The PMS Murder

by Laura Levine

  “He said he wanted to kill her. It’s hard to believe he really meant it. But he was at Rochelle’s house a full half-hour before the rest of us got there. I can’t help wondering if he had time to sneak down to the kitchen when Rochelle wasn’t around and add the peanut oil to the guacamole.”

  Once again, Clemmons looked up sharply from his notes.

  “How did you know about the peanut oil?”

  “I saw one of the police officers show you the bottle. And I figured it out.”

  Clemmons scowled. He clearly didn’t like me figuring things out.

  “What about the others? Did you see anyone go into the kitchen alone that night?”

  “No, we were all wandering around, looking at Rochelle’s new bathroom. It was hard to keep track of who went where. I suppose any of them could have slipped into the kitchen. Except Pam Kenton, of course. She and I were together the whole evening.”

  Clemmons smiled a smile that oozed cynicism.

  “Oh? How convenient for both of you.”

  Damn. Pam was right. He thought we were covering for each other.

  “I can assure you, Lieutenant, neither of us went anywhere near that guacamole.”

  “Right,” he said, snapping his steno pad shut. “Thank you for your time, Ms. Austen. I’ve got all I need to know. For now, anyway. Please notify us if you plan to leave town.”

  Ouch. I didn’t like the sound of that.

  “You know the way out.”

  I got up to go. I would’ve given anything to reach over and mess the papers in his In Box, but you know what a wuss I am. Instead, I used my purse to push his stapler an inch out of place.

  It wasn’t much, but it made me feel better.

  I wasn’t looking forward to my class at Shalom that night. I was certain the PMS Murder would be the topic du jour. Many of my students are news junkies. These are, after all, ladies of leisure with many hours to fill between bagels and bingo, and most of them while away the hours with Eyewitness News blasting in their rooms at full throttle. I fully expected them to be chattering about Marybeth’s dramatic death by guacamole.

  But I needn’t have worried. When I showed up at Shalom’s rec room, nobody was talking about the murder. They were preoccupied by another hot topic of discussion.

  “I thought he was an idiot before,” Mrs. Pechter was saying, “but now, he’s worse than ever.”

  The others tsk-tsked in agreement.

  “Making such a fool of himself,” Mrs. Rubin chirped.

  “His wife is probably rolling over in her grave,” Mrs. Zahler opined.

  It didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out who they were talking about. It had to be Mr. Goldman. There were few other men living at Shalom. And none, I imagined, capable of provoking such ire.

  Strange, I thought, that Mr. Goldman wasn’t there yet. He was always in class when I showed up, always in the seat next to mine, waiting for me with a stale cupcake, wilted flower, or other exotic love offering. But tonight, Mr. Goldman was nowhere in sight. And neither was our recent arrival from Paramus, New Jersey, the flamboyant Goldie Marcus.

  “Good evening, ladies,” I said, settling down in my seat.

  “Hello, Jaine, dolling,” Mrs. Pechter said, leading a chorus of hellos.

  “That poor dead wife of his,” Mrs. Zahler resumed when they were through greeting me. “Can you imagine being married to a jerk like Abe?”

  The others shook their heads. Nope, it was beyond their imaginations. And mine, too, if you must know.

  “Jaine, you won’t believe what’s happened,” Mrs. Pechter said, setting off a fresh round of tsks.

  “It’s disgusting,” said Mrs. Greenberg.

  “Makes me want to throw up,” said Mrs. Fine.

  “What?” I asked. “What’s happened?”

  But before anyone could answer, I found out for myself. Because just then Mr. Goldman walked into the room arm in arm with Goldie Marcus. Goldie hadn’t changed since the last time I saw her. She was still an octogenarian pistol in leopard print capri pants and pink angora sweater, her orange hair piled on top of her head in an Aqua Net beehive.

  But Mr. Goldman—holy mackerel! I couldn’t believe my eyes. Gone was his gravy-stained cardigan and baggy pants. Tonight he wore a bright yellow and black checkered sports coat, about as subtle as a taxi cab, with white slacks and white loafers. He looked like a pimp on high blood pressure medication.

  But that wasn’t all. He’d dyed his three remaining strands of hair jet black. And as the pièce de résistance, he’d started to grow a mustache. Of course, after only a week, it was just stubble. But this, too, had been dyed black. So it looked like a smudge of charcoal on his upper lip.

