The PMS Murder (26 page)

As for me, I spent six weeks with my leg in a cast.

Not from my elevator encounter with Pam, but from tripping over one of Mr. Goldman’s two left feet at Mambo Mania. What a night. Trust me, you don’t want to know the details. Let’s just say it’s the last time I’ll ever go dancing with a man who uses his dentures as castanets.

My big job at Union National? It was heavenly while it lasted, which was all of two weeks. Yes, two weeks after I started editing the
Tattler,
Union Na-THE PMS MURDERS

255

tional was bought out by a German conglomerate.

One of the first things they did was save $40,000 a year by firing me and folding the
Tattler.

The second thing they did was transfer Andrew Ferguson to Stuttgart, Germany. A quatrillion miles away. Can you believe it? I didn’t even get a chance to go out with the guy. By the time the doctor finally took the cast off my leg, Andrew was
auf wieder-sehen,
gone with the wind. He called before he left, though, and promised to keep in touch. I’ll let you know if he does.

Well, gotta go. Prozac’s howling for her dinner.

Catch you next time.

P.S. By the way, I finally got Prozac to stop eating bacon bits. I convinced her that, with all those chemicals and artificial ingredients, they were way too unhealthy.

Now she insists on real bacon.

Freelance writer Jaine Austen is back! This time

around she’s writing jokes for a female comic in

order to make a buck. But when the comic’s male

rival is found dead, strangled by a pair of panty-

hose, and Jaine’s client is arrested, it’s once again

up to her to figure out whodunit . . .

Jaine Austen has never been able to resist the siren call of an Eskimo Pie, just like she can’t resist renew-ing her romance with Andrew, an old crush. With her bank account hitting new lows, she’s also just agreed to write jokes for Dorcas, a stand-up comic who throws her pantyhose into the audience as a punch line.

Not only is Dorcas’s act a bomb, she is heckled by Vic, a gorgeous fellow comic who is equally good on stage and in the sack. Unfortunately Vic loves performing in both venues. He gets in bed with a sexy waitress, a pretty new lover, and a sweet girlfriend while professing his undying love for each. Worse, he is two-timing his aging agent. Pretty soon Vic has an enemy’s list a mile long, and when he needles Dorcas one time too many, she assaults him at a club’s open-mike night.

Naturally when Vic is murdered with Dorcas’s pantyhose and that same Dorcas is standing over his dead body, the police arrest . . . Dorcas. They figure it’s an open-and-shut case although Jaine figures no killer can be that dumb—even Dorcas. But when Jaine sets out to find the real culprit, she is distracted by one dating disaster after another with Andrew—

and she may not see the dark side of comedy until she faces the business end of a gun and a cold, deadly grin . . .

Please turn the page for an exciting sneak peek at
Laura Levine’s

DEATH BY PANTYHOSE

coming next month in hardcover!

Chapter 1

Ever have one of those days where everything seems to go your way, where the gods smile on your every move and good luck follows you around like an eager puppy?

Neither have I.

No matter how great things start out in my life, sooner or later something is guaranteed to hit the fan.

Take the day the whole pantyhose mess began.

It started out smoothly enough. My cat, Prozac, waited until the civilized hour of 8 A.M. before swan diving on my chest to wake me up.

“Morning, pumpkin,” I murmured, as she nuzzled her furry head under my chin.

She looked at me with big green eyes that seemed to say,
You’re my favorite human in all the world
. (Well, not exactly. What they really seemed to say was,
When
do we eat?
But I knew deep down, she loved me.) When I looked out the window, I was happy to see that the early morning smog that hovers over L.A.

for months on end had finally taken a powder. The sun was back in action, shining its little heart out.

Things got even better when I discovered a free 260

Laura Levine

sample of Honey Nutty Raisin Bits with my morning newspaper, which meant I didn’t have to nuke one of the petrified Pop Tarts in my freezer for breakfast.

After feeding Prozac a bowl of Moist Mackerel Guts and inhaling my Honey Nutty Raisin Bits straight from the box, I did the crossword puzzle (with nary a trip to the dictionary) and spent the rest of the morning polishing my resume for an upcoming job interview. And not just any job interview. I, Jaine Austen, a gal who normally writes toilet bowl ads for a living, had a meeting lined up that very morning at Rubin-McCormick, one of L.A.’s hottest ad agencies.

