The PMS Murder

by Laura Levine

  And then, while Daddy was snooping around, he noticed that Reverend Sternmuller had a Jacuzzi bathtub. Daddy’s been wanting one of those forever. So, not content with merely breaking and entering, Daddy decided to take a bath in Reverend Sternmuller’s tub!

  “What on earth possessed you to do such an idiotic thing?” I asked him on the way home from jail. He told me he figured Reverend Sternmuller would be away at the bingo game for hours. And as it turns out, he was right. Anyhow, he took his silly bath. Without even bothering to rinse out the tub when he was through!

  And then—it just keeps getting worse—he decided he was hungry, so he wrapped one of

  Reverend Sternmuller’s towels around his waist and went downstairs to the kitchen for a snack. Of course there was plenty to eat, because Greta Gustafson has been cooking meals nonstop ever since Reverend Sternmuller moved in. Daddy found a lovely turkey drumstick and just helped himself to it, without a second thought.

  So there he was, stealing food from a retired minister, when he wandered into the living room and tripped over a bearskin rug.

  Only it turns out it wasn’t a rug, but Reverend Sternmuller’s deaf rottweiler Brutus! Brutus took one look at this strange man in the house and sprung into action. The next thing Daddy knew, the dog had the bath towel in his massive jaws and ripped it from his waist. Daddy ran for his life, out the front door, Brutus in hot pursuit.

  And that’s how the cops found your father, running through the streets of Tampa Vistas buck naked!

  Of course, Daddy made such a racket busting into Reverend Sternmuller’s house, at least five eyewitnesses saw him breaking and entering. Which is why the cops hauled him off to jail. What’s worse, the story was picked up by the Tampa Tribune, so now, in addition to being the laughingstock of Tampa Vistas, we’re the laughingstock of the entire Gulf Coast.

  Oh, dear. I think I’ll skip the Stress-Less tonight and go straight to the sherry.

  XXX

  Mom

  To: Jausten

  From: DaddyO

  Subject: Little Mishap

  I suppose your mom has told you about my little mishap at Reverend Sternmuller’s house. I don’t understand how I could have been so wrong about the guy. The Nose is never wrong. But I guess everybody is entitled to a mistake now and then. Your mom is making me write a formal letter of apology.

  Your loving,

  Daddy

  P.S. A word of advice: Stay away from bearskin rugs, especially if they’re snoring.

  To: Jausten

  From: Shoptillyoudrop

  Subject: All’s Well That Ends Well

  You know, darling, I’ve been thinking it over and I’ve decided that things aren’t so bad, after all. Maybe this whole humiliating escapade will serve as a lesson to Daddy, and teach him to mind his own beeswax! Yes, the more I think about it, the more I’m convinced that everything has worked out for the best.

  And speaking of things working out for the best, guess what? Reverend Sternmuller has

  proposed to Greta Gustafson. Isn’t that grand? Wedding bells will be ringing any day now!

  That’s all for now, honey. I’ve got to run to the market. For some strange reason, we’re all out of sherry.

  Chapter 18

  “Susie the Slug is pregnant!”

  Kandi called me the next morning with the latest bulletin from the set of Beanie & the Cockroach. When the phone rang, I was sitting on the edge of the bathtub, trying not to think about Daddy running naked through the streets of Tampa Vistas, and just about to bite into a plump cheese danish I’d picked up for breakfast. I reluctantly abandoned my danish and raced to the living room to answer the phone.

  “Can you believe it?” Kandi wailed. “She went into labor last night and was rushed to the hospital.”

  “Really? I thought slugs just laid eggs.”

  “Not the character. The actress. Now we have to write her out of the script. Just when we finished writing Ernie the earwig out of last week’s script.”

  I offered her my deepest condolences.

  “I am so pissed. Steve and I were supposed to meet Armando to choose a wedding cake this afternoon. Now Steve’s going to have to go without me. You know how important this whole cake thing is, don’t you?”

  “Ranks right up there with nuclear proliferation.”

  “Seriously, Jaine. They did a survey, and it turns out that the thing people remember most about the wedding is the cake.”

