The PMS Murder (16 page)

Colin was waiting for me at a wrought-iron bistro table in the café’s charming outdoor patio.

He wore chinos and a button-down baby blue ox-ford shirt, his dark blond hair cut short and spiky.

Could someone this cute and clean-cut really be a killer? Of course, he could. I wouldn’t be surprised if 9 out of 10 crazed killers looked like models in a Gap commercial.

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After exchanging greetings, we went inside and gave our orders to the guy behind the counter.

You’ll be proud to know I did not order a burger or fettucini alfredo. (Mainly because they didn’t have burgers or fettucini alfredo on the menu.) Instead, I ordered a free-range turkey wrap, hold the mayo.

Colin got the jumbo roast beef wrap, extra mayo, with a side of potato salad. Life sure isn’t fair, is it?

The guy had a waist the size of my ankle and he was ordering extra mayo and potato salad.

Our sandwiches each came with a package of all-natural yam potato chips. Once again, you’ll be proud to know I gave mine to Colin. After all, 120

calories was still 120 calories, natural or not.

“So how’d things go at the reading of the will?” I asked, as we dug into our food.

“What a bust,” Colin said. “Marybeth’s estate was worth nearly two million dollars and all she left me was a crummy armoire.”

“How do you know it isn’t valuable?”

“I was with her when she bought it. It cost her fifty bucks at an auction.”

“That’s too bad,” I said.

“But,” he noted, “at least it means I didn’t have a motive to kill her.”

I wasn’t so sure about that. He could’ve tossed the peanut oil in the guacamole in a moment of rage, as payback for years of workplace abuse.

“So who got her money?” I asked.

“She left most of it to her relatives. There was a small bequest to her maid, and Ashley got ten grand.

The one person who didn’t need any money got ten grand. Talk about the rich getting richer.” He shook his head, disgusted.

“She could’ve at least left me her Porsche,” he 156

Laura Levine

pouted, “considering all the times I took it to the car wash for her. Or a percentage of that lottery money she won. After all, I was the one who had to race out in rush-hour traffic to pick up the damn ticket for her, along with her daily frappuccino and chocolate chip muffin.”

He took a desultory bite of his yam chip.

“I still can’t believe she won that money. Some people have all the luck.”

“Colin, she’s dead. I think it’s safe to assume she didn’t have
all
the luck.” Colin had been so busy bitching about his inheritance he’d barely touched his sandwich. I, on the other hand, had wolfed mine down in record time. I thought about asking for my yam chips back, but I reined myself in. Really, I told myself, I’d had plenty to eat. More than enough. Me and my hips did not need any yam chips. End of story.

Besides, I had to stop thinking about food and get back on track with my questioning. It wasn’t going to be easy, but I needed to confront Colin.

I took a deep breath and plowed ahead.

“Colin, I was just talking to Doris—”

“Oh?” A glob of mayonnaise oozed out from his wrap. Oh, Lord. Isn’t mayonnaise heavenly? I wondered if he’d notice if I reached out and scooped it up with my finger. Of course, he’d notice! Was I nuts? I had to stop this nonsense and concentrate on the murder.

“Anyhow,” I said, forcing myself not to stare at the mayonnaise, “Doris said she was certain she saw you alone in Rochelle’s kitchen on the night of the murder.”

Of course, Doris had said no such thing. She hadn’t been certain at all, but I wasn’t about to tell him that.

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Colin’s face clouded over.

“So? What if I was? I didn’t go anywhere near that guacamole.”

Bingo. My gambit had paid off. He
had
been alone in the kitchen. I tried to look as stern as possible.

“Colin, I saw the cookbook in your apartment.”

“What cookbook?” He looked genuinely puzzled. “I don’t cook.”

“
Cooking with Peanuts.
” He laughed.

“Oh, that. It was a gag gift, from my ex-boyfriend.

He knew how much Marybeth got on my nerves and he gave it to me as a joke. Honest. Did you think I was sitting around dreaming up poisoned peanut dishes for Marybeth?”

He laughed again, as innocent as a choirboy.

It was then that I heard someone call my name.

“Jaine! Jaine Austen!”

I looked up and saw Lance coming our way, dolled out in his finest three-piece Armani.

“What a surprise running into you like this,” he said, doing the worst acting job since
Attack of the
Killer Tomatoes.

