The PMS Murder (5 page)

45

Rochelle sat back down on the sofa with a sigh.

Marybeth reached over and took her hand.

“C’mon, honey,” she said. “You can tell us. That’s what we’re here for.”

Rochelle shot her a grateful look, then took a deep breath.

“Things with Marty aren’t so hot. He hardly talks to me. He comes home at all hours. Says he’s working late. I just don’t understand it. What sort of dentist works till midnight?” She shook her head unhappily and stared down at her nails, which I could see were bitten to the quick.

“When he comes home, the first thing he does is head for the shower. I heard on
Oprah
the other day that’s a sign that your husband is having an affair.” She looked up from her nails.

“What do you think?” she asked, her eyes wide with worry. “Do you think Marty’s having an affair?” Nobody said anything. Nobody had the heart to say what they were thinking, that of course he was having an affair, that she should wake up and smell the cappuccino and get the name of a good divorce attorney.

“It’s hard to tell, Rochelle,” Pam finally managed to say.

“Men.” Ashley stared morosely into her margarita.

“What a bunch of bums. At least after I caught my husband cheating on me with our 17-year-old neighbor, he had the good grace to die and leave me a boatload of money.”

She raised her glass in a toast.

“Here’s to my husband Roger. If there are yeast infections in hell, I hope he gets one.”

“Here, here!” said Pam, and we all raised our glasses.

46

Laura Levine

Marybeth tsk-tsked in disapproval.

“You guys are terrible. Such Negative Nellies. For your information, there are plenty of good men out there. In fact, it just so happens I’ve found not one, but
two
of them.”

“I suppose you’re going to tell us all about them,” Pam sighed wearily.

Marybeth reached for the bowl of macadamias, which I’d pretty much demolished. “Pass the nuts will you, June?”

“I’m afraid I ate most of them,” I said, passing her the bowl.

“That’s all right,” Rochelle said, jumping up.

“I’ve got more in the kitchen.”

“Don’t bother, honey,” Marybeth said. “There’re still a few left.” Emphasis on
a few.

By now, I was firmly entrenched in the anti-Marybeth camp.

Marybeth rifled through the nuts carefully.

“There aren’t any peanuts in here, are there, Rochelle?”

“Heavens, no, Marybeth. No peanuts. Just macadamias. You know I’d never serve you peanuts.” I shot Pam a puzzled look.

“Marybeth’s allergic to peanuts,” she explained.

Satisfied that there were no offending peanuts in the bowl, Marybeth popped a macadamia in her mouth and made us wait while she chewed and swallowed before telling us about her two good men.

The first was a decorator she’d met on a recent trip to New York.

“Rene is an absolute genius,” she gushed. “And you’ll never guess what he’s going to do!”

“You’re right, Marybeth,” Pam said. “We’ll never guess. So why don’t you tell us?” THE PMS MURDERS

47

“He’s going to move to L.A. and be my partner!

Isn’t that the most marvelous news?” Everyone agreed, with a distinct lack of enthusiasm, that it was marvelous news. Everyone except Colin, who didn’t even bother to paste a phony smile on his face. On the contrary, his jaw was clenched tight with anger.

“And now for the best news of all!” Marybeth beamed. What a build-up. I was surprised she hadn’t arranged for a fanfare of trumpets.

“I’ve met a man!”

“That’s wonderful,” Rochelle said, a genuine smile on her face, the only genuine smile in the room. “When did this happen?”

“Oh, I’ve been seeing him for a few months now.”

“And you haven’t said anything to us?”

“I didn’t want to jinx it. I wanted to make sure it was the real thing.” Marybeth beamed. “And it is.

We’re going to be married!”

Everyone murmured their congratulations, except for Colin, who was still stone-faced with anger.

If Marybeth noticed, she didn’t say anything.

“We’re so in love,” she gushed. “So madly in love.”

“Tell us all about him,” Rochelle said.

But Marybeth just smiled coyly.

“No, not yet. I’ll save that for next week.” Ashley sighed, exasperated. “It’s just like you, Marybeth, to keep us waiting all week.”

“Oh, don’t be such an old gwouch,” Marybeth said, pursing her candy red lips into a perfect pout.

Ugh. Colin was right. She really was Shirley Temple on uppers.

Pardon me while I fwow up.

