The PMS Murder (13 page)

“I hope not.”

“Didn’t you tell them about all the murders you’ve solved?”

“I mentioned it to the lieutenant in charge of the case, but he didn’t seem very impressed.” Lance polished off the last of his bagel and put his arm around me.

“I’m sure everything will be okay, hon. Although I guess it’s hard for you to cope, what with your PMS.”

Didn’t anyone actually read beyond the headlines anymore?

“I don’t have PMS,” I said, pulling away in annoyance. “It’s just the name of the club. It’s actually a support group.”

“For someone who doesn’t have PMS, you’re awfully snippy. But I understand,” he said, patting my arm. “You’re under a lot of pressure. If you need anything, just let me know.”

“Thanks, Lance.”

“By the way, this may not be the best time to ask, but I don’t suppose you could fix me up with Colin. He’s awfully cute.”

He gazed down at Colin’s picture in the paper.

Luckily for Colin, the
Times
had run a decent photo of him, one in which he actually resembled a member of the human race.

I blinked in disbelief.

“Lance, the guy is a suspect in a murder case.

He could be a killer.”

“I’ll take my chances.”

126

Laura Levine

“You’re nuts.”

“C’mon. Just give him my number.”

“Okay,” I sighed. “But don’t blame me if he stands you up. Or knocks you off.” I waved good-bye and got in my Corolla. I’d decided to start my investigation where the whole mess began. At Rochelle’s. As unlikely as it seemed, maybe Rochelle was the killer. After all, she was the one who made the guacamole. And she was the one with the strongest motive. Hadn’t she told Marybeth, in no uncertain terms, to drop dead? Maybe the shy little mouse had gone bonkers and poisoned the woman who’d stolen her man. It wouldn’t have been the first time.

Yes, my first stop would be a chat with Rochelle Meyers. Actually, my second stop. My first stop would be Junior’s Restaurant, for some bacon and eggs and an English muffin dripping with butter.

Several news vans were parked outside Rochelle’s house when I got there. I drove past them onto Rochelle’s driveway, scrunched down in my seat, hoping the reporters wouldn’t recognize me.

No such luck.

“Look!” a beauty pageant winner in Armani shouted. “It’s one of the suspects.” Damn. If I looked like my driver’s license photo, I was in deep doo doo. Maybe I ought to start using the Age-Defying Miracle Moisturizer my mother had sent me from the shopping channel. (Only $27.99, plus shipping and handling.)

“It’s the writer,” I heard another one shout.

“Whatshername. Charlotte Brontë.” I scurried out of the Corolla, ignoring their questions.

THE PMS MURDERS

127

When I rang the bell, an angry male voice shouted: “Go away! We’re not talking to reporters!” I assumed it had to be Marty Meyers, Rochelle’s lying cheating sonofabitch husband.

“I’m not a reporter; I’m a member of the PMS

club. Jaine Austen.”

“Let her in, Marty,” I heard Rochelle say.

The lying cheating sonofabitch opened the door.

I have to admit, I was surprised. I’d expected a slick Beverly Hills dentist straight off the set of
Extreme Makeover,
with graying temples and tassels on his Gucci loafers. But Marty was a big soft teddy bear, with a fuzzy crew cut and generous love handles hanging over his Gap khakis. Instead of a suave lothario, he looked like a guy buying plumb-ing supplies at Home Depot.

And that wasn’t the only surprise in store for me.

I blinked, somewhat taken aback, to see his arm curled lovingly around Rochelle’s shoulder. Another entry for Mr. Ripley: Rochelle was beaming up at him, like a teenager with her first crush. For someone who was the prime suspect in a murder case, she looked amazingly chipper.

“Jaine, come on in,” she said, smiling warmly.

“Can I get you something to eat? Marty and I just finished breakfast. I made blueberry crepes, and homemade sticky buns.”

Huh? If The Blob had done to me what Marty had done to her, I’d be serving him Raid on toast.

“No, thanks,” I stammered. “I just ate.”

“Are you sure. The sticky buns are awfully good, aren’t they, honey?”

Honey?
She’s calling him
honey?

“They’re terrific, Ro,” Marty said, gazing down with unabashed love.

What the hell was going on here? They’d gone 128

Laura Levine

from a couple on the brink of divorce to The Cleavers in less than 48 hours.