And so it was with a spring in my step and Honey Nutty Raisin Bits on my breath that I headed off to the bedroom to get dressed for my interview. I took out my one and only Prada suit from my closet, pristine clean in its dry-cleaning bag. No unsightly ketchup stains ambushed me at the last minute, like they usually do. I checked my one and only pair of Manolo Blahnik shoes. Not a scuff mark in sight.

I checked my hair in the mirror. No crazy cowlicks or Brillo patches in my natural curls. Like I said, the gods were smiling on me.

And that’s when I saw it: a zit on my chin the size of a small Aleutian island.

Now I’ve got nothing against the Aleutian Islands. I’m sure they’re quite scenic. But not on my chin,
s’il vous plaît
.

I was surveying the disaster in the mirror when the phone rang. I let the machine get it.

Hi!
A woman’s eager voice came on the line
. I
saw your ad in the Yellow Pages, and I’m calling to see if
you write comedy material. I’m a stand-up comic, and
everyone says I’m hilarious.

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261

Uh-oh. My Bad Job Antenna sprang into action.

People who say they’re hilarious are usually about as funny as leftover meatloaf.

I need someone to write some new jokes for my act.

Your ad said your rates were reasonable. I sure hope so. I
was thinking maybe five bucks a joke. Six or seven if
they’re really funny.

Five bucks a joke? Was she kidding? Court jesters were making more than that in the Middle Ages.

Give me a call if you’re interested. My name is Dorcas.

Oh, and by the way, you can catch my act at the Laff
Palace on open-mike nights. I’m the one who throws my
pantyhose into the audience.

Did I hear right? Did she actually say she threw her pantyhose into the audience? Sounded more like a stripper than a comic to me.

Needless to say, I didn’t write down her number.

In the first place, I wasn’t really a comedy writer.

And in the second place, even if I was a comedy writer, the last thing I wanted to do was write jokes for a pantyhose-tossing comic. And in the third and most important place, for once in my life, I wasn’t desperate for money.

Yes, for the past several months, my computer had been practically ablaze with writing assignments: I’d done a freelance piece for the
L.A.

Times
on 24-hour Botox Centers. A new brochure for Mel’s Mufflers (
Our Business Is Exhausting
). And to top it off, I’d just finished an extensive ad cam-paign for my biggest client, Toiletmasters Plumbers, introducing their newest product, an extra large toilet bowl called Big John. All of which meant I had actual funds in my checking account.

What’s more, if my job interview today went well, I’d be bringing home big bucks from the 262

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Rubin-McCormick ad agency. I’d answered their ad for a freelance writer, and much to my surprise Stan McCormick himself had called me to set up an appointment. Who knows? Maybe he’d seen my botox piece in the
L.A. Times
. Or maybe he was the proud owner of a Big John. I didn’t care why he wanted to see me; all I knew was that I had a shot at a job at one of L.A.’s premiere ad agencies.

Which was why that zit on my chin was so annoying. But with diligent effort (and enough con-cealer to caulk a bathtub), I eventually managed to camouflage it.

After I finished dressing, I surveyed myself in the mirror. If I do say so myself, I looked nifty. My Prada suit pared inches from my hips (which needed all the paring they could get). My Manolos gave me three extra statuesque inches. And my frizz-free hair was a veritable shinefest.

I headed out to the living room, where I found Prozac draped over the back of the sofa.

“Wish me luck, Pro,” I said, as I bent down to kiss her good-bye.

She yawned in my face, blasting me with mackerel breath.

Hurry back. I may want a snack.

“I love you, too, dollface.”

Then I headed outside to my Corolla, where the birds were chirping, the sun was shining, and the grass was growing greener by the minute.

Nothing, I thought, could possibly go wrong on such a spectacular day.

I’m sure the gods had a hearty chuckle over that one.

Chapter 2

The Rubin-McCormick Agency was headquartered in a high-rent business complex in Santa Monica, a gleaming Mediterranean extravaganza with swaying palm trees and waterfalls out front. If you didn’t know it was an office building, you’d swear you were at a Ritz-Carlton. I drove past the waterfalls to the impeccably landscaped parking lot, thrilled to have landed an interview in such au-gust surroundings.

