The PMS Murder (24 page)

I took the escalator down to cosmetics to splurge on some new blush. I was standing there at the MAC counter, dabbing on something called
Plum
Foolery,
lost in a fantasy of Andrew and me dancing cheek to cheek at the Stratford Hotel, when suddenly my fantasy came to a screeching halt. Was I hallucinating, or did I just see Marty’s face reflected behind me in the makeup mirror? I whirled around and saw a stocky man hurrying out the main en-236

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trance. I raced after him, but by the time I got out into the mall courtyard, he was gone.

After last night, I didn’t know what to think. Was my imagination in overdrive again? Was that just another big guy on his lunch break?

Or was Marty Meyers stalking me?

I was so discombobulated when I got back in my car, I almost forgot it was Friday, the day of my lunch date with Pam. It’s a miracle I didn’t get into an accident on the drive over to the restaurant; my eyes were practically glued to the rearview mirror the entire trip. But no one seemed to be tailing me. No one I could see, anyway.

The Farm House is an upscale showbiz hang-out in Santa Monica, packed with industry insiders at lunchtime. There are two rooms: an enclosed patio, a leafy sun-drenched haven where the movers and shakers sit. And The Other Room, where the peasants are seated. Don’t get me wrong. The Other Room is damn nice; in fact, a lot nicer than the “A” list patio on a hot day when the sun beating down through the skylights makes things a little too sauna-ish for my tastes. And besides, it’s light-years nicer than my usual lunch destination, Chez Burger King.

Pam was already seated in The Other Room when I got there, a bottle of champagne chilling at her elbow.

“I ordered some bubbly,” she said, wrapping me in a warm hug. “To celebrate my theatrical debut as a talking ketchup packet. Gosh, I can’t remember the last time I drank champagne that didn’t have a screw-top cap.”

“Congratulations, Pam,” I said, forcing a smile.

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“Hey, something’s wrong,” she said. “I can tell.

What is it?”

And I told her everything. Up to and including my little tête-à-tête with Marty at his office and how I thought he might be stalking me.

“Oh, my God,” Pam said when I was through.

She poured me a glass of champagne. “Have some.

You need it.”

She was right. I took a healthy slug of the bubbly.

“You really think Marty killed Marybeth?” she asked, wide-eyed.

“I’m certain of it. If only I could break his alibi and prove he wasn’t in Laguna.”

“Jaine, this is crazy. You’ve got to stop your investigation. If you’re right about Marty, you could get hurt. I want you to go to the police. Right now.

And tell them what you’ve told me.”

“I’ve already tried. But Lieutenant Clemmons hasn’t listened to a word I’ve said.”

“Then you’ve got to go over his head. See someone else. You could be in serious danger.”

“Don’t worry. I’m pretty sure I scared Marty off.

I made up some story about having a document in my safe deposit box saying that he was responsible if anything happened to me. That seemed to intimidate him.”

“Then why was he following you at Nordstrom?” She had a point there.

“Maybe it wasn’t him,” I said feebly. “Maybe it was some other big guy.”

Pam shot me a dubious look.

“Wait a minute,” I said. “Why don’t I really do it?

Why don’t I write down a statement and give it to you? And if anything happens to me, you show it to the cops.”

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“Okay,” she said, as I took a pen from my purse and began writing on a paper cocktail napkin, “but you have to promise me you’ll go to the cops soon,
before
anything happens to you.”

“I promise,” I said, handing her my hastily written document. I only hoped they admitted cocktail napkins as legal evidence in a murder trial.

“You’d better,” she said. “Because if you don’t, I will. I’ll call the cops. I’ll call the mayor. I’ll call the governor if I have to. I’m very good at that stuff,” she said, dipping a hunk of olive bread into a dish of pesto sauce. “I once played a victim’s rights ad-vocate in a deodorant commercial.”

“Thanks, Pam. I really appreciate it.”

“You’ve got to try this pesto. It’s marvelous.” I did. And it was.

It’s amazing what a little pesto washed down with a lot of champagne can do for the spirits. I was feeling calmer already.

“Just know that whatever happens, I’m here for you,” Pam said. “One hundred percent. You can count on me. Oops,” she said, putting down her olive bread and springing up. “Gotta go.”

