The PMS Murder (21 page)

They’re fresh from the oven.”

I took another sniff of that heavenly scent.

“With walnuts and peanut butter chips,” she added.

Bet you think I said yes, huh?

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Laura Levine

Oh, ye of little faith. You’ll be proud to learn I didn’t waste valuable time eating mega-calorie brownies in Rochelle’s kitchen.

No, siree. I ate them in the car on my way over to Marty’s office.

It was lunchtime when I showed up at Marty’s medical building in Westwood.

It was one of those fancy high-rises with a security desk in the lobby and an overpriced pharmacy where you practically need a cosigner to buy a tube of toothpaste. I rode up in the elevator with an enviably slim nurse carrying a container of peach yogurt and a bottle of Evian water.
Now why
can’t I eat a slimming lunch like that?
I asked myself, brushing peanut butter brownie crumbs from my sweater.

I got off at Marty’s floor and headed down the corridor to his office. With any luck, Marty would be there. If not, I’d wait till he got back from lunch. Surely he’d be able to spare me a few minutes before his first afternoon appointment.

I opened the door to the offices of Martin Meyers, D.D.S. The place was deserted, except for a busty blonde receptionist angrily tossing the contents of her desk into a packing carton. Her white nurse’s uniform was near to bursting at the seams, and her bleached hair was tortured into a towering Barbarella do.

I approached her with caution. She looked highly combustible.

“Um. Excuse me. I was wondering if I could see Dr. Meyers on a personal matter.” She looked me up and down.

“Sorry, hon. You’re not his type. Drop fifteen THE PMS MURDERS

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pounds, get a boob job, and dye your hair blonde, and you might stand a chance.” I sneaked a peek at her monumental bosoms and wondered if she’d taken her own advice in the breast-enhancement department.

“It’s not that kind of personal matter,” I said.

“Anyhow, I need to talk to him. Is he here?”

“No,” she said, yanking her phone from its jack and tossing it into her carton. “The lying cheating turd isn’t here.”

Nothing like a happy employee to make a favor-able impression on the public.

“Do you know when he’s coming back?”

“Don’t know, and don’t care.”

I watched, amazed, as she began dismantling her computer and stowing the components in her carton. Not to put too fine a point on it, but in some circles, that might be called stealing.

“I gave that bum the best years of my life,” she said, hurling her keyboard in the big cardboard box. “And what did I get for it?” She looked up at me, her mascara-rimmed eyes blazing with rage.

“Zippo, that’s what I got!”

She grabbed a Bose radio and threw it on top of the keyboard.

“He promised he’d leave his wife and marry me.

And all along he was cheating on me. First with that decorator bitch. And I just found out he was screwing around with that kid in Laguna, too.” She reached for a Waterford vase filled with or-chids, emptied the water onto a nearby computer, and added the vase to her pile of stolen booty.

Laguna? My mind started racing. Hadn’t Rochelle said something about Marty being down in Laguna the day of the murder?

“What kid in Laguna?” I asked.

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“Some bimbo at an art gallery.” Wait a minute. Rochelle said Marty had been buying paintings at an art gallery the day of the murder, that the saleswoman had vouched for him. But if Marty had been having an affair with the saleswoman, she could’ve been lying to protect him.

What if Marty wasn’t in Laguna that day? What if he was back at his house, doctoring a batch of guacamole to get rid of an inconvenient lover?

“Do you happen to know the name of that gallery?” I asked.

“Sure do. I found the bimbo’s business card in the glove compartment of Marty’s car—along with a pair of crotchless panties.”

“Can I have it?”

“Honey, I don’t think they’d fit you.”

“Not the panties. The business card.”

“Help yourself,” she said, pointing to her wastepaper basket. “It’s in there somewhere.” I spent the next few minutes rummaging through Nurse Medusa’s trash. Which was a fairly pukewor-thy experience, considering she had the unfortunate habit of tossing her used gum in the garbage unwrapped.

At last I unearthed it.

THE MONTAGUE GALLERY

444 LAGUNA AVENUE

LAGUNA BEACH, CALIFORNIA

CISSY MCDONALD

SALES ASS

Cissy McDonald may or may not have been an ass. That remained to be seen. I just assumed that the card was supposed to have read “sales associ-THE PMS MURDERS

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ate.” The “ociate” was covered by a wad of Juicy Fruit.

