when you’re hyperventilating? Breathe into a paper bag!

That’s it. I raced around my apartment looking for 120

Laura Levine

a paper bag, but all I could find was a Bloomingdale’s shopping bag. So there I was, trying to breathe into a Bloomingdale’s Medium Brown Bag when the phone rang.

What if it was my parents? For a minute I considered letting the machine get it. But then I figured they couldn’t possibly have seen the paper, not this quickly. And besides, I could ask whoever it was to call the paramedics and get me some oxy-gen.

Thank heavens, it was Kandi. I started breathing again at the sound of her voice.

“Oh, honey,” she said. “I just saw the paper. It’s awful.”

“I know.”

“I can’t believe they used that hideous picture of you. You ought to write an angry letter to the editor.”

“Kandi, I think you’re losing sight of the important issue here. I’m a suspect in a murder case.”

“Oh, foo. You couldn’t possibly have killed anyone. Anybody who knows you knows what a sweetie you are.”

“Unfortunately,” I pointed out, “the police don’t know me very well.”

“And I never knew you had PMS,” Kandi said, oblivious to my fears. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“But I don’t actually have—”

“I could’ve sent you to my gynecologist, Dr.

Sobol. All the celebrities use her. She’s the Hormone Doctor to the Stars.”

“Honey, I don’t have PMS. The PMS Club is a women’s support group. I had the bad luck to join two weeks before the murder.”

“You poor thing. This just isn’t our day, is it? You’ll never guess what happened to me this morning.

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We found out that the actor who plays Ernie the Earwig fell out of his son’s bunk bed while having sex with the babysitter. Anyhow, he broke one of his vertebrae and he’s going to be in traction for the next month and now we’ve got to write him out of the next ten scripts. I’ll be here till midnight for sure. And today’s the day Steve and I were supposed to meet with Armando and choose a band for the wedding. Oh, well. They’ll just have to choose one without me.” She finally paused to take a breath.

“But I can’t believe I’m rambling on about my petty problems when you’re in such a fix.” Frankly, neither could I.

“Jaine, honey. If you need an attorney, don’t you worry. I’ll pay for it. And if you want to stay at my apartment, you come right over. I’ll hold your hand and make you hot cocoa with marshmallows, just the way you like it.”

See? Just when you think Kandi is the most self-centered woman in the universe, she turns around and offers you her heart and her marshmallows.

That’s why we’ve been best friends all these years.

“Thanks, Kandi,” I said with false bravado. “But I’ll be okay.”

The minute I hung up, the phone rang again.

What if, this time, it was my parents? What if the wire services picked up the story and they’d heard about the murder?

Gingerly I picked up the receiver.

But it wasn’t my parents. It was worse. Much worse. It was Andrew Ferguson.

“I just saw the paper,” he said solemnly.

My heart sank; I knew what was coming next.

“Sam and I talked it over, and I’m afraid that as long as your name is connected with a murder, we can’t hire you.”

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Laura Levine

“I understand,” I managed to say.

“I’m really sorry, Jaine.”

That made two of us.

I hung up and slumped down onto the sofa.

From her perch on top of my computer keyboard Prozac saw how miserable I was and came rushing to my side. (Okay, so she didn’t technically come rushing to my side. Technically, she went right on licking her privates, but I could tell she was worried about me.)

“Oh, Prozac,” I moaned, “this is awful.” Not only had I lost the job, but Andrew Ferguson had seen my driver’s license photo. That, on top of the Pantyhose-on-the-Desk Affair and the Stuffing-My-Face-with-Burrito Episode—it was all too horrible to contemplate.

Minutes later, the phone rang yet again. I picked it up listlessly, certain it was my parents. Oh, well.

Who cared if they moved in with me and made me wear my retainer for the rest of my life? I’d totally lost the will to live.

But it was Andrew again.

“Look, Jaine. I thought it over and I’m prepared to hold the job open for the next few weeks, in case the police make an arrest and the case is cleared up.”

At last, a ray of sunshine. Maybe life wasn’t so bad after all.

I thanked him profusely and assured him that the whole matter would be cleared up in no time.

I hung up, feeling a lot better. Certainly the cops would find the killer in a few weeks.

But just in case they didn’t, I intended to do it myself.

Chapter 13

Yes, I’d made up my mind to find Marybeth’s killer. I’d start my investigation right then and there. First thing I needed was a list of the club members’ addresses and phone numbers. So I got on the phone and called Pam.

“Can you believe the nerve of the
Times
running our pictures like that?” she said when she heard my voice. “I may never work in showbiz again. Not that I’m working now. But it’s the principle of the thing.”

“At least they ran a nice photo of you.”

“It’s a publicity still from
Hedda Gabler.
I’m lucky they didn’t run a shot of me as Felix Unger.” We both laughed hollow laughs.

“What are we going to do, Jaine? The publicity is just awful.”

“Try not to worry. As soon as the police find the killer, we’ll be off the hook.”

“But what if they don’t find the killer? What if it takes forever? These things can drag out for months, even years.”

“Actually, that’s why I’m calling.” I told her about my part-time career as a private 124

Laura Levine

eye, and how I was going to investigate the murder.

“Wow,” she said, “I never would have figured you for a detective. You don’t seem the type.”

“I know I seem like a sniveling weakling—and I am—but somehow, the endorphins kick in when I’m involved in an investigation.”

“Really? I’m a congenital coward myself. But if there’s anything I can do to help—”

“As a matter of fact, there is. Can you fax me the addresses and phone numbers of the club members?”

“Of course. Anything else you need?”

“Not right now. Not unless you happen to know who did it.”

“Nope,” she sighed. “If you ask me, the only person capable of murder in the PMS Club was Marybeth.”

I had to agree with her on that one.

“Good luck, Jaine,” she said. “I’ll keep my fingers crossed. Call me if you need me for a stakeout or something. That might be fun.” I assured her I’d give her a ring if I needed company on a stakeout, and a few minutes later, she faxed me the addresses.

Then, after a quick shower, I got dressed and headed out the door to go killer hunting.

I was halfway down the path to my Corolla when I heard Lance calling me. He came running out of his apartment in shorts and a T-shirt, not an ounce of fat visible anywhere except in the cream cheese he was scarfing down on a toasted bagel. Tucked under his arm was a copy of the
Times
.

“You poor thing. I saw the story in the paper.” He shook his head in sympathy. “Passport photo?”

“Nope. Driver’s license.”

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“You ought to demand a retraction.”

“I don’t think they can retract a photo, Lance.”

“Too bad,” he said, licking cream cheese off his thumb. “The cops don’t really think you have anything to do with the murder, do they?”