The PMS Murder (2 page)

Back home, I found my cat Prozac asleep on the sofa, in the exact same position I’d left her six hours ago. Sometimes I think that cat was a statue in a former life.

“Hi, pumpkin. I’m home!”

The little darling jumped off the sofa and came racing to my side, rubbing my ankles with vibrat-ing purrs of love.

Okay, so she didn’t really do that. She pried open one eye, yawned a yawn the size of the Grand Canyon, then rolled over and went back to sleep.

But a cat owner can dream, can’t she?

By now, I was regretting that scoop of Chunky Monkey I’d packed away at Ben & Jerry’s. (Okay, two scoops.) So I headed to the bedroom and slipped out of my jeans and into a pair of elastic-waist pants. I was just breathing a sigh of relief when the phone rang.

A no-nonsense male voice came on the line.

“Andrew Ferguson here. From Union National Bank.”

Oh, darn. I couldn’t possibly be overdrawn THE PMS MURDERS

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again, could I? Why, I just deposited a check last week. Or was it two weeks ago? I couldn’t have run through all my money already. And even if I had, the bank had a hell of a lot of nerve calling me at home and invading my privacy. Wasn’t it bad enough they socked me with a service charge every time I blinked an eye? I don’t mind admitting I was pretty steamed.

“Look, here, Mr. Ferguson. Is it always your policy to call people at home like this?”

“I guess I could’ve e-mailed you, but I wanted to get in touch with you as soon as possible.”

“If I’m overdrawn, I assure you the matter will be taken care of right away. I don’t need a personal reminder.”

“You don’t understand—”

“When I’ve got scads of money in the bank, I don’t see you calling me and thanking me, do I?” There was a pause on the line.

“Ms. Austen, I’m not calling about your checking account.”

“You’re not?”

“No, I’m calling about the ad you answered in the
L.A. Times
. For someone to write our bank newsletter.”

I’d answered that ad weeks ago and forgotten all about it. Here the man was calling me about a paying job, and the first thing I did was yell at him.

Talk about your disastrous first impressions. I wouldn’t be surprised if he hung up right then and there. But miraculously, he didn’t.

“So do you think you can come in for an interview?” he asked.

“Of course.”

“Wednesday morning at ten? Our downtown branch?”

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Laura Levine

“Absolutely! I’ll be there. And I’m sorry about that checking account thing.”

“That’s okay. I’ll be sure to have someone call you to thank you, though, the next time you’ve got scads of money in the bank.”

I hung up and groaned. What an idiot I’d been.

I couldn’t believe he was still letting me come in for the interview. At least he seemed to have a sense of humor.

“Guess what, dollface?” I said, scratching Prozac behind her ears. “Mommy’s got a job interview.

Isn’t that super?”

Whatever. Now scratch my back.

Ever her obedient servant, I scratched Prozac’s back and then spent the next hour at the computer doing some research on Union National Bank. After my less than auspicious start, I wanted to be as knowledgeable as possible for my interview. I worked at it steadily, with just a tiny break for a quick game of computer solitaire (okay, five games of solitaire), until I heard the sweet sounds of Prozac yowling for her dinner.

I got up and went to the kitchen cupboard, where I took out a can of the diet cat food my vet had recommended on our last visit. I’d been meaning to give it to Prozac for the past several days, but I’d kept putting it off, afraid of the battle that might await me. After all, this was a cat that was used to Jumbo Jacks and the Colonel’s chicken. Extra crispy, if you please.

But I’d promised the vet I’d give it a try, and now, I decided, was as good a time as any. I opened the can and poured the contents into Prozac’s bowl.

“Here you go, sweet pea. Dee-licious Healthy Haddock Entrails.”

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She took one sniff and looked at me indignantly.

You’ve got to be kidding. Surely, you don’t expect
moi
to eat this stuff?

“You know what the vet said last week when we went to visit, and everybody in the waiting room thought you were pregnant. Remember? She said you’ve really got to lose weight.”
I still say she was talking to you, not me.

She jumped up on the counter and started paw-ing the cupboard where I keep the Bumble Bee Tuna.

“Forget it, Pro. You’re not getting any fancy white albacore.”

I scooped her down off the counter and put her back at her bowl.

“You want to be thin, don’t you?”
Not if I have to eat this glop, I don’t.

