The PMS Murder (22 page)

“Nice to meet you, Millie. Go right ahead.” I started for the elevator, then slapped my forehead, hoping I looked like a person who’d just remembered she’d forgotten the key to her office.

“Darn,” I said. “Silly me. I forgot my key.” I offered up an apologetic smile. “Would you mind awfully letting me in?”

“Okay, Mil,” he sighed, tearing himself from the adventures of Condoleezza and Barney.

We rode up in the elevator together, Chester jin-gling his keys in time to the Muzak. Outside Marty’s office, he took out a master key from his pocket and let me in.

“Be sure to turn off the lights when you leave,” he said, flipping them on.

“Of course,” I promised. “And thanks so much.” I thought he’d go scooting right back to Barney and Condoleezza. But no, he just stood there watching me. So I walked over to the nurse’s station, as if I were really there to do some work. Someone had cleaned up in the wake of Hurricane Medusa, and things were neat, if somewhat devoid of electronic appliances. I took a seat at one of the desks and reached for a pad and pen.

“Thanks again,” I said to Chester, flashing him another grin.

“Sure thing,” he nodded, and finally walked off, jangling his keys.

The minute he was gone, I made a beeline for Marty’s office, which I found at the end of a plushly carpeted hallway. The room was done in sleek teak furniture, very Danish Dental Moderne.

But I wasn’t there to check out the décor; I had 216

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some serious snooping to do. I hurried over to Marty’s desk, which was noticeably free of wifely photos, and started scavenging through his drawers.

I found the usual assortment of paper clips and Post-its, along with a box of
Dr. Martin Meyers, D.D.S.

ballpoint pens. Tucked beneath the Dr. Marty pens were some greeting cards from Cissy. The kinds with kittens on the covers and messages like
You’re Purrr-fect
inside. I was right about her. She did dot her i’s with little valentines.

The bottom right-hand drawer yielded a Beverly Hills Yellow Pages, a box of contraceptive sponges and enough condoms to stock a drugstore. Marty may have been a lying cheating amoral piece of slime, but at least he practiced safe sex.

I sighed, disappointed. So far, plenty of evidence of adultery. But none of blackmail.

Next I checked out Marty’s teak credenza, but all that held was a bottle of scotch and a couple of dental textbooks. I rummaged through the pockets of the scrubs in his closet but came up empty-handed.

Then, on an impulse, I sat down on the floor and started rifling through Marty’s textbooks. The thick volumes would make a perfect hiding place.

Unfortunately, I didn’t find any blackmail letters, but I did find several glossy photos of Nurse Medusa stretched out on Marty’s dental chair, naked except for a spit bib.

Just when I was making a mental note to never again sit in a dentist’s chair without first disinfect-ing it, I heard—

“What the hell are you doing here?” I looked up and saw Marty glowering in the doorway.

I’d been so engrossed in the adventures of THE PMS MURDERS

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Nurse Medusa, I hadn’t heard him coming. Damn that carpeting in the hallway. It had obviously muf-fled his footsteps.

The last time I’d seen Marty, he was a cuddly teddy bear. Now, with his massive shoulders, short neck, and eyes narrowed into angry slits, he looked more like an attacking grizzly. I felt my palms turn clammy with sweat.

“Chester called to tell me my ‘new receptionist’

showed up,” he growled. “It’s building policy. The night guards always have to report anyone who shows up without a key.”

His stocky body cast an ominous shadow in the room. I wanted to run but was frozen to the spot.

“I figured it was you,” he said. “Cissy described

‘Officer Krupke’ to me and—what a coincidence—

she sounded just like you, Jaine. Or should I call you Mildred?”

I finally managed to get to my feet, my knees trembling en route.

“I repeat,” he said, his jaws tight with rage. “What the hell are you doing here?”

Then suddenly I thought of poor Rochelle, dis-carded like a used Kleenex, and I was angry in spite of my terror.

“I’m just trying to save Rochelle’s neck.”

“You better think about saving your own neck, sweetheart.”

And, trust me, there was no affection in the word
sweetheart.

By now he was a mere arm’s length away. Before he could get any farther, I did what I should have done in the first place. I picked up a heavy tome on
Advanced Dental Abscesses
and hurled it at him.

