The PMS Murder (8 page)

Her limp hair had taken on a life of its own and stood out in angry spokes from her pony tail. She wore a T-shirt that seemed to match her mood.
I’m
Out of Estrogen and I’ve Got a Gun
were the words emblazoned across her chest.

This week, instead of sporting a dishtowel slung over her shoulder, she greeted us at the door waving a margarita.

“Hi, there,” she said, blowing a healthy blast of tequila in our direction.

Pam and I had dined al fresco at the Jack in the Box, where we were lucky enough to nab a table next to a colorful fellow reading Kafka and sipping rotgut whiskey through a straw.

We’d driven over to the PMS Club in my Corolla, and now we stood in Rochelle’s foyer trying not to get too close to the tequila fumes.

“C’mon in, gals,” she said. Only “gals” came out 76

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“galsh,” her speech slurred from her trip to Mar-garitaville.

“Are you okay, Rochelle?” Pam asked.

“Fine!” she said, with a bitter laugh. “Never better.” She headed for the living room, almost tripping over an umbrella stand.

“Oopsie,” she said, righting herself against the stairway banister. “Why don’t you two go upstairs and see my new master bath?”

“It’s finally finished?” Pam said.

“Yes.” Rochelle’s eyes narrowed into angry slits.

“My dear friend Marybeth put the finishing touches on it today.”

You didn’t have to be a rocket scientist to notice the sarcasm dripping from the words
dear friend.

“Damn,” Rochelle said, sniffing. “The empanadas.

I think I burnt ’em.”

She lurched off to the kitchen, and Pam and I exchanged boggled looks.

“What’s got into her?” Pam said.

“About a fifth of tequila,” I guessed.

Pam shook her head, puzzled, then shrugged.

“Well, come on. Let’s go see the designer loo.” We headed upstairs to the master bath, which was a symphony of peach and sage—with his ’n hers sinks, marble countertops, a stall shower with about a gazillion jets, and a tub big enough to swim laps. There was even a separate room for the toilet.

Or, as they call it in Brentwood, “the commode.” We found Colin bent over the commode, installing a roll of toilet paper.

“Would you believe I had to go to five different markets before I found this toilet paper?” he groused. “Marybeth insisted it had to match the towels exactly. For crying out loud, the towels are in a whole other room.”

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He got up, his jaw clenched in anger.

“Some day I’m gonna kill that bitch.”

“And hello to you, too,” Pam said.

He broke out in a grin.

“Hi, guys. Sorry to whine. What can I say? The woman is hell to work for. But I’ve got to look on the plus side, right? At least she underpays me.”

“So what do you think?” he asked, gesturing around the bathroom.

“It’s great,” I said.

“Look at this linen closet.” Colin opened a closet that ran a full wall’s length.

Pam whistled softly. “The rich not only get richer; they get closet space, too.”

“Well, I’m going downstairs,” Colin said. “After my Great Toilet Paper Hunt, I need a margarita.”

“Speaking of margaritas, what’s with Rochelle?” Pam asked. “She’s tanked already, and she hardly ever drinks.”

“I don’t know. She was fine when Marybeth and I were here earlier today. Her usual compulsive hostess self. Running around asking the plumbers if she could bring them some fresh-squeezed lemonade. But when I came back about a half-hour ago, she was sloshed.”

“Maybe she finally cracked under the stress of remodeling,” I suggested.

“Who knows?” Colin said. “All I know is I need that margarita. You gals coming?”

“Nah,” Pam said. “I want to stay and snoop in their medicine cabinets.”

“Rochelle’s is boring,” Colin said. “But check Marty’s out.”

With a weary wave, he headed back downstairs, and Pam began rummaging through the medicine cabinets.

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“Pam, do you think we should be doing this?”

“Of course not. That’s why it’s so much fun.” Colin was right. There was nothing exciting in Rochelle’s medicine cabinet. Just your run-of-the-mill over the counter cold meds. But when Pam opened Marty’s, her eyes widened.

“Look at this,” she said, taking out a prescription vial. “Viagra!”

I remembered what Rochelle had said about her husband, that he was cold and distant and coming home at all hours.

A cynical voice came from the doorway.

“Whoever he’s using that stuff with sure as hell isn’t Rochelle.”

We turned to see Doris, the club’s senior member.

How embarrassing. She’d obviously seen us snooping.

“Um . . . I had something stuck in my teeth,” I stammered, “and we were just looking for some floss.”