The vet had warned me it wasn’t going to be easy. I’d just have to hang tough. Sooner or later she’d break down.

I headed for the bedroom to get dressed for my dinner date with Kandi. Prozac followed my every footstep, dodging between my ankles, all the while moaning piteously. I did my best to ignore her as I threw on some jeans, a silk shirt and an Ann Taylor blazer. But it wasn’t easy, because by now, Prozac was howling like a banshee.

“Jaine? What’s going on in there?” It was my neighbor Lance, shouting from his apartment. Due to our paper-thin walls and his Superman-quality hearing, Lance knows a lot of what goes on in my life. Of course, he could’ve been Helen Keller and still heard Prozac’s ruckus.

“Oh, it’s just Prozac. She’s mad at me because I put her on a diet.”

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Laura Levine

“Well, keep it down, will you? Some of us are trying to have sex in here.”

“I’m so sorry, Lance. I had no idea you had anyone with you.”

“Who said I had anyone with me?” Oopsie. A little more information than I needed to know.

“Have fun,” I said weakly.

Then I carried Prozac out to the living room and plopped her on the sofa, where she stared up at me with Starving Orphan eyes.

“Try to understand, Pro. I’m doing this for your own good.”

I bent down to kiss her, but she pulled away.

“I’m going out now to have dinner with Kandi,” I said, grabbing my car keys. “I’ll be back by nine.

Eat your haddock.”

Okay, go ahead and leave me. Go eat some fancy dinner while I’m stuck here with that disgusting haddock
goop. You, of all people, have got a lot of nerve putting
me on a diet! You, who just last night polished off a pint
of fudge ripple ice cream. And don’t think I don’t know
about that Chunky Monkey cone at Ben & Jerry’s today.

Okay, what she actually said was
Meow,
but I could tell that’s what she was thinking.

I hurried out the door before she could bring up the slice of mushroom and anchovy pizza I’d eaten for breakfast.

(Okay, two slices.)

“So what do you think? Roses or violets for the bridal bouquet?”

I was sitting across from Kandi at Pacos Tacos, our favorite Mexican restaurant, scarfing down THE PMS MURDERS

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boatloads of chips and guacamole while Kandi barely nibbled at the edge of a pickled carrot.

In the old days, she’d be telling me about some harebrained scheme to meet men. Back then, I hated those schemes. I cringed when I heard them. But now, looking back, I yearned for one of her crazy ideas, for the good old days when we were two single gals in Lalaland.

“Armando thinks I should go with violets, but I’m not sure.”

“Armando? Who’s Armando?”

“Didn’t I tell you?” Kandi said, abandoning her carrot slice. “I hired a wedding planner. I’ve been so busy with
Beanie,
I haven’t had much time to de-vote to details.”

Kandi, for those of you fortunate enough never to have seen her show, is a writer for
Beanie & the
Cockroach,
a stirring cartoon saga of a short-order cook named Beanie and his pet cockroach, Fred.

“If Armando thinks you should go with violets, why not take his advice? That’s what you’re paying him for.”

“I guess you’re right,” Kandi said, plucking a grain of salt from a chip. “Although lately, I’ve been thinking freesia would be nice.” Poor Armando. Something told me he’d be earning every penny of his fee.

“Armando is just so incredibly creative; he’s got the most fabulous ideas. He thinks we should get married on the beach at sunset with champagne and gypsy violinists.”

“The beach at sunset, huh?”

I could feel my hair frizzing already. Something Kandi, with her head of enviably straight chestnut hair, would never have to worry about.

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Laura Levine

“Although I was thinking,” Kandi said, taking a meditative sip of her margarita, “maybe it should be margaritas and a mariachi band.” And so it went, through dinner—Kandi floating along on a cloud of wedding plans, yammering endlessly about the invitations, the flowers, the musicians, the bridal gown. And, of course, the most important part of the wedding, the fiancé. I heard what an angel Steve was, how sweet, how kind, how caring. I heard how, unlike some men, he didn’t go screaming into the night at the thought of planning a wedding with his bride-to-be. Apparently, he was a good sport about the whole thing. In fact, that’s where he was tonight, with Armando, choosing his tuxedo.

“Really, Jaine, he doesn’t mind a bit when I talk about the wedding.”

I was glad he didn’t mind. It was all I could to do keep from dozing off into my refried beans.