  “Funny, I always thought it was the full bar.”

  “Anyhow, I simply had to talk to you, sweetie, what with you being such an expert on desserts.”

  I didn’t know whether to be flattered or insulted at that crack.

  “So what do you think? German chocolate with white frosting, or yellow cake with raspberry filling?”

  “Kandi, when it comes to a choice between chocolate and anything else, the answer is always chocolate.”

  “But the raspberry is so pretty,” she said.

  Only skinny people choose food because it looks pretty. I don’t know about you, but I’d eat a dump truck if it was made out of chocolate.

  Kandi rambled on for a while about the pros and cons of chocolate versus strawberry. All this wedding cake chat was whetting my appetite. I kept picturing that danish, oozing cheese and slathered with icing, waiting for me at the edge of my tub.

  Finally, I managed to get off the phone. I was just about to make a mad dash for the bathroom when the phone rang again. Damn. Why does the phone always ring just when you’ve got a danish on the tub?

  It was Ashley.

  “Oh, Jaine. I’m so embarrassed about the way I behaved yesterday. I can’t believe those terrible things I said about Marybeth. I don’t know what came over me. I may have resented Marybeth a little, but underneath it all, I really did love her.”

  I wasn’t buying a word of it. I saw that look in her eyes when she told me how Marybeth had offered to loan her money at one percent below the prevailing bank rate. Ashley loved Marybeth about as much as she loved the guy who towed away her Jag.

  “It was really so sweet of Marybeth to leave me money in her will,” Ashley gushed. “I had no idea I was going to inherit anything, of course. What a wonderful surprise.”

  (Translation: If you’re going to try to pin this murder on me, forget it. I didn’t have a motive.)

  I still wasn’t buying it. She knew she was going to inherit, all right. What she didn’t know was how much. It would’ve been just like Marybeth to raise Ashley’s hopes and tell her she was leaving her a bundle, only to disappoint her from the grave.

  But I pretended to believe Ashley’s song and dance and made a lot of “I understand” noises. What good would it do to challenge her? I had no proof that she knew about the will. No proof at all.

  Her mission accomplished, Ashley bid me a cheery good-bye and hung up, undoubtedly to start in on a fresh bottle of gin.

  I, on the other hand, had that danish to demolish. But I hadn’t gotten two steps toward the bathroom when I heard Lance banging at my front door.

  “Jaine! Let me in!”

  I took one last longing look at the bathroom and then opened the front door.

  “Isn’t it great?” Lance said, bounding into my living room. “I knew all along Colin was innocent!”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “The news. Haven’t you seen it on TV? They just charged Rochelle Meyers with the murder of Marybeth Olson.”

  Damn.

  I raced to the bedroom and turned on the television. Sure enough, there was footage of Rochelle being led into police headquarters, Marty at her side. Marty held her elbow protectively but could not shield her from the shouting reporters. Poor Rochelle. She looked like a rabbit caught in a steel trap.

  But Lance was oblivious to Rochelle’s plight.

  “From the moment I saw Colin,” Lance started babbling, “I knew he wasn’t a killer. Nobody with eyelashes like his could possibly commit murder. And I happ
en to be an excellent judge of character.”

  Yeah, right. This from the guy who once dated a “neurosurgeon” for three months before he found out he was wanted in three states for check kiting and impersonating a nun.

  I sat at the edge of my bed as an on-the-scene reporter droned on about how Rochelle, wealthy Brentwood housewife and founding member of the PMS Club, would undoubtedly be released on bail.

  This whole thing was crazy. Rochelle couldn’t have killed Marybeth. A) She didn’t have it in her. And B) If she was going to poison Marybeth, why on earth would she do it in front of a room full of witnesses, with a bowl of guacamole that everyone knew she made?

  “And guess what?” Lance was saying. “Colin and I are going out! On a dinner date. To that new sushi place down the street. I hear sushi’s a great low-carb aphrodisiac.”

