The PMS Murder (23 page)

“C’mon, now. Goldie isn’t the only woman in the world. Why don’t you try one of the other ladies here at Shalom?”

“Believe me, I’ve tried. They all turned me down. Even that battle-ax Pechter.” I blinked in surprise. I had a hard time picturing Mr. Goldman making a pass at the formidable Mrs. Pechter.

“Face it, Jaine, I’m not a loveable person.” And with that, he started crying. He tried to pretend it was a cough, but I could see tears coming down his cheeks.

“Please, Mr. Goldman. You mustn’t cry. I’m sure there’s someone out there who’d be happy to do things with you.”

“How about you?” he sniffled. “You never want to go out with me.”

“That’s because I’m young enough to be your granddaughter.”

“So? We don’t have to be boyfriend/girlfriend.

It can be platonic. Trust me, the porch light is on upstairs, but the fire in the furnace went out a long time ago.”

He looked up at me with red-rimmed eyes.

“So how about it?”

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He looked so damn sad and vulnerable, I guess I temporarily lost my powers of rational thinking.

Because the next thing I knew I was saying:

“Okay, I’ll go out with you.”

The minute the words were out of my mouth, the old Mr. Goldman sprang back to life.

“Okay, cookie. It’s a date!”

I was beginning to regret this already.

“Brush up on your mambo!” he said, wiping his tears away with the sleeve of his soup-stained cardigan. “We’re going to Mambo Mania.” As they say at Shalom, “Oy.”

“Oh, Prozac! You won’t believe what I just did.” I tossed my keys on the dining room table and headed for the kitchen.

“I actually agreed to go dancing with Mr. Goldman,” I called out as I poured myself a glass of chardonnay. “Was I insane or what?” I came back out to the living room to tell her about it, but she wasn’t stretched out on her usual spot on the sofa.

She was probably in the bedroom, I figured, shedding on my pillow.

“Can you believe it?” I said, heading down the hallway. “Mambo Mania? With Mr. Goldman? Talk about your dates from hell. It’s like going dancing with a Keebler elf.”

But when I got to the bedroom, there was no sign of her.

A tiny knot of fear began to form in my stomach.

I told myself to stay calm. She was probably hiding under the bed. But I knew better. Prozac’s not a skittish cat. She never hides. I checked under the 226

Laura Levine

bed, and under the sofa. In the kitchen and the bathroom. And in every cupboard and closet in the apartment. She was nowhere to be found.

By then, of course, I was crazed with fear.

There was no doubt about it. Prozac was missing.

And I knew who took her: Marty.

All day long I’d had this feeling that he was going to try something. And I was right. Unable to go after me because of my safe deposit box threat, he decided to intimidate me by kidnapping my cat.

I checked the apartment for signs of forced entry. All the windows were locked, just as I’d left them when I went to Shalom. And then I remembered. The bathroom window. I always leave the bathroom window open. There’s no ventilation fan in my 1940s bathroom, and if the room doesn’t get any air, it’s fungus central in there. I’d run around the apartment that afternoon locking my windows, but I hadn’t bothered with the one in the bathroom. It was a small window, and I figured no one would be able to squeeze through it.

But I’d obviously been wrong. Marty had somehow managed to maneuver his bulk through the frame.

What a fool I’d been. Why the hell couldn’t I have shut the damn window? Wasn’t Prozac’s life worth a little fungus?

My heart pounding, I raced to the phone and, for the second time in less than a week, called 911.

“I want to report a kidnapping!” I wailed, trying not to think of what Marty might be doing to my beloved kitty with those ghastly dental instruments of his.

A sympathetic operator told me to be calm and took down my name and address.

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“How old is the victim?” she asked.

“Seven.”

“Male or female?”

“Female.”

“Height and weight?”

“About eight inches tall, and sixteen pounds, but she’s on a diet and any day now I’m sure she’s going to be losing weight.”

“Hold on a minute, ma’am. Your little girl is seven years old and weighs only sixteen pounds?”

“She’s not my little girl. She’s my cat. Someone’s stolen my cat!”

“This is the emergency line, ma’am.” The kindly voice suddenly sounded a lot less kind. “You need to call the pound.”

“No, you don’t understand. This is a matter of life and death. My cat has been kidnapped by a murderer. Her life is in jeopardy.”