He ducked to miss it. I took advantage of the moment and ran past him out the door as fast as 218

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my legs could carry me, which—sad to say—was not fast enough. Somewhere between his office and the reception area, Marty grabbed me by the arm and locked me in a viselike grip. A searing pain shot up my arm.

I looked over at the patient cubicle behind him and saw a drill gleaming in the moonlight. Suddenly all I could think of was the movie
Marathon
Man,
where Dustin Hoffman gets tortured by the evil Nazi dentist Laurence Olivier.

My anger had vanished; I was back to being terrified again. I had to do something quickly, before he had me strapped to a chair and begging for mercy.

“You should know,” I lied, “that I’ve told my friends everything about you—about your affairs, about Marybeth’s blackmail letters, and about the way you were molesting your patients.” His ruddy face went pale, and I couldn’t help noticing that he didn’t try to contradict me. There was no outraged,
What are you talking about?

He’d been molesting those patients, all right.

“Not only that, I wrote everything down and put it in my safe deposit box. If anything should happen to me, I’ve left instructions with my friends to take that information to the police.” My lie worked. Suddenly Marty’s shoulders sagged and he relaxed his grip on my arm. At which point there was a knock on the door, and Chester the guard came strolling in.

“Everything okay, Dr. Meyers?” Marty smiled stiffly.

“Everything’s fine,” he said, through gritted teeth. “Just fine.”

“I guess I’ll be running along now, Dr. Meyers,” I said. “The new appointment schedule is on your desk.”

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He nodded numbly as I headed out the door with Chester.

“You want some advice, Millie?” Chester said, as we rode down in the elevator together. “Watch out for Dr. Meyers. Around here the gals call him Tall, Dark, and Hands.” He winked conspiratorially.

“ ’Cause he can’t keep his hands off the ladies, if you get my drift.”

“I get it, Chester. Believe me, I get it.” And I looked down at my arm, which was already turning black and blue.

I was exhausted when I finally made it home that night. I staggered into my apartment and found Prozac sprawled out on the sofa, in the middle of her umpteenth nap of the day. Lord, how I envied her.

She looked up at me and yawned. I’d expected her to be ravenous. After all, it was hours past her dinnertime. But she pecked at her Lite ’N Lively Liver Snaps like Scarlett O’Hara eating barbeque at Twelve Oaks.

Fiddle dee dee, I get so full so fast nowadays.

Maybe her stomach was shrinking. Mine, however, was as big as ever. I sat on the edge of the tub and practically inhaled the moo shoo pork I’d picked up on the way home.

I was way too tired to take that bath I’d promised myself. I just brushed my teeth—although it was tough even going near a toothbrush after what I’d just been through—and crawled into bed.

I was fairly certain I’d scared off Marty with my threat about the safe deposit box.

But, taking no chances, I drifted off to sleep with my vicious attack cat curled under one arm, and a can of pepper spray under the other.

Chapter 22

There was no doubt in my mind when I woke up the next morning: Marty was the killer.

He’d grown tired of Marybeth, just as he’d tired of Nurse Medusa and Rochelle. And when Marybeth decided to play rough with blackmail, he decided to play rougher with murder.

I called Lieutenant Clemmons and left a message to that effect, telling him how Marybeth had been blackmailing Marty and how Cissy had been lying to give Marty an alibi. Of course, Cissy would certainly deny what she’d told me at the gallery. If only I’d had the foresight to bring along a tape recorder. And without those blackmail letters, Clemmons would never believe me. I could just picture him rolling his eyes as he listened to my message.

As for my original plan—spilling my guts to Rochelle’s attorney—that was out of the question.

I sincerely doubted Rochelle’s attorney would be interested in convicting the guy who was paying his legal fees.

The whole thing was so damn frustrating. Rochelle was about to be tried for a crime she didn’t THE PMS MURDERS

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commit. And I was just sitting there with my hands tied.

So I did what I always do when I hit a seemingly insurmountable obstacle.

I put on my running shoes and went out for a brisk jog, clearing my brain and fortifying myself with energy-producing endorphins.

Okay, so I didn’t go out for a jog. I went out for cinnamon buns. The only thing that got fortified was the cellulite in my thighs.