“Where are you going?”

“I see a casting director on the patio whose ass I have to kiss. Sorry, hon. I’ll be right back. And then I’ll be here for you one hundred percent.” And she scampered off to suck up to her casting director.

I sat back in my chair in a lovely champagne buzz and gazed at the menu, trying to decide between flourless chocolate cake and brownie à la mode for dessert.

Then suddenly someone’s cell phone started ringing. I shook my head in annoyance. Why couldn’t people shut off their dratted phones so THE PMS MURDERS

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the rest of us could have a little peace and quiet? I looked around to see where the noise was coming from and realized it was coming from our table. It couldn’t be my phone, because mine was in the car. It had to be Pam’s.

I looked over at her huge leather tote, slung from the back of her chair, and sure enough the ringing was coming from somewhere inside its depths. I reached over to grab it, but in my haste, I knocked it over, sending its contents clattering onto The Farm House’s rustic hardwood floor.

Quickly I got down on my knees and grabbed the phone, but whoever was calling had hung up.

With an apologetic smile to my dining neighbors, who were staring at me with undisguised disdain, I began picking up Pam’s stuff. Good Lord, the woman packed more supplies in her purse than a Nepalese sherpa. It was like a mini-garage sale on that floor. I frantically began grabbing Tampax and mace and movie stubs, a grocery list, a lottery ticket, a Thai take-out menu, a half-eaten jelly donut, a Diet Snapple, a monkey wrench, and a library book due some time in 1987. Just as I was reaching under a neighboring table for an errant package of Rolaids, Pam came back.

“What’re you doing down on the floor?”

“Your cell phone was ringing, and when I reached for your purse to answer it, I knocked it over and everything spilled out.”

I plopped the Rolaids back into her purse, along with a pair of tweezers. “Haven’t you ever heard of less is more?” I hissed.

A snooty blonde handed me a Tootsie Pop that had rolled under her table. I handed it to Pam, along with her purse and her cell phone, and we sat back down at our table.

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“My cell phone!” she said. Her eyes lit up with excitement. “That’s the answer!”

“Great,” I said, taking a slug of champagne.

“Now what’s the question?”

“I’ve got an eyewitness who can prove Marty was in town the day of the murder.”

“Who?” Now it was my turn to be excited.

“Me!” she grinned. “I’m an idiot for not remembering sooner, but I bought this cell phone the afternoon of the murder. I got it at Best Buy over in Westwood.”

So far, it didn’t sound like much of an indict-ment of Marty.

“And?” I prompted.

“And there’s a Ralph’s supermarket right next door. When I was coming out of Best Buy, I saw Marty coming out of Ralph’s.”

“Are you sure it was him?”

“I’m positive.”

“He didn’t see me, though, and I didn’t say hello. I was in a rush, and I didn’t want to stop and talk.”

“So he couldn’t have been down in Laguna that afternoon.”

“Nope. He was in town, all right. It must’ve been about three o’clock. And he was coming out of the supermarket.”

“Perhaps with a bottle of peanut oil.” Pam nodded eagerly. “He had plenty of time to sneak back home and doctor the guacamole while Rochelle was preoccupied with the plumbers or the building inspector.”

Great. I had an eyewitness who could prove Marty Meyers was in town the day of the murder.

“Will you call the cops and tell them what you told me?”

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“The minute I get home,” she assured me.

We spent the rest of the afternoon celebrating our new jobs with an obscenely fattening lunch and another bottle of champagne. I told her about my gala party at the Stratford that night, and she told me about all the things she was going to buy with her residual checks.

We lingered over our flourless chocolate cake and brownie à la mode for hours. By the time we left, the staff was setting up for dinner.

I drove home a happy woman, full of champagne, chocolate, and—most important—hope.

(Okay, most important was chocolate, but hope was a close second.)

By the time I got home, I had less than an hour to get ready for the Union National gala. If I hurried, I could squeeze in a quick soak in the tub.

I whipped out my glamorous new gown from its plastic garment bag and gasped in dismay. After an afternoon in the trunk of my car, it had wrinkled badly.

Oh, well. No problem. I’d just use the steam from my bath to smooth out those pesky creases.