  The on-screen reporter turned things over to a panel of photogenic legal experts who began discussing Rochelle’s fate, and I flipped off the TV in disgust. I had to call Lieutenant Clemmons and fill him in on what I’d discovered about Doris and Ashley—and Colin, too. I didn’t care how lush his eyeslashes were; as far as I was concerned, he was still a viable suspect.

  “Gotta run,” Lance said. “Just stopped by to share the good news. Oh, and thanks for the danish.”

  “Huh?”

  I looked up and saw him standing in my doorway, munching on my danish.

  “Lance! I was going to eat that.”

  “Sorry, Jaine. I saw it on your tub and I couldn’t resist.”

  He popped the last of it down his gullet.

  “That was my breakfast!” I wailed.

  “I’ll bring you something from my place. How about a nice rice cake? Only 30 calories.”

  “Sounds mighty tempting, but I’ll pass.”

  The first thing I did when Lance left was call Lieutenant Clemmons. Okay the first I thing I did was curse Lance for eating my danish, but right after that I called Clemmons. I wasn’t surprised when he didn’t answer his phone. He was probably busy charging Rochelle with murder. I left him an urgent message to call me as soon as possible.

  By now I was starving. I was seriously considering taking Lance up on his offer of rice cakes when the phone rang. I grabbed it eagerly.

  “Lieutenant Clemmons?”

  “No. Andrew Ferguson.”

  I’m ashamed to say that at the sound of his voice, all thoughts of the murder flew out of my fickle brain.

  I just heard the news about Rochelle Meyers’s arrest. Which means you’re no longer under suspicion. I don’t think there’ll be any trouble offering you that job now.”

  “Really?”

  My heart soared.

  “Yes, it’s practically yours. Except for a few formalities, of course.”

  My heart banked. Beware of formalities.

  “That’s why I’m calling,” he said. “We’re having a branch managers’ meeting today and I was hoping you could drop by and meet everyone.”

  “You mean they all have to like me before I get hired?”

  “No, not at all,” Andrew assured me. “The final decision rests with me and Sam. We just need to see how you interact with the others. I know it’s short notice, but do you think you could be here in an hour?”

  “Of course!”

  “Don’t worry, Jaine. I’m sure there won’t be any problems.”

  Gosh, he was sweet, wasn’t he?

  I hung up and turned to Prozac, who was napping on my keyboard.

  “Oh, Prozac, honey! The job is practically mine!”

  I raced over and swooped her up in my arms.

  Funny, she felt kind of heavy. Was it my imagination, or had she actually gained weight? How could that be, with all the low-cal cat food she’d been eating?

  Oh, well. She obviously took after me. I’ve been on plenty of diets where I’ve starved myself for a week (okay, for a day), and then stepped on the scale only to find I’d gained a pound. Maybe it was just taking a while for her metabolism to adjust.

  But I didn’t have time to think about Prozac. I had to get ready for my practically-certain new job at Union National Bank, a prestigious financial institution with assets of more than twelve billion dollars. Of course, its biggest asset, as far as I was concerned, was one Andrew Ferguson.

  It took me forever to decide what to wear. I tried on outfit after outfit until my bed looked like the communal dressing room at the Bargain Barn. I finally decided on a classic black Ann Taylor suit. True, I’d bought the suit sometime in the McKinley administration, but classics never go out of style, and with a Talbot’s silk blouse and a pair of slingbacks I’d picked up half price at Nordstrom, I managed to achieve the Corporate Writer look I was going for.

  On the downside, I’d taken so much time trying on outfits I didn’t have time to stop off anywhere for breakfast, so by the time I got to the bank I was starving.

  Andrew, Sam, and about seven bank managers were already gathered around a conference table when Queen Elizabeth, the receptionist, showed me into the conference room.

  Sam looked ravishing in a designer suit that made my Ann Taylor look like something from a Hee Haw rerun. Andrew looked pretty darn ravishing himself, his hair still curled seductively at the nape of his neck.

  Sam got up from her seat at the head of the table and introduced me to the bank managers, whose names and faces passed by in a blur. There were a couple of white guys, an Asian, an African American woman, and a Latina. All very corporate. All very buttoned-down. It was a good thing they couldn’t see me in my usual elastic-waist sweats.