I wrote down the address of the gallery and headed for the door, just in time to see my buxom friend coming out from what must have been Marty’s office—with a flat-screen TV tucked under her arm.

Chapter 20

The first thing you noticed about Cissy McDonald was her hair.

It was shampoo commercial gorgeous, a silken blonde blanket falling nearly to her waist. Of course, if you were a guy, the first thing you’d notice would be her cleavage. That was pretty darn spectacular, too. As were her nonstop legs and to-die-for waistline.

And in the Life Isn’t Fair Department, the lucky young woman was also blessed with big blue eyes, a perky little nose and, as I was about to discover, an amazing pair of dimples when she smiled. It was easy to see why Marty had dumped Nurse Medusa for her. It was no contest. And poor Rochelle—

with her thinning hair and thickening waist—she didn’t stand a chance.

“Hi, there,” Cissy chirped as I walked into the gallery, a sleek boutique on Laguna’s picturesque main drag. The walls were hung with colorful seascapes and cottage-y scenes, expensive souvenirs of a Laguna Beach vacation. It was the middle of the week, and I was happy to see that she and I were alone in the gallery.

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“How may I be of assistance?” she said, flashing me her dimples. They must have netted her a lot of sales. “We have some wonderful new seascapes.” She gestured to a wall of pastel watercolors.

“Aren’t they marvelous?”

You didn’t have to be a rocket scientist to figure out that Cissy was no rocket scientist. I could practically see the little valentines dotting her i’s as she spoke.

“Cissy McDonald?” I asked.

“That’s me,” she said, a note of wariness creep-ing into her voice.

“Detective Austen,” I said, in my most officious voice. “L.A.P.D.”

I flashed her my driver’s license, careful to cover the words
California Driver’s License
with my thumb. You’d be amazed at how often people fall for that trick. Especially people with dimples and blonde hair down to their waists.

Her blue eyes grew wide with fear.

“What do you want?” she gulped.

“Dr. Meyers confessed everything.”

“He did?”

She put her fingers to her lips and began biting her nails. I was happy to see that her fingers were short and stubby, her nails jagged and bitten to the quick. At last. A flaw. There was justice in the world, after all.

“I’ve come to take a new statement from you,” I said.

Her face went pale under her beach bunny tan.

“Oh, geez. Am I going to be arrested for perjury?”

“Not if you tell the truth now.” I rummaged through my purse and took out a pad that I kept there to jot down spur-of-the-minute Toiletmasters ideas.

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“First things first,” I said, pretending to take notes. “You two were having an affair, right?” She nodded, blushing.

“I met Dr. Meyers about a month ago when he and his wife were vacationing in Laguna. He bought a really expensive painting and told me I had beautiful teeth. Anyhow, we’ve been seeing each other ever since.”

“He wasn’t really here with you the day of the murder, was he?”

“No.” She shook her head, gnawing at her nails.

“Marty was up in Los Angeles. But he was afraid the police might connect him with the murder if they knew he was in town. So we agreed to pretend he was down here with me all afternoon.”

“Did he tell you that he stopped by his house that afternoon?”

“No.” She looked shocked. “Did he tell you that?”

“Let’s just stick to what he told you, Ms. McDonald.”

“He told me he was with Marybeth that afternoon. He’d been trying to break things off with her, but she wouldn’t let him go. She said if he didn’t divorce Rochelle and marry her, she’d ruin his life.

She’d started sending him threatening letters at his office. She said she was going tell everyone that he sexually assaulted his female patients while they were under anesthesia. What a horrible, vile lie!” I wasn’t so sure about that. After what I’d discovered about Marty, I had no trouble picturing him copping a feel from an unconscious patient.

“So he told you he was with Marybeth that day?” I asked.

“Yes. He said he finally managed to get her to accept the fact that he wasn’t in love with her any more, and that he was going to marry me.” THE PMS MURDERS

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“Dr. Meyers told you he was going to marry you?”

“As soon as he got a divorce from his wife.”
And you were stupid enough to believe him?

Just then the phone rang. Cissy shot me an apologetic look.

“Do you mind if I answer that, officer? The owner of the gallery gets pissy if I don’t answer the phone.”

