The PMS Murder (3 page)

She could always start her diet tomorrow.

24

Laura Levine

YOU’VE GOT MAIL

To: Jausten

From: Shoptillyoudrop

Subject: America’s Most Irritating
Jaine, honey—

Sit down for this one. You won’t believe what your father is up to now.

The absolutely nicest man has moved to Tampa Vistas, Jim Sternmuller, a retired minister from Minnesota. Just the sweetest, kindest man you could ever hope to meet, and a widower, to boot.

All the single ladies have been tripping over themselves bringing casseroles to his townhouse.

But for some insane reason, your father is convinced that he’s seen Reverend Sternmuller on
America’s Most Wanted!
He says he’s the Hugo Boss Strangler, a madman who runs around strangling women with Hugo Boss ties. Have you ever heard of anything so ridiculous? For one thing, Reverend Sternmuller doesn’t even wear ties. Usually he wears tasteful jersey-knit sports shirts, the kind I’d love your father to wear, but Daddy says his raggedy old T-shirts are good enough for him.

And now Daddy is determined to “unmask” Reverend Sternmuller and bring him to justice!

THE PMS MURDERS

25

Where your father gets these crazy ideas I’ll never know. There’s no way on earth that Reverend Sternmuller is one of America’s Most Wanted. Although your father is far and away America’s Most Irritating.

Your frazzled,

Mom

To: Jausten

From: DaddyO

Subject: The Nose Knows

Hi, Lambchop—

Has Mom told you the big news? We’ve got a mass murderer in Tampa Vistas, some guy passing himself off as a retired minister. But I recognized him the minute I saw him. He’s the Hugo Boss Strangler. Kills all his victims with a designer tie.

Your mom thinks I’m crazy, but I know what I saw, and I saw “Reverend Sternmuller” on
America’s
Most Wanted
. Besides, I’ve got a nose for these things. I can smell a bad guy a mile off.

Your mom thinks that just because he doesn’t wear Hugo Boss ties, he’s not the Hugo Boss Strangler. Well, of course he wouldn’t wear the ties in public. He’s probably got them hidden somewhere in his townhouse.

26

Laura Levine

Trust me, sweet pea. The Nose knows!

Your loving,

Daddy

To: Jausten

From: Shoptillyoudrop

Subject: P.S.

P.S. I’ve been so upset with Daddy, I ordered a 360-day supply of Stress-Less vitamin pills from the Shopping Channel, only $36.99 plus shipping and handling. And while I was at it, I picked up the most adorable Calvin Kleinman capri pants set. With little martinis all over it. It’s perfect for L.A. Should I order one for you, too?

Love and kisses,

Mom

To: Shoptillyoudrop

From: Jausten

Thanks, Mom, but I think I’ll pass on the Calvin Kleinman. When it comes to martinis, I prefer mine in a glass.

And try not to worry about Daddy. This Reverend Sternmuller thing is probably just another Whim du Jour. I bet he’s already forgotten all about it.

THE PMS MURDERS

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To: Jausten

From: DaddyO

I just called
America’s Most Wanted
and tipped them off to the Reverend, but who knows how long it will take for them to do anything?

In the meanwhile, he could strike again right here in Tampa Vistas. So I guess it’s up to your old Daddy to stop him!

Wish me luck, honey. “The Nose” won’t rest until he’s brought the Hugo Boss Strangler to justice!

To: Shoptillyoudrop

From: Jausten

Subject: Stress-Less Pills

Dear Mom,

On second thought, better have those Stress-Less pills shipped overnight.

Chapter 3

Idrove over to Pam Kenton’s apartment the next night, my mind still reeling from my parents’

e-mails.

Can you believe Daddy, and his insane convic -

tion that his new neighbor was one of “America’s Most Wanted”? I shouldn’t have been surprised.

Daddy’s imagination has always been in overdrive.

This is a man who insists he once saw Mother Teresa buying thong underwear at Victoria’s Secret.

There’d be trouble ahead, no doubt about it. My father attracts trouble like white cashmere attracts wine stains. I just thanked my lucky stars I was 3,000

miles out of his orbit.

I pulled up in front of the address Pam had given me, a great old Spanish-style apartment building in the heart of Hollywood. Built sometime in the 1920s, it had balconies and balustrades and an authentic Spanish red-tile roof.