“I’m sorry, ma’am, we don’t do cats.”

“But someone’s taken my Prozac!”

“There’s nothing I can do about that, either, ma’am. You’ll have to call your doctor for a refill on your prescription.”

“You don’t understand. I call my cat Prozac.”

“And I call mine Mr. Fluffy, but I’m afraid I still can’t help you, ma’am.”

Suddenly I was furious. Why was I paying taxes if the city couldn’t do a simple thing like help me find a kidnapped cat?

“I demand to talk to your supervisor,” I shrieked.

“One moment, please,” she snapped, and put me on hold.

At which point, there was a knock on the door.

A fresh bolt of fear stabbed me in the gut.

It was probably Marty. He’d hacked poor Prozac to pieces and now he’d come back to get me!

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“Can I help you, ma’am?”

A man’s voice came on the line.

“Someone’s at my front door,” I whispered,

“and he’s going to kill me.”

“I don’t understand. I thought your cat was kidnapped.”

The knocking grew louder.

“Yes, she was. And now the man who took her has come back to murder me!”

Then suddenly I heard: “Jaine, open up. It’s me, Lance.”

Relief flooded my body.

“Hold on a minute,” I said to the operator, and hurried to the door. Indeed it was Lance. And there curled up in his arms was Prozac.

“Prozac!” I cried, grabbing her. “Where have you been?”

Lance handed her over.

“Colin and I were having dinner at that new sushi restaurant down the street, and we found her out back eating from their garbage dumpster.”

“What?”

I looked down at Prozac in disbelief. She looked back at me sleepily and yawned.

“Yeah, the chef said she’s been eating there all week.”

“Prozac, how could you? Pretending to be on a diet, acting all high and mighty and doing your Little Miss Willpower routine, and the whole time you were sneaking out through the bathroom window and stuffing your face with sushi.”

“Actually, she was eating the deep-fried tempura when we found her.”

Prozac licked her lips.

Yum.

“Why, you sneaky little—”

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“I hate to break up this happy reunion,” Lance said, “but Colin’s waiting. And besides, shouldn’t you get back to your phone call?” I followed his gaze to the phone receiver, which was still dangling off the hook.

Omigod! I’d forgotten all about my call.

At which point, we heard sirens wailing down the street. The 911 operator, taking me at my word that I was about to be murdered, had sent the cops.

Ten minutes later, my face scarlet from nonstop apologies, I slunk back into my apartment, bolted my bathroom window, and poured myself another glass of chardonnay. Then I turned to Prozac, who was stretched out on the living room sofa.

“Well, young lady, having cheated on your diet, scared me half to death and humiliated me in front of the police, what have you got to say for yourself?”

She rolled over and purred lazily.

Got any bacon bits?

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YOU’VE GOT MAIL

TAMPA TRIBUNE

PHONY “REVEREND” BUSTED

Legendary drug runner Jimmy “The Rat” Stakowski was arrested by local authorities today for possession of narcotics and misappropriation of funds.

When police raided Stakowski’s townhouse in the Tampa Vistas retirement community, where he’d been passing himself off as “The Reverend James Sternmuller,” they found a stash of heroin, hidden in hollowed-out Bibles in his bedroom closet. Police also found a check for $50,000

from Mrs. Greta Gustafson, who was under the erroneous impression that Stakowski was going to marry her. In addition to drug running, Stakowski has had a long history of bilking elderly women out of their life savings.

Authorities were tipped off to the presence of Stakowski/Sternmuller by the vigilant efforts of Tampa Vistas resident Hank Austen, who sent fingerprint and DNA samples of the criminal to the FBI.

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To: Jausten

From: Shoptillyoudrop

Subject: Can You Believe It?

Can you believe it? It looks like Daddy was right about Reverend Sternmuller—I mean, Jimmy

“The Rat” Stakowski—after all. True, he didn’t kill anybody. But he
is
a criminal. Imagine. Hiding heroin in his Bibles. Good heavens! When I think of all the casseroles Greta Gustafson cooked for that awful man!

Needless to say, ever since the news broke, Daddy has been lording it over me, reminding me that he was right, and I was wrong. He’s so darn puffed up and full of himself. There’ll be no living with him now!

I’m just counting the minutes until things settle back down and return to normal.

