The PMS Murder

by Laura Levine

  Great. My would-be employer saw me talking to myself. Just the impression I was going for. The Recently Released Mental Patient Look.

  The elevator, which had taken its sweet time showing up, finally dinged open, and we both got on.

  “This is so embarrassing,” I said. “Not exactly the way I was hoping to start my interview.”

  “Interview?” He blinked, puzzled.

  “I have an appointment to meet with you at eleven this morning.”

  He still looked puzzled.

  “I answered your ad for a freelance writer. Remember?”

  “Damn,” he said, slapping his forehead with his open palm. “Now look who’s embarrassed. I forgot all about it. Completely slipped my mind. I’ve been down in Newport all morning with a client.”

  The elevator doors opened onto the Rubin-McCormick reception area, a stark white expanse with nothing on the walls except the Rubin-McCormick logo. A cool, blonde receptionist fielded phone calls behind a wraparound desk.

  “Actually,” he said, waving to the receptionist, “I’m starving. How about I take you to Westwood Gardens and we have our interview over an early lunch?”

  My spirits perked up. Lunch—along with breakfast, dinner, and brunch—happens to be one of my favorite meals. What’s more, he was taking me to Westwood Gardens, one of the best restaurants in town.

  “Sounds wonderful,” I said, as we started back down to the lobby.

  “Mind if we take your car?” he asked. “I just dropped mine off with the valets to be detailed.”

  Drat. I’d sweated bullets putting together my Prada–Manolo Blahnik ensemble, hoping to pass myself off as an A-list writer. What would he think when he saw my geriatric Corolla, littered with McDonald’s ketchup packets?

  “I don’t mind,” I lied. “Not at all.”

  We headed over to my dusty Corolla, which I saw, to my dismay, was sporting a big white blob on the windshield, a love note from a bird with a serious gastrointestinal disorder.

  “Excuse my car,” I said, as we got in. “I’m afraid it’s a mess.”

  “No, no. It’s fine,” he said, plucking an Almond Joy wrapper from the passenger seat before he sat down.

  I gritted my teeth in annoyance. Why the heck hadn’t I washed the car before the interview?

  I turned on my new state-of-the-art stereo system, a gift I’d bought myself with my Big John earnings, hoping Stan would be so impressed with the quality of the sound, he wouldn’t notice the Big Gulp Slurpee cup at his feet.

  And he did seem impressed.

  “Great speakers,” he said, “for such a crummy car.”

  Okay, so he didn’t say the part about the crummy car, but it had to have been on his mind.

  It was a short drive to Westwood Gardens, most of which we spent making small talk and staring at the bird poop on the windshield.

  I pulled up to the restaurant and handed the Corolla over to a valet. Normally I’d circle the block seventeen times looking for a parking space before springing for a valet, but I didn’t want to seem like a piker, especially when Stan said, “Don’t worry about the valet, Jaine. I’ll take care of him.”

  I handed my keys to the valet and we headed inside.

  Westwood Gardens is an upscale eaterie with exposed brick walls, flagstone floors, and rustic wrought-iron furniture. Very “My Year in Provence.” A reed-thin hostess/actress seated us at a cozy table for two by the window, overlooking the bustling Westwood street scene. Sizing up Stan as someone who could possibly give her a part in a play/movie/ commercial, she shot him a dazzling smile and drifted off.

  “So,” Stan said, after we’d looked through our menus, “what looks good to you?”

  Now this was a tricky question. What looked good to me was the steak sandwich with onion rings and thick-cut fries. But I couldn’t possibly allow myself to order it. I had an image to uphold. Women in Prada and Manolos simply do not order dishes that come with ketchup and A-1 sauce. Women in Prada and Manolos order dainty salads made of arugula and endive and other stuff I usually don’t touch with a ten-foot fork.

  “I’ll have the chopped salad,” I said, with a sigh.

  “Is that all?” Stan asked. “I’m going to have the steak sandwich. It’s fantastic. You really should get it, too.”

  “But it’s an awful lot to eat,” I demurred.

  Yeah, right. If he could only see me alone in my apartment plowing my way through a pepperoni pizza.

  “Oh, go on,” he urged. “You only go round once, right?”

  “Well, if you insist.” I felt like throwing my arms around the guy and kissing him. “One steak sandwich it is.”