*

*

*

48

Laura Levine

Soon after Marybeth’s announcement, the last of the margaritas was slurped and the meeting broke up. Pam started clearing dishes from the coffee table, and the rest of us joined in.

“Really, girls,” Rochelle said. “I can clean up myself.”

“We know you can,” Pam said, “but you’re not going to.”

I helped the others in the kitchen and then excused myself to go to the bathroom.

I was heading down the corridor toward the bathroom when I saw Colin in the dining room, talking on his cell phone. Snoop that I am, I stopped to listen.

“I’d like to kill that bitch,” I heard him hiss.

“She promised she’d make me her partner.” So. That explained why he’d been so angry.

It’s funny, I thought, as I sniffed the triple-milled French soap in Rochelle’s guest bathroom, except for Rochelle, there wasn’t a single person in the PMS Club who was happy for Marybeth.

For someone who preached positive thinking, she sure managed to stir up a lot of negative energy.

After thanking Rochelle and assuring her once more that her guacamole wasn’t too spicy, we headed for our cars. It was quite an impressive assortment. Doris drove an Audi; Colin, a BMW; Ashley, a Jag; and Marybeth, a Porsche. (True, Colin’s BMW was at least ten years old, but it
was
a BMW.) Clearly Pam and I were the low-rent members of this group.

Colin bid us all a curt good-bye and got into his car.

“Nighty-nite, Colin,” Marybeth waved.

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49

“Nighty-frigging-nite,” Colin muttered. Only he didn’t use the word
frigging
.

“What’s wrong with him?” Marybeth said, all wide-eyed innocence, as he drove off. “Oh, well.

Whatever it is, he’ll get over it. He always does.” Then she hopped into her silver Porsche, waved good-bye to us with two limp fingers, and sped away.

I watched in amazement as she roared down the street, tires squealing, rubber burning. I’d seen more conservative driving at Indianapolis. She sure as heck wasn’t getting any Good Driver Discounts.

“The woman is an accident waiting to happen,” Pam said, shaking her head. “I’m surprised she hasn’t wound up in a ditch somewhere.”

“You know what I can’t believe?” Doris said. “I can’t believe she brought in that guy from New York to be her partner. After all these years of promising Colin she’d give him the job.”

“That’s Marybeth for you,” Ashley shrugged.

Doris sighed in agreement, and the two of them got into their cars.

After they’d driven off, Pam turned to me and beamed.

“Guess what? We all talked it over while you were in the bathroom, and we want you to join the club!”

“Really?”

“So how about it?”

I have to admit, I was flattered. The last thing I’d been asked to join was Macy’s Pantyhose Club.

(Buy ten pair, and you get the eleventh free.) And now that Kandi was abandoning me for the altar, I was definitely in the market for some new friends.

Not to mention some free margaritas. So what if Marybeth was a pill? The others were a lot of fun.

And so, in a move I’d live to deeply regret, I said yes.

Chapter 5

Of course, at the time, I didn’t have an inkling of all the PMS crappola that would eventually be hitting my fan.

My biggest concern then was my inter view at Union National Bank. It had been ages since I worked with a major corporate client. My last job interview had been with a far less impressive outfit—Big Al’s Moving & Storage Company, for a plum assignment writing Big Al’s Yellow Pages ad.

As I rode up in the elevator of the Union National building the next day, butterflies frolicked gaily in my stomach. I stepped onto the executive floor and found myself in what looked like a British gentle-men’s club: gleaming hardwood floors dotted with Persian rugs, overstuffed leather club chairs, and—

in the center of it all—an aristocratic gray-haired receptionist, with a hawklike nose and cheekbones sharp enough to open envelopes.

I approached her desk, an immaculate cherry wood table with absolutely nothing on it except a phone and a vase of perfect roses. I cleared my throat and told her I was there for a ten o’clock meeting with Andrew Ferguson. She looked me up THE PMS MURDERS

51

and down, giving me the royal once-over, like Queen Elizabeth inspecting one of her dogs for fleas. I was glad I was wearing my Prada pantsuit.

(Yes, I, Jaine Austen of Bargain Barn fame, actually own a Prada pantsuit, a souvenir of a murder I was involved in last year, one you can read all about in
Shoes to Die For,
now available in paperback at a bookstore near you.) If I do say so myself, I looked rather spiffy.