Unfortunately, the inside of the building was a lot less impressive than the outside. Whoever owned it clearly was not spending anything on upkeep.

I headed up the chipped tile stairs to Pam’s apartment. The stairwell reeked of cabbage. I sure hoped THE PMS MURDERS

29

it wasn’t part of the dinner Pam had promised me in exchange for helping her with her resume.

I rang the bell and Pam answered the door in sweats and Reeboks, clearly a graduate of the Jaine Austen School of Dressing.

“Hi, there,” she beamed. “It’s so sweet of you to help me with my resume like this.”

“Think nothing of it,” I said, still kicking myself for not charging her.

“I told everyone in the PMS Club that I’m bringing you to the meeting tonight. They can’t wait to meet you. Now c’mon in and I’ll give you the grand tour.”

She ushered me into a huge room with a high vaulted ceiling and French doors leading out onto a balcony.

“This is the living room,” she said. “And the bedroom. And the study. And the den. And the library.”

“Oh, it’s a studio apartment.”

“Yep. Come see the bedroom.”

She led me to the corner of the room, and there, behind a Victorian screen, was an old brass bed with what looked like a hand-sewn quilt and a platoon of kitschy souvenir throw pillows. I loved the way she mixed Victoriana with Americana and topped it off with junk shop finds. The whole place was like that, an eclectic mix of furniture, most of which I suspected she’d picked up at second-hand stores.

I admire people who can throw different styles together and have it come out looking good. When they do it, it’s eclectic. When I do it, it’s a mess.

“Your place is fantastic,” I said, taking it all in.

“But wait,” she said. “The tour’s not over yet.

You haven’t seen the Pam Kenton Hall of Fame.” 30

Laura Levine

I followed her across the room.

“Voila!” she said, opening the door to her vin-tage bathroom, with its badly cracked original tile and fixtures that were installed back when Fatty Arbuckle was in diapers.

“It’s sure got a lot of character,” I said.

“I’d prefer some water pressure, but I guess I’ll have to settle for character.”

“So where’s the hall of fame?”

“Here,” she said, pointing to a wall covered with 8x10 framed glossies. “Here I am, in all my theatrical triumphs.”

I stepped closer to get a better look.

“Here’s me as Stella in
A Streetcar Named Desire.
”

“Wow, that’s great. Was that on Broadway?”

“No, off Broadway. About 3,000 miles off Broadway, at the West Covina Community Playhouse.

Oh, here’s me as Hedda Gabler. And here’s me as Felix Unger in my high school production of
The
Odd Couple.
”

“You played Felix Unger?”

“It was an all-girls school. I look good in a mustache, don’t you think? It’s nice to know, for when menopause sets in. Oh, and here’s my all-time favorite—me as an eggplant in a vegetable soup commercial.”

“Very impressive.”

“Sad to say, but that was the high point of my career. The spot went national, and I made some really nice money from it.

“Oh, well,” she sighed, leading me back to her studio. “Enough of my showbiz years. Time to get back to reality and work on my resume. Can I get you some wine?”

I shook my head.

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31

“I really shouldn’t. Not if I want to keep a clear head.”

“You’re absolutely right. So what do you want?

Red or white?”

“Red.”

“Great.”

She scooted over to her “bar,” a wrought-iron bistro table sporting a dusty jug of Costco gin and a couple of bottles of screw-top wine.

“Want to smell the cork?” she asked, tossing me the screw top.

I laughed as she poured us both some wine.

We settled down on her large chintz sofa and got to work on her resume.

“So what sort of work experience have you had?” I asked, taking notes on a steno pad.

“Well, there’s the waitressing. But I can’t use that.”

“Sure you can.”

She looked dubious. “Waitress doesn’t sound very impressive.”

“No, but Food Service Specialist does.” She nodded happily. “So it does.”

“What else?” I asked.

“I’ve done some temp filing.”

“Organizational Engineer,” I jotted down.

“What else?”

“When I was a kid, I sold Girl Scout cookies.”

“Professional Fund-raiser.”

By now she was beaming. “Hey, you’re really good at this stuff.”

Pam filled me in on the details of her job history, and I told her I’d finish the resume by the end of the week.

“Are you sure I can’t pay you?” 32

Laura Levine

Yes! Tell her yes! You want some money!