  At which point, a stunning actor/waiter sidled up to our table. Like the hostess, he shot Stan a high-wattage smile. Something about Stan simply radiated importance. I, on the other hand, in spite of my Prada and Manolos, wasn’t fooling anybody. The gang here at the Gardens instinctively knew me for the poseur that I was.

  “Hi, I’m Phineas,” the waiter said, still beaming at Stan, “and I’ll be your server today.” He reeled off the list of Today’s Specials with all the intensity of Hamlet yakking at Yorick’s skull.

  “We’ll have two steak sandwiches,” Stan said when he was through.

  “Wonderful choice!” Phineas gushed.

  “And how about we split a tiramisu for dessert?” Stan said to me.

  Was this the boss from heaven, or what?

  “Sounds great!”

  Phineas whisked off to get our food, barely restraining himself from leaving a head shot and resume in Stan’s lap.

  “So,” Stan said when he was gone, “tell me about yourself, Jaine.”

  I put on my tap shoes and launched into my usual spiel, telling him about the work I’d done for Toiletmasters (In a Rush to Flush? Call Toiletmasters!), Ackerman’s Awnings (Just a Shade Better), and Tip Top Dry Cleaners (We Clean for You. We Press for You. We Even Dye for You.) I wished I had classier accounts to talk about, but Stan seemed interested.

  After a while, Phineas showed up with our steak sandwiches. We devoured them with gusto, and afterwards, Stan looked through my book of writing samples. When he was finished, he shut the book and popped the last of his fries in his mouth.

  “Frankly, Jaine, I was looking for someone with a bit more experience on national accounts.”

  My heart sank. Oh, well. I had to look on the bright side. At least I got a steak sandwich out of the deal.

  “On the other hand,” he said, grinning, “I like the way you write.”

  He liked the way I wrote! Maybe I had a shot at this gig, after all.

  “So the job is yours if you want it.”

  “Oh, yes! I’d love it.”

  Then, just when I thought things couldn’t get any more divine, Phineas showed up with what had to be the creamiest tiramisu this side of Tuscany.

  “Perfect timing,” Stan said. “Let’s celebrate.”

  I picked up my fork and was just about to plunge it into the delectable confection when Stan asked, “Don’t you want to know what the assignment is?”

  “Oh, right. Sure. The assignment.”

  In my excitement over the tiramisu, it had sort of slipped my mind.

  “It’s a brand new product launch. I think you’ll be perfect for it. I’ve got all the facts here in my attaché case.”

  He reached down to get his case and frowned.

  “Damn. I must’ve left it in your car.”

  “I’ll go get it,” I said, shooting a wistful look at the tiramisu. I hated to leave it, but the man had just offered me a job, and the least I could do was get his attaché case.

  “No,” Stan said. “I’ll go. You start on dessert.”

  Obviously he could see how much I was lusting after the tiramisu.

  “Are you sure?” I asked.

  “Of course. I’ll be right back.”

  What a sweetie he was to give me first dibs on dessert. I gave him the parking ticket, and he headed for the door.<
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  Once more, I gazed at the tiramisu in all its creamy glory. I debated about whether or not to take a bite. I really should wait until Stan got back. But he did tell me to go ahead and get started. I’d just have one teeny bite. And then we’d share the rest together.

  I took a teeny bite. Okay, so it wasn’t so teeny. It was a major forkful. Sheer heaven. I couldn’t resist taking another. But that was it. No more. Absolutely not!

  And I’m proud to say not a single morsel passed through my lips—not for three whole seconds. Then I broke down and had another bite. And another. And another. Until, to my horror, I saw that I’d eaten all but one biteful.

  I was utterly ashamed of myself. What would Stan think? He’d probably take back the job offer. I’d given up a lucrative gig with Rubin-McCormick for a piece of tiramisu!

  It was at that moment that I happened to glance out the window and saw the valet handing Stan the keys to my Corolla. That’s funny. Stan was getting in on the driver’s side of the car. Surely he’d left his attaché case on the passenger side.

  It’s a good thing my mouth wasn’t full of tiramisu; otherwise I might have choked at what I saw next. Much to my amazement, Stan started the engine, gave a friendly wave to the valet, and drove off.

  What on earth was he doing? And then it dawned on me.

  Stan McCormick had just stolen my car!

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  Copyright © 2006 by Laura Levine.

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  ISBN: 9780758282859