Rochelle must have sensed my confusion because she said, “Oh, Jaine. Isn’t it wonderful? Marty and I are back together again. Come into the den, and we’ll tell you all about it.”

So we trooped off to the den, a wood-paneled hideaway with a large-screen TV and leather fur-nishings picked out no doubt by the recently deceased Marybeth.

“We feel funny sitting in the living room,” Rochelle said, “after what happened there. I’m definitely going to have to change the furniture. But one thing’s for sure: This time, I won’t be using a decorator.”

Rochelle and Marty sat down next to each other on a burgundy leather sofa. I sat across from them in a matching wing chair. Marty put his arm around her, and she snuggled close to him. He stroked her shoulder. She put her hand on his knee. If this kept up, any minute now they’d be necking.

I could contain myself no longer.

“If you don’t mind my asking—what happened?”

“Marty wasn’t going to leave me,” Rochelle said.

“Marybeth was lying.”

“I was crazy to get involved with Marybeth,” Marty said, shaking his head. “I don’t know what came over me. Male midlife crisis, I guess.” He shrugged sheepishly. “After a few months, I realized I’d made a mistake, and how much I still loved Rochelle. She’s a finer woman than Marybeth could have ever dreamed of being. I told Marybeth it was all over between us. But she wouldn’t listen. That’s when she put that picture in my dresser drawer.”

“She must’ve slipped it in while she was working on the bathroom,” Rochelle said. “She wanted THE PMS MURDERS

129

me to find it. She wanted to break up the marriage.”

“Oh, God, Rochelle.” Marty put his head in his hands. “I was so awful to you. I hate myself for that.”

And then suddenly, he was crying. This big lug of a guy was sobbing his eyes out. Rochelle handed him a lace hanky from her pocket. It looked like a postage stamp in his big hands. He blew his nose with a mighty blast.

“Can you ever forgive me?” he sobbed.

“Of course I can,” Rochelle said, stroking his crew cut.

I don’t know if I’d have been so quick to forgive a man who cheated on me with my decorator, but clearly Rochelle was a more noble soul than I. And I have to admit that, in spite of my determination to hate the guy, I found myself touched by his tears.

“This is so embarrassing,” he said, giving Rochelle’s hanky a final blast.

“Not at all,” I said. “It’s good to see a man in touch with his emotions.”

“I’d better get going,” he said. “I hate leaving you alone with those vultures outside, Rochelle, but Mr. Nevin’s molar is abscessed and he’s in a lot of pain.”

“That’s okay,” Rochelle assured him. “I’ll be fine.”

“I won’t be long,” he said.

Then he bent down and kissed her on the forehead.

“Very nice meeting you,” he said to me, smiling sheepishly. “Forgive the dramatics.”

“Nothing to forgive.”

He clomped out the door, and when he was gone, Rochelle turned to me.

130

Laura Levine

“Are you sure you don’t want a sticky bun?

They’re nice and gooey.”

“No, I couldn’t. Really.”

But you know me. Two minutes later, I was sitting in Rochelle’s sunny yellow and blue French provincial kitchen, sipping fresh-brewed coffee and scarfing down a warm sticky bun studded with cinnamon and topped with a thick layer of creamy icing. I’d died and gone to Pastry Heaven.

“It’s ironic,” Rochelle said, as she watched me inhale my bun. “Now that our marriage is back on track, I’ll probably be carted off to jail.” For the first time since I walked in the front door, she looked worried. “I know the cops think I did it.

The only fingerprints on the bottle of peanut oil were mine.”

“That doesn’t mean anything. Whoever doctored the guacamole probably held the bottle with a dishtowel, or an oven mitt.”

“I know, but the police still think I did it.” She shook her head and sighed. “Lieutenant Clemmons advised me to get an attorney. Marty’s already lined up someone. He says he’s the best around.” I sure hoped he was. Something told me she’d be needing a very good attorney, indeed.

“You’ve got to believe me, Jaine,” she said, “I didn’t kill Marybeth. I could never do a thing like that.”

“I believe you.” And I did. There was no doubt in my mind. Rochelle simply didn’t have it in her to be a killer. It’s funny. I’d started the case to get that job at Union National. But now, sitting here with Rochelle, I felt a sudden urge to protect her.

“Actually,” I said, licking the last of the icing from my fingers, “that’s why I’m here. I’m investigating the murder.”

THE PMS MURDERS

131

“I don’t understand. I thought you were a writer.”