Your frazzled,

Mom

P.S. That picture Daddy saw of “Billy Graham” wasn’t Billy Graham, but Jimmy “The Rat’s” bookie.

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Laura Levine

To: Jausten

From: DaddyO

Subject: Guess Who I Saw?

Hi, honeybun—

Did you see the article from the
Tribune?
About how I practically single-handedly brought Jimmy

“The Rat” Stakowski to justice? I knew that guy was fake the minute I saw him. Like I said all along, The Nose knows!

And speaking of The Nose, guess who I just saw at the supermarket, squeezing melons in the produce section? Elvis! True, his hair was dyed blond and he’d lost a ton of weight, but I’m sure it was him. Really. Elvis lives!

Gotta go now and alert the media!

To: Shoptillyoudrop

From: Jausten

Hi, Mom—

Better stock up on sherry.

Love and kisses,

Jaine

Chapter 23

The experts at Merriam-Webster are no doubt debating who should be next to “low-down sneaky scoundrel” in the dictionary: Prozac, or the

“Reverend” James Sternmuller.

So Daddy was right to be suspicious of Sternmuller. Who would’ve dreamed he was really a drug-running con artist? Poor Mom. Daddy would be squawking
I told you so
for months to come. I shuddered to think of him on the hunt for Elvis in the produce section at Safeway.

As for Prozac, I managed to stay angry with her for all of ten minutes. Then she did her rubbing-against-the-ankles-big-green-eyes bit, and I melted like I usually do.

“You win,” I told her as I came back from McDonald’s the next morning with two Egg McMuffins for breakfast. “No more dieting.”
I knew eventually you’d see it my way.

Okay, so I was a pillar of tapioca, a woman who let her 16-pound cat boss her around like a me-dieval serf. But it was the only sensible thing to do, really. One more day on that diet, and she’d be on Weight Watchers Most Wanted List.

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And frankly, I was thrilled not to have to eat another meal perched on the bathtub. How nice it was to have breakfast the civilized way, standing at the kitchen counter, tossing bits of Egg McMuffin to Prozac as she howled at my feet.

As the sunlight streamed in the kitchen window, I felt ashamed of my crazy call to 911. No doubt about it. I’d gone a little mad. There was no way Marty could have squeezed through my bathroom window.

Nevertheless, all the sunshine in the world couldn’t wipe my fears away entirely. Marty may not have broken into my apartment last night, but that didn’t mean I’d heard the last of him.

Prozac and I had just polished off the Egg McMuffins and were licking our fingers (well, I was licking my fingers; Prozac was concentrating on her genitals) when the phone rang.

It was Andrew Ferguson. At the sound of his vel-vety voice, all thoughts of Marty and the murder flew out of my head.

“Good news, Jaine!” he announced. “You’ve got the job. You’re the new editor of the Union National
Tattler.
”

“That’s wonderful!”

“Can you start tonight?”

“Sure. Your place or mine?”

Okay, so what I really said was, “Absolutely.”

“Tonight’s the night of our annual dinner dance downtown at the Stratford Hotel, and we want you to cover it for the
Tattler.
Think you can do it?”

Is the Pope Catholic? Is the sky blue? Are fat cells attracted to my thighs like ants to a picnic?

“Of course!” I squealed.

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“Terrific. Six o’clock. Stratford Hotel. Formal dress.”

After thanking him profusely, I hung up, swooped Prozac in my arms, and danced around the apartment singing
We’re in the Money.
That is, until the words “formal dress” registered on my brain. The last time I’d been invited to anything requiring formal dress I’d been a senior in high school, and I seriously doubted I’d be able to fit into my prom dress even if I still owned it, which I didn’t.

And so, faster than you can say MasterCard, I was at Nordstrom spending money I didn’t have on a fabulous slinky black crepe de chine dress with sexy side slits and sequinned spaghetti straps. With its clean lines and body-slimming cut, I looked practically thin. True, buying it put my checking account into cardiac arrest, but I’d fix that as soon as I got my first Union National paycheck.

Maybe when Andrew saw me in it, he’d forget about all the embarrassing incidents of the past two weeks—my pantyhose on his desk, my face stuffed with burrito, and the ghastly Men’s Room Incident. Maybe he’d take one look at me and see only the cool sophisticated writer/editor of his dreams.