I spent the rest of the day trying to work on the
Fiedler on the Roof
brochure, but once again, I was having trouble concentrating. I couldn’t shake the feeling that Marty was out to get me. I kept telling myself that I scared him off with my threat about a damning letter in my safe deposit box. Not that I had an actual safe deposit box. My idea of a safe deposit box was an old sock with $20 stuffed in the toe.

But like I said, I was jittery all day long. Before I got in my car to drive over to my class at Shalom that night, I checked under my tires for nails. I even looked under the hood for a car bomb. (Not that I knew what a car bomb looked like, but I figured if I saw dynamite tied to the fan belt, it probably wasn’t a good sign.)

On the ride over my heart leapt at every horn that honked and every car that cut in front of me.

And my eyes were constantly darting to the rearview mirror to make sure no one was tailing me.

But thankfully, there were no scary surprises on the road that night.

Nope, the big surprise was waiting for me at Shalom.

*

*

*

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Laura Levine

Goldie was gone. Vanished. Flown the coop.

There was no sign of Mr. Goldman’s sweetheart, the glam’rus gal from Paramus, when I showed up at class that night.

Mr. Goldman sat alone at the conference table, slumped in his chair, unaccustomedly silent. Whatever he’d been using to dye his hair had been washed out, and his feeble excuse for a mustache had bit the dust. Gone was the flashy Romeo in the loud sports jacket, and in his place was a little old man in baggy corduroys and a stained cardigan.

Mrs. Pechter and the other ladies were chattering among themselves as I took my seat at the head of the table. Was it my imagination, or did they seem particularly chipper tonight?

“Where’s Goldie?” I asked, looking around the room.

“She moved!” Mrs. Greenberg announced. “To a retirement home in Las Vegas!”

“Shalom was too boring for her!” Mrs. Rubin chimed in.

“I heard she moved there,” Mrs. Pechter said, smirking at Mr. Goldman, “to be near an old boyfriend.”

She popped a caramel in her mouth trium-phantly.

In the old days Mr. Goldman would have risen to the bait. He would’ve strenuously denied the boyfriend rumors and insisted that Goldie moved to Vegas for the weather or her health or to be closer to a cherished grandchild. He would’ve come up with something.

But that night, he just sat there, staring down at the liver spots on his hands. I could practically see him cringing at each verbal dagger.

Normally my sympathies were with the ladies, THE PMS MURDERS

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but tonight, I’d switched allegiances. The gals were showing him no mercy. They chattered on about Goldie’s alleged boyfriend, relishing every minute of Mr. Goldman’s misery. For once, my heart went out to him.

“Okay,” I said, eager to put an end to his torture, “who wants to read first?” For the first time in the history of the class, Mr.

Goldman didn’t volunteer to read. He sat there silently all night long, a shell of his former irritating aggravating bombastic self. He had no tales to tell of his life as a carpet salesman, no incendiary commentary on the other essays.

The ladies were in their glory, reading their memoirs of weddings and grandchildren and long-dead relatives, secure in the knowledge that they would not be interrupted by Mr. Goldman’s hand waving in the air.

The evening passed uneventfully, with none of the usual Goldman-inspired verbal slugfests. At last, the final essay was read, and the ladies began filing out of the rec room.

“Good night, darling!” Mrs. Pechter called out to me. “I gotta hurry back to my room. There’s a movie on TV I want to catch.” She practically shouted the name of the movie, for Mr. Goldman’s benefit. “
Viva Las Vegas
.” Then she and Mrs. Rubin giggled like teenagers and bustled out of the room.

Poor Mr. Goldman. He just sat in his seat, staring down at his hands, which I now saw were trembling.

“I’m so sorry,” I said, sitting down next to him.

“I know how much you cared for her.” He looked up at me, with small sad eyes, and shrugged his narrow shoulders.

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“It’s the story of my life. You may have trouble believing this, Jaine, but I’ve never been a success with the ladies.”

“Really?” I tried to look surprised.

“It’s true,” he sighed. “Most ladies don’t like me.

Even my own wife wasn’t so crazy about me. You know what her sister said to me at her funeral?

That she died in self-defense.”

“I’m sure that’s not true,” I said. “I’m sure your wife died of a real disease.”

I patted the liver spots on his hand.