  “I’d like you all to meet Jaine Austen.” Sam said, showing me off to the gang.

  “No relation,” I threw in, with a weak laugh.

  “Jaine might be taking over as editor of the Union National Tattler.”

  Might be taking over? I didn’t like the sound of that.

  “Why don’t you grab a seat, Jaine?”

  There was only one available seat, at the far end of the table.

  I sat down next to the Latina bank manager, who shot me a welcoming smile.

  “Help yourself to some coffee.” Andrew gestured to a coffeepot on the table. “We had some bagels, but I’m afraid they’re all gone.”

  “That’s okay,” I lied. “I’m not hungry.”

  I looked at my Latina neighbor and saw the remains of a bagel and cream cheese on a paper plate at her elbow. I would’ve killed for that bagel. But something told me that reaching over and gobbling it down would not make the sophisticated impression I was hoping to impart. With a sigh, I poured myself some coffee, which I loaded with sugar, hoping that the sugar rush would get me through the meeting.

  I tried to look interested and alert as the others droned on about projections and percentiles and other math stuff I studiously avoided learning in school. But my attention kept wandering. When I wasn’t gazing longingly at my neighbor’s bagel crumbs, I found myself gazing equally longingly at Andrew Ferguson.

  I was in the middle of a delicious daydream involving me and Andrew and a vat of Philadelphia Cream Cheese when I suddenly realized that Sam was talking to me.

  “—So I thought you could tell us your ideas for the Tattler.”

  What on earth was she talking about? I hadn’t even had a chance to look at the darn thing yet.

  “But, Sam,” Andrew said, echoing my thoughts, “Jaine hasn’t seen the Tattler yet.”

  “Here,” she said, sliding a copy of the newsletter down to me at the end of the table. “She can see it now.

  “You don’t mind giving us your ideas, do you, Jaine? I want to see how you think on your feet.”

  There was no mistaking the challenge in her eyes. Was she trying to sabotage me? I wondered if she’d seen me staring at Andrew.

  “No,” I said, with a sickly smile, “I don’t mind.”

  I hurriedly looked at the newsletter, a skimpy four-page affair with routine news of hirings, retirements and promotions. Not exactly Pulitzer material.


  “So,” Sam said, her arms crossed over her chest. “What would you do with the Tattler, Jaine?”

  How generous. She’d given me a whole thirteen seconds to think it over.

  “Well,” I said, putting on my tap shoes and winging it, “how about a column called ‘Tattler Tales’? Each month, an employee would tell about an experience dealing with clients. I bet there are all sorts of wonderful stories your people could tell. It might be a nice human interest touch. And maybe the person whose story is chosen could get a free dinner in a nice restaurant. Employees might try harder to accommodate customers, hoping to make it into the newsletter.”

  “Very good, Jaine!” Andrew beamed.

  I was happy to see that several of the bank managers were nodding in approval.

  “Hmm,” Sam said, with a marked lack of enthusiasm.

  Why did I get the feeling she’d been hoping I’d fall flat on my face?

  “Any other thoughts?” she asked.

  She had to be kidding.

  “Well, no,” I conceded. “Not right now.”

  “Then if you’ll excuse us, there are a few things I’d like to discuss with the others in private.”

  Suddenly I felt like a sorority pledge about to be blackballed.

  “Better take home a copy of the Tattler,” she ordered, “so you can think up more ideas.”

  I grabbed the newsletter, murmured something about what a pleasure it was to have met everybody, and headed out the door, hoping my tush didn’t look too tubby as I made my exit.

  By this time, it was nearly noon and I was weak with hunger. I hadn’t eaten a thing all morning. But before I could think of eating, I simply had to pee. I must’ve slugged down at least three cups of Union National coffee in that meeting, not to mention the coffee I’d had at home.

  I dashed down the corridor into the bathroom and flung myself into a stall. I was glad nobody else was in the room to hear me. Trust me, it was Niagara Falls in there.

  What a relief. Now I’d head over to the nearest McDonald’s as fast as my Corolla could carry me, and stuff my face with a Quarter Pounder and fries.