  A ripple of disapproval followed as he and Goldie headed for the two seats next to mine.

  Now, I thought he looked ridiculous. And the ladies thought he looked ridiculous. But clearly Goldie Marcus did not share our opinion. She strutted across the room with her arm hooked in his, shooting him sexy come-hither smiles en route.

  Mr. Goldman pulled out a chair for her with a flourish. This from a man who’d been known to shove aside women in walkers to get first in line for the Belgian waffles at Sunday brunch.

  “Look at him,” I heard Mrs. Pechter mutter. “Sir Galahad.”

  The other ladies giggled.

  Mr. Goldman glared at them, then turned to his lady love and beamed.

  “Wanna kiss, doll?”

  “You bet, Abie.”

  And with that, Mr. Goldman took out a Hershey’s Kiss from his pocket and peeled off the foil. Then he popped it into Goldie’s open mouth.

  “Feh.” Mrs. Pechter rolled her eyes in disgust.

  “Don’t mind Pechter,” Mr. Goldman said to Goldie. “She’s got no manners.”

  “Look who’s talking,” Mrs. Pechter said. “You’re the one who uses your dentures as a bookmark.”

  “I only did that once!” Mr. Goldman protested. “Or twice.”

  “Okay, class,” I said, sensing hostilities mounting. “Who wants to read first?”

  “Me!” Goldie said, her hand shooting up in the air, cubic zirconia rings flashing.

  “Go right ahead, Goldie.” I smiled what I hoped was an encouraging smile.

  She reached into her leopard-skin tote bag and pulled out a piece of paper. “I wrote it specially for this class.” She beamed with pride.

  “Very good,” I nodded.

  She cleared her throat and began to read.

  My Favorite Things, Part II, by Goldie Marcus.

  Obviously my request to write about a personal experience had fallen on deaf ears.

  “What a terrific title!” Mr. Goldman gushed.

  “It’s not exactly a memoir,” I said, “but go ahead.”

  And so Goldie told us about more of her favorite things, some of which were Turquoise eyeshadow and long false eyelashes and Men with dark hair and sexy mustaches.

  Aha. So that’s where Mr. Goldman’s dyed hair and mustache came from.

  When Goldie was through plagiarizing The Sound of Music, Mr. Goldman burst into applause.

  “Bravo! Bravo! An A-plus! Right, Jaine?”

  They both looked at me, eager for praise.

  “It’s very nice, Mrs. Marcus. But I’d really like you to try writing about an actual memory. That’s what we do in a memoir-writing class.”

  “Of course,” Mrs. Pechter muttered. “You’re supposed to write about memories, not mustaches.”

  “Okay,” I said, “who’s next?”

  Several of the ladies raised their hands but before I could call on any of them, Mr. Goldman said, “I’ll go,” and was up on his feet reading.

  A Gal from Paramus, by Abe Goldman, he began, with a wink at his beloved.

  There once was a gal from Paramus

  Who was beautiful, charming, and glamorous

  The first time I saw her

  I had to adore her

  And that’s why my heart is so amorous


  Then he bowed deeply from the waist and sat down.

  “Oh, Abie, that’s bee-u-ti-ful,” was Goldie’s glowing assessment of his talents.

  Alas, she was alone in her praise.

  “For crying out loud, Abe,” Mrs. Pechter sneered. “This isn’t a poetry class.”

  “That wasn’t a poem,” he sneered right back. “It was a limerick.”

  “Limerick, shmimerick. It doesn’t belong in this class. Right, Jaine?”

  “Actually, Mrs. Pechter has a point. From now on, I want only memoirs. And only read when I call on you, Mr. Goldman.”

  “Not only that,” Mrs. Rubin piped up, “it didn’t rhyme right.”

  Mr. Goldman managed to pry his eyes off Goldie and glared at Mrs. Rubin.

  “Whaddaya mean, it didn’t rhyme right?”

  Mrs. Rubin wilted slightly under his glare but held her own.

  “Paramus,” she said firmly, “does not rhyme with glamorous.”

  “Or amorous,” Mrs. Zahler added.

  “Sure it does,” said Mr. Goldman. “Paramus. Glam’rus. Am’rus.”

  The others groaned.

  “I’ve got two words for you,” Mrs. Pechter said. “Im Possible.”

  “Okay, class,” I said, beginning to feel, as I so often do at Shalom, like a Madison Square Garden referee, “who wants to read next?”