“Go right ahead.”

She hurried to the phone, her hair rippling in silky waves as she ran.

“Montague Gallery,” she squeaked into the phone. “Oh, Marty! I’m so glad it’s you.” Relief flooded her voice. “The police are here, questioning me.”

Uh-oh. This was my cue to exit.

“Yes, a police officer is here right now. What did you say your name was, ma’am?”

“Um. Krupke. Officer Krupke.”

Okay, so I panicked and gave her the name of a character from
West Side Story
. Big deal. Don’t tell me you never panic under pressure.

“Wait a minute,” she said. A light bulb went off over that fabulous head of hair.

“That’s not the name you gave me before.”

“That’s because I’m working undercover. Well, gotta run if I don’t want to hit rush hour traffic.” And before you could say Officer Krupke, I was back in my car and headed for the freeway.

It turns out I did get stuck in rush hour traffic. I inched home that afternoon at an agonizing pace.

Pedestrians were making better time than I was.

But on the plus side, I had plenty of time to 212

Laura Levine

think about what I’d learned that day. Clearly Marty Meyers was the unmitigated rat we’d all thought he was when we first learned of his affair with Marybeth. Can you believe the nerve of that guy? Cheating on Rochelle with Nurse Medusa.

Then cheating on N.M. with Marybeth. And then cheating on all three of them with Cissy. The man deserved a gold medal in adultery.

What a fool I’d been to be taken in by his Acad-emy Award–winning performance as The Loving Husband.

And I wasn’t the only fool. Poor Cissy. She actually thought Marty was going to marry her. Marty had no intention of marrying Cissy, Nurse Medusa, or anyone else for that matter. Why pay alimony to Rochelle when he could have all the sex he wanted on the side? And if Rochelle went to jail for the murder of Marybeth, then he wouldn’t even have to sneak around any more. He could go on non-stop boffathons between jail visits.

Lord knows what he told the cops. Maybe he told them Rochelle was mentally unstable, a nut-case ready to crack. Maybe he didn’t come right out and say it, maybe he just implied it, laid in a subtle hint or two that Rochelle was emotionally fragile, on the verge of a breakdown. While pretending to champion her, he could’ve been planting the seed of suspicion in the cops’ minds. Who better to know the mental state of Rochelle than her husband?

And I didn’t believe for a minute that he’d broken up with Marybeth on the day of the murder. If that were true, why had she been bragging to the PMS Club about marrying him?

I bet he didn’t even try to see her that day. Instead, he decided to get rid of her once and for THE PMS MURDERS

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all—before she had a chance to spread those nasty molestation rumors.

Marty Meyers wasn’t in Laguna Beach on the day of the murder. And he wasn’t at Marybeth’s apartment, either. If I was right, he was in his own kitchen, adding peanut oil to his wife’s guacamole.

It was a nifty theory. Too bad I didn’t have any evidence to back it up. If only I could prove that Marybeth had been blackmailing him, the cops would have to take him seriously as a murder suspect.

By the time I finally made it off the freeway I was exhausted, emotionally and physically. I wanted nothing more than to go home and soak in the tub till I was limp as a lo mein noodle.

But there was one tiny chore I had to take care of first.

I had to break into Marty’s office and search for Marybeth’s blackmail letters.

Chapter 21

“Can I help you, miss?”

The night security guard at Marty’s medical building looked up from the article he was reading in the
National Enquirer
—a hard-hitting piece of investigative journalism called
I Was the Love
Child of Condoleezza Rice and Barney Frank.

A skinny guy with a bobbing Adam’s apple, the guard’s name tag read “Chester.”

“Hi, Chester,” I said, plastering on my perkiest smile. “I’m Dr. Meyers’s new receptionist. First day on the job, and I’m working late already. Haha.” I shrugged in mock helplessness, one working stiff to another.

I guess I must have passed muster as a dental receptionist burning the midnight oil, because he pointed to a large ledger on the marble counter and said:

“Just sign in.”

“Right,” I said, scribbling a fictitious name on the page.

He turned the book around and checked my entry.

“Mildred Pierce?”

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I really had to start thinking up original phony names. Lucky for me, Chester wasn’t a fan of old Joan Crawford movies.