He’d obviously overheard me making plans this morning and decided to take my matchmaking duties into his own hands.

“Aren’t you going to introduce us?” he said, ignoring me and grinning at Colin.

“Of course,” I muttered. “Lance, Colin. Colin, Lance.”

They locked eyeballs, and I could’ve been a bean sprout in my turkey wrap for all they cared.

The next thing I knew Lance had drawn up a chair at our table and he and Colin were talking about an upcoming revival of
Gypsy
.

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I made a few feeble attempts to join in the conversation, but I’d morphed into the Invisible Woman.

Any more chatter about the murder, I could see, was out of the question.

I mumbled an excuse about an urgent appointment, took back my yam chips, and ran.

I ate my chips in the Corolla while I checked my phone messages. Nick from Toiletmasters had called to tell me my speech “bowled them over,” and Kandi called to tell me that the bridesmaid dresses had come in. She gave me the address of a bridal salon in Beverly Hills and told me to hurry over as soon as possible for my fitting. The last thing I wanted to do was squeeze myself into that ghastly frill festival Kandi had shown me. But sooner or later, I’d have to do it. And as long as I was already in Beverly Hills, I might as well get it over with.

So, after licking the last of the all-natural yam chip grease from my fingers, I put the Corolla in gear and headed off to the Amy Lee Bridal Salon.

Amy Lee was a stunning fortysomething Asian woman. In marked contrast to the gossamer bridal dresses that surrounded her, she wore a simple but impeccably tailored suit. Her glossy black hair was cut in a chin-length bob, with a bold streak of gray in front.

I told her I was there for Kandi’s wedding. She looked me up and down appraisingly.

“Ms. Tobolowsky said you might present a challenge. And I can see she wasn’t exaggerating. I’m going to have to jam you into that dress with a crowbar.”

Okay, so she didn’t really make the crack about the crowbar. She just nodded and got the dress.

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I was hoping it wouldn’t look quite as bad as it had in the ad Kandi had shown me. I hoped in vain. In person, the puffy sleeves were even puffier, the nipped-in waist was tourniquet tight, and the hips flared out like wings on a jumbo jet.

Somehow Amy managed to zip me into it.

I’d been afraid that I’d wind up looking like Cinderella on steroids. I was wrong. I looked like Cinderella’s ugly stepsister on steroids.

Amy didn’t even try to soothe me with lies.

“This happens all the time,” she said. “The bride is so in love with the dress she doesn’t realize it may not be flattering for her bridesmaids.” Amy summoned a seamstress from the back of the store, an elderly Asian woman who let out a steady stream of “tsk-tsks” as she pinned the dress for alterations.

At last, the torture was over, and I got back into my own clothes.

“How much do I owe you?” I asked Amy. I shuddered to think I was actually going to have to pay to look this awful.

“Ms. Tobolowsky is taking care of it.”

“Oh, I couldn’t possibly let her do that. It’s out of the question. How much do I owe you?” I repeated, whipping out my credit card.

“Seven hundred dollars.”

Seven hundred dollars??? On second thought, maybe I could let Kandi do it. After all, she had the money, and I didn’t. Besides, even if I wanted to, I don’t think my good pals at MasterCard would let the sale go through. I was perilously close to my credit limit as it was. A $700 charge would put me over the top, by about $699.

So I just smiled weakly and put my credit card away.

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“I thought you might do that,” Amy said, with a knowing smile. “Your dress will be ready tomorrow.”

“Goody. I can’t wait.”

“Ms. Austen, let me tell you what I tell my other customers. I know you’re unhappy with the dress, but just think how lovely the bride will look in comparison to you. Look at it this way. Wearing this dress will be your gift to her.”

“Frankly,” I said, “I’d rather give stemware.” I got home and plopped down on the sofa next to Prozac, who was hard at work licking her privates.

“Oh, Pro,” I moaned. “There ought to be a law against puffy sleeves.”

Prozac looked up from her genitals and sniffed.

Do I smell potato chips on your breath?

“Yes,” I said, with as much dignity as I could muster, “but they happen to be all-natural yam chips. Hardly any calories.”

Hah.

Was it my imagination, or was she actually smirking?

“Just because you’ve stuck to your diet for a few days doesn’t make you wondercat. Big deal. I’ve stuck to diets for weeks at a time.” She looked up from her genitals and shot me a look.