“Oh, please,” Doris said, brushing away my lie.

“We all snoop in other people’s medicine cabinets.

It’s human nature.”

She checked herself out in the mirror over the his ’n hers sinks.

“Great lighting. I don’t look a day over fifty-nine.” Then she plopped herself down on the edge of the enormous tub.

“Poor Rochelle,” she sighed. “I’m sure Marty’s cheating on her. At least she can console herself with a nice jacuzzi bath.” She looked around the room appraisingly. “What a palace. I wish I’d had his ’n hers sinks when I was married. You wouldn’t believe the disgusting stuff my husband used to leave in the sink.”

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“I’d believe it,” I said, remembering The Blob’s delightful habit of leaving his toenail clippings in ours.

“Yep, this is some bathroom,” Doris said. “If things go bad in the divorce she can always sub-let it as an apartment.”

“Do you really think they’re headed for a divorce?” I asked.

“If she’s lucky. Well,” she said, hoisting herself up from the tub, “I’d better go downstairs and help Rochelle out in the kitchen. Poor thing is three sheets to the wind.”

“We’d better go, too,” I said.

“We’ll be right down,” Pam said, grabbing me by the elbow. “Jaine has to take a tinkle first.”

“Okay,” Doris said. “See you down there.” When she was gone, I turned to Pam, puzzled.

“What was that all about? I don’t have to take a tinkle.”

“I know. But I want to sneak a peek at their bedroom. See if there are any mirrors over the bed.”

“Pam! You’re terrible.” Then I grinned. “That’s one of the reasons I like you so much.” We tiptoed out of the bathroom and were heading down the hallway in search of the master bedroom when we heard footsteps coming up the stairs.

“Yoo hoo! Pam! Jaine! You up there?” It was Ashley. We scooted back toward the bathroom.

“Yeah, Ash,” Pam called down. “We just saw the Taj Mahal. It’s fab.”

Ashley came up the steps, dressed to kill in a cashmere slack set that cost more than my car.

“Hi, honey,” she said to me. “I found the most marvelous pair of shoes at Saks after I saw you today. What did you do? Something fun, I hope.” 80

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Sure, if you consider writing about awning rot fun.

“Just worked on a writing assignment.”

“Let me see the heavenly can,” Ashley said, marching over to the bathroom on her $500

shoes.

“Holy crap!” she said. “And I use the word
crap
advisedly. I’ll bet the Good Lord himself doesn’t go potty in a place this grand!” Foiled by the appearance of Ashley, Pam and I abandoned our plan to snoop around Rochelle’s bedroom and followed Ashley back downstairs to the kitchen to see if Rochelle needed any help.

We found Colin pouring margaritas from the blender, and Doris at the kitchen sink, scraping the bottoms of Rochelle’s empanadas, which were burnt to a crisp. Rochelle was sitting at her kitchen island, nursing a margarita, staring at the empanadas with glazed eyes.

“Aw, screw it,” Rochelle said, getting up from her stool. She grabbed the empanadas from Doris and tossed them carelessly onto a serving plate.

“So what if they’re a little burnt? Makes ’em nice and crunchy.”

I blinked, amazed. Was this the same perfec-tionist I saw running around like a wind-up toy last week?

“Here,” she said to Doris, handing her the plate.

“Bring ’em into the living room.”

“What about the Mexican flags?” Doris asked.

“Who cares about the flags?” Rochelle said, taking another slug of her margarita. “They always were silly, weren’t they?”

Suddenly tears welled in her eyes.

“I’m a silly woman,” she said. “Always have been.” Then she lurched toward the living room.

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The rest of us exchanged alarmed looks and hurried after her.

“Rochelle, honey,” Ashley said, putting her arm around her, “what’s wrong?”

“Nothing. Nothing at all. Everything’s right as rain!” she said, with a sweeping gesture that almost knocked over a nearby floor lamp.

Ashley led her to a seat on the sectional. The rest of us took our seats awkwardly. Nobody said anything; we all just sat there, about as relaxed as a bunch of root canal patients.

I glanced down at the coffee table and saw that this week there was no elaborate spread. No nuts.

No pretzels. No tri-colored chips, salted and un-salted. Just the burnt empanadas.

It was at that moment that the doorbell rang.

“Oh,” Rochelle said, her eyes narrowing. “That must be my dear friend Marybeth.” Once again, there was nothing dear about the way she referred to Marybeth.