I ran my bath water so it was nice and steamy, adding my favorite strawberry-scented bath oil.

Then I hung the dress from the shower curtain rod and dashed to the bedroom to get undressed.

I tossed off my clothes with the carefree abandon of a
Girls Gone Wild
coed. It was finally sinking in that I’d actually landed the job at Union National Bank. Before long I’d be bringing home forty big ones a year! At long last, I’d be able to take my checking account off life support!

True, I hadn’t gotten Rochelle off the hook for 242

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Marybeth’s murder, but it would take months before the case went to trial. I had plenty of time to prove my case against Marty. Pam’s testimony would certainly help. In the meanwhile, I had a wonderful new job and an even more wonderful new boss waiting for me.

Yes, I was definitely in a chipper mood when I headed back to the bathroom. A mood that lasted all of two seconds. Because the first thing I saw when I opened the bathroom door was Prozac, perched on the counter, clawing at my new dress.

And then, before my horrified eyes, I saw the sequinned spaghetti straps slip off the hanger. Before I could reach it, the dress went plunging into the hot, strawberry-scented water.

I plucked the sodden mass from the tub and wailed, “Prozac! What have you done?” Her tail swished proudly.

I just saved us from the evil black monster from the
planet Nordstrom!

Okay, no need to panic. I’d simply skip my bath and iron the dress dry.

I dashed to the broom closet for my iron and ironing board. My iron was a rusty old travel model, a treasured anniversary gift from The Blob.

The last time I used it was to iron the blouse I wore to our divorce proceedings. I set up the ironing board and began my task. I soon saw that it was hopeless. The dress was soaking wet. It would take hours to iron it dry with my little travel iron. And the one patch I managed to dry puckered miserably under the heat of the steel.

Oh, who was I kidding? There was no way I was going to wear my sexy new dress. Not that night, or ever again. Even if I managed to get it dry, surely it THE PMS MURDERS

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would shrink to the size of a hanky from all that hot water.

And so, with heavy heart, I headed back to the bedroom to look for something appropriate to wear to a formal affair. But all I found in my closet were one-size-fits-all sleep shirts and elastic-waist pants. Which should come as no surprise. After all, my idea of a formal affair is the All You Can Eat Shrimp Festival at Sizzler.

And then I saw it. Way in the back of the closet.

My Cinderella-on-Steroids Bridesmaid Dress. I’d picked it up a few days ago from Amy Lee’s Bridal Salon and shoved it in back of the closet, hoping maybe the moths would get it. But even the moths wouldn’t go near it. I took it out and looked it over. It was every bit as ugly as I remembered. The same puffy sleeves, the same billowing hips, the same hideous bubblegum pink color.

No way was I going to wear this monstrosity. I simply couldn’t do it.

Nope. I’d wear my Prada suit, the one I wore to my bank interviews. It wasn’t formal, but it would have to do. After all, I told myself, it was Prada. It had style. It had class. And—omigod!—it had a grease stain the size of New Jersey on the front of the jacket. Where the heck did that come from?

And then I remembered. It must be from that damn burrito I ate after my lunch with Andrew and Sam.

I would’ve burst into tears, but I didn’t have time to cry. I’d wasted so much time ironing, it was already almost six o’clock! There was no way out of it. I was going to have to wear the cursed bridesmaid dress.

I threw on an ancient strapless bra left over from my honeymoon, and my waist-nipper pantyhose.

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Then I took a deep breath and put on the dress.

Or tried to. The zipper simply refused to budge.

Either the dress had shrunk in my closet, or I’d gained weight since the last fitting. Why the heck did Pam and I have to order
both
the flourless chocolate cake
and
the brownie à la mode at lunch? Couldn’t we have shared a single dessert like normal women do?

After much grunting and cursing, I managed to jam myself into it. I felt like a sausage about to burst from its casing.

How was I ever going to survive this torture? I’d just have to hope for the best. If I didn’t breathe or laugh or eat anything more than a celery stick, I might make it through the night.

I checked my watch. Acck! 6:05. I was supposed to be there five minutes ago! I lassoed my curls into a velvet scrunchy, hoping I could pass off the resulting mess as a sophisticated upswept hairdo.

No time to put on my makeup; I’d have to do it in the car.