The lobby was deserted when I got there. It was nearly eleven, that quiet time before the lunch rush, and I had the place all to myself. I rang for the elevator and started rehearsing my opening greeting.

“Hello, Mr. McCormick,” I said to the elevator doors. “I’m Jaine Austen.”

Nah. Maybe “Mr.” was too formal. These ad agencies were hip, happening places.

“Hey, Stan. Jaine here.”

No, no, no! That was way too familiar. I wanted to be his writer, not his golf buddy.

“A pleasure to meet you, Mr. McCormick,” I tried. “I’m Jaine Austen.”

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Laura Levine

Suddenly a voice came out of nowhere.

“A pleasure to meet you, too, Ms. Austen.” I whirled around and saw a tall guy in his late forties, graying at the temples, in khakis and a cashmere blazer. He wore tinted aviator glasses and carried an attaché case that cost more than my Corolla.

Dear Lord
, I prayed.
Please don’t let him be Stan McCormick.

He smiled a craggy suntanned smile.

“Hi. I’m Stan McCormick.”

Great. My would-be employer saw me talking to myself. Just the impression I was going for. The Recently Released Mental Patient Look.

The elevator, which had taken its sweet time showing up, finally dinged open, and we both got on.

“This is so embarrassing,” I said. “Not exactly the way I was hoping to start my interview.”

“Interview?” He blinked, puzzled.

“I have an appointment to meet with you at eleven this morning.”

He still looked puzzled.

“I answered your ad for a freelance writer. Remember?”

“Damn,” he said, slapping his forehead with his open palm. “Now look who’s embarrassed. I forgot all about it. Completely slipped my mind. I’ve been down in Newport all morning with a client.” The elevator doors opened onto the Rubin-McCormick reception area, a stark white expanse with nothing on the walls except the Rubin-McCormick logo. A cool, blonde receptionist fielded phone calls behind a wraparound desk.

“Actually,” he said, waving to the receptionist,

“I’m starving. How about I take you to Westwood DEATH BY PANTYHOSE

265

Gardens and we have our interview over an early lunch?”

My spirits perked up. Lunch—along with breakfast, dinner, and brunch—happens to be one of my favorite meals. What’s more, he was taking me to Westwood Gardens, one of the best restaurants in town.

“Sounds wonderful,” I said, as we started back down to the lobby.

“Mind if we take your car?” he asked. “I just dropped mine off with the valets to be detailed.” Drat. I’d sweated bullets putting together my Prada–Manolo Blahnik ensemble, hoping to pass myself off as an A-list writer. What would he think when he saw my geriatric Corolla, littered with McDonald’s ketchup packets?

“I don’t mind,” I lied. “Not at all.” We headed over to my dusty Corolla, which I saw, to my dismay, was sporting a big white blob on the windshield, a love note from a bird with a serious gastrointestinal disorder.

“Excuse my car,” I said, as we got in. “I’m afraid it’s a mess.”

“No, no. It’s fine,” he said, plucking an Almond Joy wrapper from the passenger seat before he sat down.

I gritted my teeth in annoyance. Why the heck hadn’t I washed the car before the interview?

I turned on my new state-of-the-art stereo system, a gift I’d bought myself with my Big John earnings, hoping Stan would be so impressed with the quality of the sound, he wouldn’t notice the Big Gulp Slurpee cup at his feet.

And he did seem impressed.

“Great speakers,” he said, “for such a crummy car.”

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Okay, so he didn’t say the part about the crummy car, but it had to have been on his mind.

It was a short drive to Westwood Gardens, most of which we spent making small talk and staring at the bird poop on the windshield.

I pulled up to the restaurant and handed the Corolla over to a valet. Normally I’d circle the block seventeen times looking for a parking space before springing for a valet, but I didn’t want to seem like a piker, especially when Stan said, “Don’t worry about the valet, Jaine. I’ll take care of him.” I handed my keys to the valet and we headed inside.

Westwood Gardens is an upscale eaterie with exposed brick walls, flagstone floors, and rustic wrought-iron furniture. Very “My Year in Provence.” A reed-thin hostess/actress seated us at a cozy table for two by the window, overlooking the bustling Westwood street scene. Sizing up Stan as someone who could possibly give her a part in a play/movie/