  I spent the rest of the class listening to proper essays. About trips to Hawaii; beloved relatives; and, from Mrs. Fine, The Time My Daughter-in-Law Set Fire to Her Kitchen. Don’t Ask.

  But truth be told, I was only half listening. I simply couldn’t take my eyes off the lovebirds. As much as I tried not to, my eyes kept darting to Mr. Goldman, with that ridiculous mustache of his, peeling the tin foil off Hershey’s Kisses for his Glam’rus Gal from Paramus.

  When I got home from Shalom, I found five messages on my answering machine from the L.A. Times, wanting to interview me for a story they were writing. I pressed the erase button and bleeped them into oblivion. No way was I talking to the press.

  Then I wandered into the kitchen to get myself an apple (okay, an Eskimo Pie). I was about to open the freezer when I looked down at Prozac’s food bowl and gasped in surprise. The little angel had actually finished her Lite ’N Lively Liver Tidbits! Every last one of them!

  I raced into the dining nook, where she was dozing on my computer keyboard.

  “Oh, Prozac, honey,” I cooed, scooping her up in my arms, “I’m so proud of you.”

  She was so thrilled to hear it, she almost stopped yawning.

  See? I knew if I hung tough with her, she’d eventually weaken. And everyone said she had me wrapped around her little paw. What did they know, huh? I was a lot tougher than people gave me credit for.

  Then I grabbed my Eskimo Pie and tiptoed off to the bathroom, hoping Prozac wouldn’t hear the wrapper crinkle when I pulled it off.

  YOU’VE GOT MAIL

  To: Jausten

  From: Shoptillyoudrop

  Subject: Can’t Show My Face

  Oh, Lord! I can barely show my face in Tampa Vistas. You know how fast news travels around here. Everyone, just everyone, is talking about how Daddy stole a fork from Mimi’s restaurant.

  And if that weren’t bad enough, Daddy actually went out and bought a listening device to spy on poor Reverend Sternmuller! A silly piece of junk called the “I-SpyMaster.” He paid $69.95 for that thing and all it is is a headset they rent out at movies for people who are hard of hearing.

  I told him if he used it in public I’d never speak to him again, but did that stop him? Noooo. He marched right over to the clubhouse with the “I-SpyMaster” on his head and plunked himself down a couple of tables away from Reverend Sternmuller. He pretended that the SpyMaster was an ordinary headset and that he was listening to his Walkman. But really he was shamelessly eavesdropping. Although why he expected Reverend Sternmuller to confess to being the Hugo Boss Strangler while playing backgammon with Greta Gustafson and Emmy Pearson, I’ll never know.

  It turns out all he heard was static, and it served him right.

  Thank heavens for my Stress-Less pills. I don’t know what I’d do without them, although I must admit they seem to be far more effective when I take them with a glass of sherry.

  Your loving,

  Mom

  P.S. By the way, Reverend Sternmuller and Greta Gustafson are quite an item. People say wedding bells may be ringing any day now.

  To: Jausten

  From: DaddyO

  Subject: Under Surveillance

  I had Reverend Sternmuller, aka The Hugo Boss Strangler, under surveillance today, using a sophisticated listening device. But unfortunately, I didn’t have much luck. The Strangler probably had an even more sophisticated blocking device that created a wall of static around him.

  But don’t worry, lambchop. I’ll catch him sooner or later. Just you wait.

  Your persevering,

  Daddy

  To: Jausten

  From: Shoptillyoudrop

  Subject: Bingo

  Tonight’s Bingo Night at the clubhouse. I hate to miss all the excitement (last week I won twelve dollars!), but I’m sure all the tongues will be wagging about Daddy.

  I guess I’ll have to stay home. But if I do, I’ll only sit and stew and get more upset. And besides, why should I let Daddy’s moronic behavior keep me from enjoying a perfectly lovely evening?

  No, on second thought, I’m going! I’ll just pop another Stress-Less pill and wash it down with an itsy bitsy glass of sherry. That should get me through the night.

  To: Jausten

  From: DaddyO

  Your mom just left for bingo. I told her I was staying home because I had a headache. And she fell for it!

  What a perfect opportunity to spin my web and trap the Hugo Boss Strangler. Yes, sweet pea, it’s time for The Nose to spring into action!

