The PMS Murder (11 page)

The papers in his In Box were precisely stacked, as if they they’d just come out of their wrapper. His stapler sat on his desk in perfect alignment with his paper clips, his pencil sharpener, and a mug of freshly sharpened pencils.

Clearly, the good lieutenant had a bit of an obsessive-compulsive disorder.

“Thank you for coming, Ms. Austen,” he said, moving his stapler a millimeter to the right. “I just want to ask you a few questions.”

“Of course.”

“No need to be nervous.”

Actually, I wasn’t feeling the least bit nervous. I was still too busy feeling humiliated over my burrito fiasco with Andrew Ferguson.

“I wanted to talk to you first,” he said, “before I saw the other club members.”

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“Oh?” I said, preening.

He must have heard about all the murders I’ve helped solve—murders you can read all about in
This Pen for Hire, Last Writes, Killer Blonde,
and
Shoes
to Die For,
now available in paperback wherever fine books are sold. (Forgive the shameless plugs, but if I don’t toot my own horn, who will?)

“Oh, so you’ve heard about me.” He blinked, puzzled.

“No, can’t say I have. Why would I have heard about you?”

“I’ve helped the police in several murder investigations.”

“Are you a private detective? According to my notes, it says you’re a writer.”

“I’m a detective on the side.”

“You have a license?”

“Well, no. Not actually.”

His brow furrowed in concern.

“You can’t be a P.I. without a license.” Now I
was
nervous.

“It’s all very informal,” I stammered. “I mean, it’s not a real business. I just help people out.”

“It better not be a business,” he said, adjusting the already perfect lineup of his stapler, pencil sharpener and pencil mug. “That’s a violation of Code 286297B.”

“I promise,” I said, sweat beginning to form on my brow, “it’s not a real business.”

“Well, all right,” he said grudgingly. “Now let’s get down to the matter at hand.”

“Do you mind if I ask you something first, Lieutenant?”

“What is it?” There was more than a hint of im-patience in his voice.

“I was just wondering. If you haven’t heard 106

Laura Levine

about me, why did you want to see me before the others?”

“Because your last name begins with
A
. And I always conduct my interviews alphabetically.” Wow. The guy probably color coded his socks.

“
Now
can we get started?” He took out a tape recorder from his desk and clicked it on. “Be sure to speak loudly and clearly.”

I felt like I was back in sixth grade, in Ms. Martin’s Public Speaking class.

Then he took out a steno pad and reached for one of his pencils.

“You’re going to tape me
and
take notes, too?” He nodded crisply. “Better safe than sorry.” Quick. Somebody send this guy to Fussbudgets Anonymous.

“So,” he asked, sharpening his already sharp pencil. “How well did you know the deceased?”

“Not well at all. I just met her two weeks ago, when I joined the club.”

“Were you fond of her?”

“To be perfectly honest, no.”

“Why not?”

“Because she was an egotistical, cloying jerk.” I didn’t actually put it like that. I figured I’d be a bit more discreet. What I said was, “She seemed a bit self-centered and insensitive.” He nodded, taking notes as I talked. I bet he dotted every damn one of his i’s.

“I don’t think anybody in the club really liked Marybeth,” I said. “Except for Rochelle. Until she found out about Marybeth’s affair with her husband. Then, of course, she got angry. But really, Lieutenant, I can’t believe Rochelle is capable of murder.”

Clemmons looked up from his notes.

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“Why don’t you let us be the judge of that, Ms.

Austen?” he said, plunging his pencil into his sharpener. For crying out loud, he’d been writing for all of thirty seconds; it couldn’t possibly have needed sharpening.

“Can you think of anyone else in the club who might have had a motive to kill Marybeth?” I hesitated to get Colin in trouble with the police, but I felt like I had no alternative. I told him how angry Colin had been at Marybeth for passing him over for a promotion.

“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.

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Laura Levine

“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 THE PMS MURDERS

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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 cardi-110

Laura Levine

gan 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 strut-ted 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.” THE PMS MURDERS

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“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 mount-ing. “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.” 112

Laura Levine

“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 glow-ing 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.”

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“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.