But like a fool, I said, “Forget it. It’s nothing. I knock these things out in my sleep.”

“You’re a doll,” she said, with a grateful smile.

“Now let me get our dinner.”

She got up and went behind some beaded curtains into her tiny box of a kitchen.

“There’s always plenty to eat at the club,” she called out from behind the curtain, “so I just fixed us a light bite.”

She came out from the kitchen holding two sacks from Burger King.

“Which means only one order of fries with our Whoppers.”

Then, grinning, she set out burgers, fries, and Cokes on the ottoman she used as a coffee table.

“Hope you don’t mind my doing takeout. I’m not much of a cook.”

“Me, neither,” I said. “I use my oven to warm my socks.”

“Really? I use mine to dry my newspapers.” Clearly Emeril had nothing to fear from us.

“Besides,” I said, squeezing ketchup onto my burger, “I adore Whoppers.”

And that was no lie. I proceeded to dig into mine with gusto. And I was not alone in my gusto-hood. Pam was right alongside me, mouthful for mouthful.

When we finally came up for air, we started gabbing. I told Pam about my life as a writer, and she told me about her life as an actress. And trust me, I had the better deal. I don’t know how actors cope with all the rejection. Would you believe she was once turned down for the part of a corpse because she didn’t look dead enough?

Pam asked me about my love life and, after a THE PMS MURDERS

33

hearty chuckle, I explained that it was currently on the endangered species list. I told her about my disastrous marriage to The Blob. That’s what I call my ex-husband. He seemed perfectly divine when I met him. Not a flaw in sight. No hint of the man who would eventually pick his teeth with paper clips and watch ESPN during sex.

She tsk-tsked in sympathy.

“I know just how you feel. My marriage was a fiasco, too.”

“Really? What went wrong?”

“Everything. We fought constantly, bickered, had screaming matches, threw lamps at each other. And that was just on the honeymoon.” She popped a final fry into her mouth, then checked her watch.

“We’d better get going, or we’ll be late for the meeting. Time to do the dishes!” She held out a wastepaper basket, and we tossed in our trash.

“Well, that’s done,” she said, wiping her hands on her sweats, clearly a graduate of the Jaine Austen School of Housekeeping, too.

Pam drove her battered Nissan Sentra west on Sunset to Brentwood.

“So tell me more about the club,” I said, as we tooled past the quatrillion-dollar estates on Sunset Boulevard.

“Well, we’ve been meeting for about a year now.

Most of us hooked up at the L.A. Racquet Club.”

“The fancy gym on the west side?” Pam nodded. “I’d just finished shooting my vegetable soup commercial and I was feeling flush. So I sprung for a membership.”

34

Laura Levine

“Isn’t it awfully snooty?”

“Some of the members are, but the PMS gals are really great. We connected right away.”

“Tell me about them.”

“Let’s see. There’s Rochelle. She hosts the meetings every week.”

“Every week? Doesn’t she mind?”

“Hell, no. She insists on it. She loves to play hostess. I think she’s memorized every book Martha Stewart ever wrote. The woman cooks everything from scratch. If she could make her own water, she would. She puts cocktail umbrellas in her margaritas and little Mexican flags in her homemade empanadas.”

“Little Mexican flags?”

“I know. It’s unbelievable. But I’ve got to say she makes the best damn guacamole I ever tasted. She says her secret ingredient is a dash of orange juice.

Whatever it is, it’s fantastic.”

“So is this Rochelle the ringleader of the group?”

“Oh, no. Far from it. That’s the funny thing about Rochelle. As much as she loves to entertain, she’s really quite shy. Just flits around, taking margarita orders, making sure everybody has enough to eat.

She tends to blend in with the wallpaper, but she’s very sweet. Always sympathetic when one of us has a problem. In her own quiet way, she’s the glue that holds the group together.”

“What about the other club members?”

“Like I said, they’re all terrific.” Then she frowned. “Except maybe Marybeth.”

“Who’s Marybeth?”

“Interior decorator. Very successful.”

“What’s wrong with her?”

“You’ll find out soon enough,” she said, turning onto a leafy street. “We’re here.” THE PMS MURDERS

35

She parked in front of an impressive colonial house, gleaming toothpaste white in the moonlight.