“Come innnn,” she shouted out in an exagger-ated singsong.

Seconds later, Marybeth came sweeping into the living room carrying a vase of exquisite silk dogwood flowers, her cheeks flushed with excitement.

“Rochelle, honey, look what I got for your bathroom. Won’t they look just lovely on the counter?”

“Just lovely,” Rochelle echoed, in that same singsong voice.

Marybeth shot her a look. Clearly something was wrong, but she chose to ignore it. Instead, she plastered a bright smile on her face.

“I’ll go and put them upstairs. You want to come have a look-see with me?”

“No,” Rochelle said, “I don’t want to go have a look-see.”

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“Okeydoke,” Marybeth said, her smile still firmly in place. “Then I’ll just run up and do it myself.” The silence became even more uncomfortable as Marybeth headed up the stairs.

At last it was Rochelle who broke it.

“Damn,” she said, “I forgot the guacamole.”

“I’ll get it!” Everyone jumped up at once, each of us eager to make a break for it.

“No,” Rochelle barked, with unaccustomed authority. “Everybody sit down. I’ll go.” She hauled herself up from the depths of the sofa and started for the kitchen.

The minute she was gone, we all started buzzing.

“What the hell is going on?” Ashley said.

“Maybe she’s got her period.” I threw out lamely.

“Oh, please,” Pam said. “Nobody ever got their period that bad. Except possibly Lizzie Borden.”

“She’s pissed at Marybeth about something,” Doris said.

“Yeah,” Colin grinned. “Isn’t it great? I hope she rips her to shreds.”

“Maybe she doesn’t like the bathroom,” I suggested.

“No way,” Pam said. “Rochelle loves everything Marybeth does. If Marybeth told Rochelle poop was pretty, she’d buy it and frame it.”

“The old Rochelle,” Colin corrected. “Something’s changed.”

Rochelle came out from the kitchen with the guacamole in a stainless steel mixing bowl. She hadn’t bothered to transfer it to her fancy chips ’n dips serving piece. She dumped it on the coffee table, then carelessly ripped open a bag of chips.

“Dig in, gals,” she said, stepping over the chips that had fallen on the carpet. “Sorry the guac’s THE PMS MURDERS

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turned brown, but it’s been sitting in the fridge since four o’clock this afternoon. Oh, well. Tough tacos.”

And with that she plopped back down onto the sofa and went back to sucking on her margarita.

What with the atmosphere being so strained, nobody had much of an appetite.

Nobody except me.

I dug into the guacamole with gusto. But it wasn’t nearly as nice as it had been last week. Not only was it brown on top, but it was missing all those giant chunks of avocado. It had been pureed in the blender too long, so it looked more like pea soup than guacamole. And it had a strange, greasy aftertaste.

Between the greasy brown guacamole and the burnt empanadas, I was glad Pam and I had stopped off at the Jack in the Box. I only wished I’d ordered extra cheese on my Jumbo Jack. I was just reaching for a handful of chips when Marybeth came sweeping back into the room.

“The dogwoods look super!” She beamed at Rochelle. “Just super. The perfect finishing touch.” Rochelle sat silently, her shoulders hunched, running her finger around the rim of her margarita glass.

By now the tension in the room was so thick you could cut it with a hacksaw. But Marybeth, still pretending everything was peachy keen, perched herself down next to Rochelle and announced:

“Guess what, everybody! I’ve got yummy news.” Rochelle looked up from her margarita glass.

“Screw your yummy news.”

Marybeth’s smile vanished.

“What?”

“You heard me,” Rochelle said. “Screw your 84

Laura Levine

yummy news. We’re all sick of your sunshine blather.”

Marybeth could no longer pretend that nothing was wrong.

“Rochelle, what’s got into you?”

“No, the question is, what’s got into you, Marybeth? Or should I say,
who’s
got into you?” A faint blush crept into Marybeth’s cheeks.

“Listen up, everybody,” Rochelle said, taking a healthy slug of what had to be her fourth margarita.

“I’ve got news. Big news. I was right about Marty.

He
is
having an affair. I found this in his underwear drawer, right next to a package of condoms.” She pulled out a photo from the pocket of her sweatpants and tossed it onto the coffee table.

Ashley, who was sitting closest to it, picked it up and gasped.

“Holy Moses!” she said, and passed it around. It was a color photo of Marybeth, sprawled out on what looked like a motel bed, wearing nothing but a smile and a pair of crotchless panties.