“Okay, days at a time.”

She kept on staring.

“Okay, minutes at a time.”

By now her eyes were practically boring a hole in my forehead.

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“Okay, so I’m an abject failure at dieting. Just quit staring at me like that, willya?” With what I could swear was another smirk, she went back to licking her privates.

One of these days I’m going to get myself a big, slobbering, uncritical dog.

In the meanwhile, though, I had bigger fish to fry.

I closed my eyes to concentrate on Marybeth’s murder, but suddenly all I could picture was fish frying. Yes, wouldn’t a nice big plate of fried shrimp be great right now? I could run out and get a Hungry Man Fried Shrimp TV Dinner. With French fries and extra tartar sauce. Yum.

What was wrong with me? I had to focus. I forced myself to go over the case. I’d interviewed all the club members and had pretty much gotten nowhere. The only thing I learned was that Colin was alone in the kitchen and owned a peanut cookbook. Not exactly evidence that would hold up in court.

I sure hoped the cops were making better progress than I was.

I needed to put on my thinking cap and see if I could come up with any other theories. So I did what I always do when I need to operate at top mental capacity. I made myself a strong cup of coffee, took out a legal pad, sharpened a batch of pencils—and spent the rest of the afternoon watching daytime TV.

What can I say? I needed the distraction. You know how it is. Sometimes when you’re driving yourself crazy trying to solve a problem, the answer comes to you when you walk away from it.

I was in the middle of watching a highly educa-162

Laura Levine

tional program on Pregnant Women Who Cheat on Their Married Lovers when the phone rang.

“Hey, Nancy Drew.” It was Pam. “How’s it going with The Case of the Dreadful Decorator?” I told her what little I’d learned so far, including Colin admitting that he was alone in the kitchen on the night of the murder.

“Do you think Colin’s the killer?” she asked.

“So far, he’s my most promising suspect. What do you think?”

“I hate to say it, because I really like the guy. But I’ve always thought Colin had a—how can I put it?—a moral weak spot. Like this one time we ate lunch together, and when we were through, I saw him steal the waiter’s tip.”

“You’re kidding.”

“No. Really. I never forgot it.” Yet another vote for Colin for killer.

“Too bad Marybeth didn’t leave him big bucks in her will,” I sighed. “It would’ve given him a much stronger motive to kill her.”

“Yeah. Getting turned down for a job isn’t exactly the most compelling motive in the world. If it was, I’d be on death row by now.”

“All she left him was the armoire. He really wanted her Porsche.”

“At least she won’t be driving it anymore,” she said. “It’s funny, if you’d asked me to guess how Marybeth was going to die, I would’ve given you odds it would’ve been in that car. Marybeth was an accident waiting to happen.

“Hey,” she said, interrupting herself, “do you suppose Colin was lying? Maybe Marybeth left him money after all, and he just didn’t tell you.”

“It would be a pretty silly lie, wouldn’t it? After THE PMS MURDERS

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all, I could easily find out the truth from Ashley or Marybeth’s attorney.”

“You’re right, of course. That’s why you’re the detective and I’m not.”

We spent a few more minutes gabbing, Pam fill-ing me in on the details of an audition she’d gone on for a fast food commercial.

“They wanted somebody ordinary looking, thank heavens. Of course, in Hollywood, ordinary means really pretty instead of smashingly gorgeous, but I showed up anyway, and the casting director seemed to like me. So keep your fingers crossed. Toes, too.” After promising to cross all my digits, I hung up and checked my watch. Only five P.M., but I was starving. I’d have a nice early dinner. I once read that eating dinner early was a favorite dieting tech-nique of the celebrities.
Never eat anything after six,
the article said,
and the pounds will practically fly off
your body.

Yes, I’d run over to the supermarket and get myself a healthy salad at the salad bar. Just some greens, maybe a little chicken, a dribble of dressing, and scads of veggies. What a great idea. I was feeling thinner already.

I grabbed my car keys and drove over to the market, where I headed straight for the salad bar. I did not stop off at the cookie aisle, or the bakery section. True, I came perilously close to paying a visit to my friends Ben & Jerry in the freezer case, but I was strong. I walked resolutely past all those temptations. And when I got to the salad bar, I stayed strong and loaded up on the low-cal stuff.