“Yes, but I do some investigating on the side.”

“That’s so wonderful,” she sighed, brushing a stray wisp of hair back into her ponytail. “Everybody has such exciting careers, and I just sit around baking things.”

“You’ve got to stop putting yourself down, Rochelle. You’re an extremely talented woman. I could never do half of what you do.”

“That’s awfully nice of you to say,” she said, blushing with pleasure.

“I mean it.”

Clearly unused to compliments, she jumped up from her chair and headed for the coffeepot. “Let me get you some more coffee. And help yourself to another bun.”

“No, no. I couldn’t possibly.” Okay, so I could. And I did. And it was delicious.

“Anyhow,” I said, “I figure that as long as Marybeth’s killer is at large, we’re all under a cloud of suspicion. So I’ve decided to give the police a helping hand, whether they want one or not.”

“That’s the truly terrible thing about all this,” Rochelle said. “The thought that one of my friends could be a killer.”

“Did you notice any of the club members going into the kitchen alone on the night of the murder, anyone who could have doctored the guacamole?”

“No. But you saw what I was like that night. By the time you showed up, I’d had a margarita or three. I was blotto.

“It had been a terrible day. First the plumbers came to install some last-minute fixtures and they wound up breaking a pipe, which took them hours to fix. And then later in the afternoon the building 132

Laura Levine

inspector showed up and said he couldn’t give us a permit—something about a missing gasket. And then, of course, I found that horrible picture of Marybeth.”

She shuddered at the memory.

“That’s when I started sucking up the margaritas. By the time you guys showed up, I was really out of it.”

“What about Colin? He was here before anybody else. Could he have possibly sneaked into the kitchen while you weren’t there?” She took a thoughtful sip of her coffee. “It’s hard to remember. I thought he went straight upstairs to the bathroom, and didn’t come down again till after you and Pam had shown up. But I could be wrong. I was in such a daze. An elephant could’ve been doing a polka on my microwave and I wouldn’t have noticed.”

So it
was
possible. Colin could have tiptoed down the steps and added some peanut oil to the guacamole.

Of course, there was one other man I had to ask about: the teddy bear.

“Look,” I said, “this is incredibly awkward, but what about Marty?”

Her eyes widened, shocked.

“What do you mean?”

“His affair with Marybeth had gone sour. He wanted to break things off. And she was giving him a hard time. Are you sure he didn’t sneak home some time after four and touch up the guacamole?”

“No,” she said, shaking her head, “he couldn’t have possibly done it. He was down in Laguna.”

“What was he doing in Laguna?”

“There’s an art gallery there that we like. He went there to buy some paintings for his office. In THE PMS MURDERS

133

fact, right after I found the picture of Marybeth, I called his office. I wanted to have it out with him, but his receptionist told me he was in Laguna. I thought she was lying, that he was with Marybeth.

But he really was down in Laguna. Yesterday, I called the gallery and checked. And so did the police. Marty’s in the clear.”

Frankly, I was relieved Marty had an alibi. In spite of the fact that he’d behaved abominably toward Rochelle, he didn’t seem like an evil man.

Picturing him as a killer was like trying to picture Smoky the Bear with an Uzi.

But Colin Lambert, the resentful assistant—

him, I wasn’t so sure about.

Chapter 14

Ishowed up at Colin’s apartment unannounced.

He came to the door in a T-shirt and cutoffs—

yet another guy with thighs thinner than mine.

“Jaine,” he said, puzzled at the sight of me.

“What’re you doing here?”

“Actually—”

“Don’t tell me. You came because you wanted a shoulder to cry on. I saw that picture in the paper.

You ought to sue.”

“Well, no. That’s not why I’m here. I’m investigating Marybeth’s murder.”

“Oh?”

Was it my imagination, or was there suddenly a guarded look in his eyes?

“I work part-time as a private investigator,” I explained.

“Really?” he said, ushering me inside. “How very
Charlie’s Angels.
”

I took one look at his living room and stifled a gasp. How can I best describe it? What’s the one word that sums it all up? Or, as the French would say,
le mot juste?

THE PMS MURDERS

135

After careful thought and many trips to the the-saurus, here’s what I’ve come up with:
Acccck!

Colin’s living room was a blinding combination of lime green walls, potted palms, zebra-skin rugs, and sequined throw pillows. Tarzan meets Elton John.