“Oh, by the way,” Kandi said, “I almost forgot the reason why I wanted to see you. I ordered the most fabulous bridesmaid gowns!” She reached into her purse and took out a picture she’d ripped from a magazine.

“Here,” she said, handing me the picture. “Armando and I decided to go with the traditional look. Isn’t it divine?”

Omigod. I took a desperate gulp of my margarita. It was a bridesmaid’s nightmare. Big puffy sleeves. Tiny pinched-in waist. And a billowing hip-enlarging skirt. All of it in a nauseating baby pink.

Kandi smiled eagerly. “It’s the Cinderella look.” Just what I always wanted to look like: Cinderella on steroids.

“So? What do you think? Isn’t it terrific?” Horrific would be more like it, but I managed a THE PMS MURDERS

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sickly smile and nodded yes. But as it happened, Kandi didn’t notice my sickly smile because at that moment, Steve showed up at our table. I could see once more why Kandi had fallen for him. He was, in no uncertain terms, a cutie. Spiky Hugh Grant hair, chocolate-brown eyes, a heartmeltingly sweet smile, and buns to die for.

Kandi’s eyes lit up with love.

“Hi, honey,” she said, as he bent down to kiss her.

“What are you doing here?”

“Armando and I finished early, so I thought I’d join you two.”

“That’s great. Isn’t that great, Jaine?” For the second time in less than two minutes, I pasted a sickly smile on my face. “Yeah, great.” Steve grabbed a chair, and the next thing I knew, he and Kandi were holding hands over their dessert flans and undoubtedly playing footsie under the table. Once again, I was demoted to fifth wheel.

Kandi gazed at Steve, gooey-eyed.

“Jaine just loves her bridesmaid dress. Don’t you, Jaine?”

“Just love it.”

And then I did the only thing I could do under the circumstances: Finish every last morsel of my flan. (And theirs, too, if you must know.) I sneaked into my apartment like a cheating lover and raced to the bathroom to brush my teeth before Prozac could smell the chimichangas on my breath. I was hoping to convince her I’d had a low-cal tuna nicoise for dinner.

But Prozac wasn’t having anything to do with me.

She stared at me through slitted eyes and wriggled out of my arms when I tried to pick her up. I 22

Laura Levine

checked her dinner bowl. She hadn’t touched a bite.

“Prozac, sweetie, you’ve got to eat something.”
I’ll eat when you feed me something that doesn’t look
like recycled upchuck.

I had to admit, it did look pretty disgusting.

“Here. I’ll sprinkle some kitty treats on top.” I grabbed a can of cat treats and tossed a liberal handful on top of the diet food. Anything to get her to give the stuff a try.

Prozac sniffed at the bowl dismissively.

I’d rather have bacon bits
was what I think she was trying to say.

Bacon bits are Prozac’s favorite snack, right along with pizza anchovies and Chicken McNuggets.

“You can’t have bacon bits,” I said. “They’re not good for you. C’mon now. You love your kitty treats.” Not that night, she didn’t. She eyed them dis-dainfully, then stalked off to the living room.

Call me when you’ve got something worth eating.

“Okay, be that way,” I shouted after her. “I’m not going to weaken. For your information, there are starving kitties in Asia who’d love to have Healthy Haddock Entrails for dinner!”

Usually Prozac snuggles up next to me when I watch TV in bed at night, belching fish fumes in my face. But that night she stayed alone and aloof on the living room sofa.

I figured eventually she’d wander in, but three hours later, there was still no sign of her. I turned out the light, but sleep wouldn’t come. I tried watching some mind-numbing infomercials, but they failed to make me even remotely drowsy. It looked like I was in for a sleepless night. I missed Prozac’s warm, furry body nuzzled under my neck.

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I tried cuddling with a pillow, but all I got were feathers up my nose. This would never do.

“Prozac, honey,” I called out. “Come to bed.” Nothing.

I went out to where she was sleeping, like a dis-placed husband, on the living room sofa. I scooped her in my arms, but she wasn’t having any of it. In an instant, she was back down on the floor, glaring up at me.

“Prozac, come back to bed.
Please.
Mommy needs her sleep.”

You should have thought of that when you fed me that
Haddock glop.

Then she jumped back up on the sofa and curled into an angry ball.

And so, with a weary sigh, I shuffled off to the kitchen, where I proceeded to fix her a bowl of fancy white albacore. With bacon bits on top.