  Chapter 12

  I shuddered when I checked my e-mails the next morning. Lord only knew what mischief “The Nose” was up to. Really, sometimes I think Daddy shouldn’t be let outside without a leash.

  Back on the home front, Prozac continued to be a good little Weight Watcher and dug into her Lite ’N Lively Liver Tidbits with gusto.

  “Oh, sweetie,” I gushed as she hunkered over her bowl, “I’m so proud of you.”

  I considered celebrating my victory in the battle of wills with a nice big plate of bacon and eggs and a toasted English muffin dripping with butter but decided against it. For one thing, I didn’t think Prozac would appreciate my pigging out on bacon and eggs when she was stuck with her Lite ’N Lively liver glop. And for another thing, I didn’t have any bacon. Or eggs. Or English muffins. Or butter, for that matter. A quick survey of my refrigerator yielded little more than a chunk of moldy Swiss cheese and jar of martini olives.

  So I nuked myself some instant coffee and settled down with the morning paper.

  I took one look at the front page and gasped in dismay. There, smiling out at me from under the headline PMS MURDER VICTIM, was a picture of Marybeth Olson, taken in the days when she was alive and well and driving everybody crazy.

  But it was what was underneath Marybeth’s picture that set my heart pounding. Yes, lined up beneath the unnerving caption AT THE SCENE OF THE CRIME were snapshots of the six remaining PMS Club members: Pam, Doris, Ashley, Rochelle, Colin, and yours truly, Jaine Austen.

  There I was plastered on the front page of the L.A. Times—a murder suspect. Even more horrifying, they’d used my driver’s license photo. The one where I looked like an extra from Dawn of the Dead. (If only I’d returned their calls last night, maybe I could have dashed over with a decent picture.)

  I looked down at that awful picture and groaned. I looked like a poster girl for schizophrenia. If a jury had to convict one of us by looks alone, I’d be doing time in the pokey before the afternoon was out.

  By now, I was in an advanced state of panic. What if the police thought I was the killer? What if they arrested me?
And worst of all, what if my parents saw the paper? They’d be on the first plane out here—moving into my apartment, putting crocheted covers on my Kleenex boxes, and making me wear my retainer at night!

  And just like that, I couldn’t breathe. Yikes. I was hyperventilating. I had to force myself to calm down. I told myself to take deep breaths, but I couldn’t suck in the air.

  What was it that you were supposed to do when you’re hyperventilating? Breathe into a paper bag! That’s it. I raced around my apartment looking for a paper bag, but all I could find was a Bloomingdale’s shopping bag. So there I was, trying to breathe into a Bloomingdale’s Medium Brown Bag when the phone rang.

  What if it was my parents? For a minute I considered letting the machine get it. But then I figured they couldn’t possibly have seen the paper, not this quickly. And besides, I could ask whoever it was to call the paramedics and get me some oxygen.

  Thank heavens, it was Kandi. I started breathing again at the sound of her voice.

  “Oh, honey,” she said. “I just saw the paper. It’s awful.”

  “I know.”

  “I can’t believe they used that hideous picture of you. You ought to write an angry letter to the editor.”

  “Kandi, I think you’re losing sight of the important issue here. I’m a suspect in a murder case.”

  “Oh, foo. You couldn’t possibly have killed anyone. Anybody who knows you knows what a sweetie you are.”

  “Unfortunately,” I pointed out, “the police don’t know me very well.”

  “And I never knew you had PMS,” Kandi said, oblivious to my fears. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “But I don’t actually have—”

  “I could’ve sent you to my gynecologist, Dr. Sobol. All the celebrities use her. She’s the Hormone Doctor to the Stars.”

  “Honey, I don’t have PMS. The PMS Club is a women’s support group. I had the bad luck to join two weeks before the murder.”

  “You poor thing. This just isn’t our day, is it? You’ll never guess what happened to me this morning. We found out that the actor who plays Ernie the Earwig fell out of his son’s bunk bed while having sex with the babysitter. Anyhow, he broke one of his vertebrae and he’s going to be in traction for the next month and now we’ve got to write him out of the next ten scripts. I’ll be here till midnight for sure. And today’s the day Steve and I were supposed to meet with Armando and choose a band for the wedding. Oh, well. They’ll just have to choose one without me.” She finally paused to take a breath. “But I can’t believe I’m rambling on about my petty problems when you’re in such a fix.”