Thank goodness Queen Elizabeth couldn’t see that underneath my Prada jacket, my Prada pants were unbuttoned at the waist.

The Queen nodded curtly and, in a British accent I suspect she’d picked up from watching old Greer Garson movies, said, “Take a seat, please.

Mr. Ferguson will see you shortly.” I took a seat as instructed, reminding myself that under no circumstances was I to open my suit jacket and reveal my unbuttoned waistband.

Every time I thought about that waistband I wanted to strangle Prozac. It was all her fault that my tummy was hanging out in an unsightly roll. I’d planned on wearing a new pair of control-top pantyhose, one with a built-in “waist nipper.” I’d laid them out on my bed before I hopped into the shower that morning, but when I came out, they were gone.

Prozac hid them, of course. I could tell by the self-satisfied smirk on her face as she watched me search for the missing hose. I’d decided to put her back on her diet that morning, and clearly this was her way of getting revenge.

I’d checked under the bed and behind the sofa cushions, two of her favorite hiding places. No sign of the pantyhose. She probably buried them under her kitty litter. She did that once to my bra 52

Laura Levine

when she was mad at me for being late with her dinner. I couldn’t face the sight of my twenty-dollar pantyhose buried under cat poop, so I’d grabbed a pair of stretched-out knee highs, finished dressing, and hurried off to my meeting with Andrew Ferguson.

I checked my watch. Quarter past ten. Queen Elizabeth was staring off into space, avoiding my gaze, determined not to engage in idle chatter with the likes of me.

I should’ve used the time to go over my research on Union National, but I was too busy being irritated about the roll of fat pressing against my waistband that wouldn’t have been there if I’d been wearing my waist-nipper pantyhose.

“Ms. Austen?”

I looked up, and all thoughts of my flab flew out the window.

Standing before me was a dollburger of the high-est order. Tall and slim, with the boyish good looks I have a particular weakness for. No studly guys with megamuscles for me. I prefer the sensitive, artistic, 99-pound weakling variety of guy. I guess it must be an Opposites Attract kind of thing. Anyhow, whatever I was attracted to, this guy had it in spades.

“I’m Andrew Ferguson,” he said, holding out his hand. “Pleased to meet you.” I don’t know how long I stood there staring at his Adam’s apple before I realized I was supposed to be shaking his hand. But finally I caught on and murmured something exceptionally clever like,

“Um. Me, too.”

I followed him back to his office, fascinated by the way his sandy brown hair curled at the nape of his neck.

Good heavens. I’d only felt this kind of attrac-THE PMS MURDERS

53

tion to three other men in my life. One turned out to be a lying sociopath. The other turned out to be studying for the priesthood. And the third turned out to be The Blob, a man who actually wore flip-flops to our wedding. So you can see that I haven’t had a great track record when it comes to guys who make my G-spot sing. Which is why I decided right then and there to rein in any and all lustful feelings for Andrew Ferguson.

It wasn’t easy, but I almost managed to ignore his crooked smile and pay attention as he told me about the job as freelance editor of the bank’s monthly newsletter.

“You’d write employee profiles. You know, employee-of-the-month kind of thing. The branch managers would supply you with news items about promotions. And we’d expect you to cover any events the bank sponsors. What do you think?

Sound like something you’d be interested in?”

“That depends. Are you married?” Okay, so I didn’t really say that. What I said was,

“Yes, it sounds great.”

“The salary is forty thou a year.” Forty thousand dollars a year? For a newsletter that probably wouldn’t take more than a week each month to put together? Yikes. I’d just died and gone to paycheck heaven!

Well, not quite, I reminded myself. I didn’t have the job yet. Far from it.

“So,” Andrew said, putting the palms of his hands on his desk, waiting for the show to begin. “Let’s take a look at your writing samples, shall we?” Fortunately, I’d done some freelance journalism in the past. Human interest stuff. Garden Clubs. Senior Water Aerobics at the Y. The annual Santa Monica Frisbee Olympics for Dogs. Not exactly 54

Laura Levine

Woodward and Bernstein. But then, the Union National
Tattler
wasn’t exactly the
Washington Post,
so I was hoping I might have a shot at that forty thou.

Act confident,
I told myself, as I opened my at-tache case.
You’ve got some fine work here. For all you
know, he’ll be fascinated by octogenarians in water fins.