The PMS Murder (6 page)

But when I reached into my attaché case, disaster struck. Something else popped out along with my sample book. Something beige and meshy and queen sized. Oh, God! It was my waist-nipper pantyhose! Lying smack dab in the middle of Andrew Ferguson’s Mark Cross blotter! With the cotton crotch staring him right in the face.

So that’s where Prozac hid it!

This had to be one of the Top Ten Most Humiliating Moments of my Life. Both of us sat there for what seemed like an eternity, staring at the damn thing. I wanted to do something, but I was para-lyzed with shame.

Finally Andrew broke the silence. He smiled and said:

“Got anything in a fishnet?”

I grabbed the pantyhose and stuffed it back in my attaché case, turning instantly from mute to motormouth. “Oh, gee, this is so awkward. It’s all Prozac’s fault—”

“Prozac? Are you on medication?”

“No, Prozac’s my cat. And she’s mad at me because I came home with chimichanga on my breath and I put her on a diet and expected her to eat Healthy Haddock Entrails but I broke down and fed her Bumble Bee but then this morning I made her go back on the diet and—”

I was babbling like an idiot, and I couldn’t stop myself. Oh, well. What did it matter? That forty THE PMS MURDERS

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thou was long gone. I’d kissed the job good-bye the minute Andrew Ferguson locked eyeballs with my cotton crotch.

The rest of the meeting floated by in a mortified blur. I saw Andrew’s lips moving but I barely heard a word he said. Something about calling me if they were interested. (Yeah, right.) Finally, he shook my hand good-bye and I stumbled out past Queen Elizabeth and down the elevator to the parking lot.

I drove home burning with shame. As much as I tried, I couldn’t erase the image of Andrew smiling that crooked smile of his and asking me if I had anything in fishnet.

When I got home, I found Prozac lolling on the sofa, not a care in the world.

“You little ratfink!” I said, waving the pantyhose in her face. “I suppose you thought this was funny, huh?”

Mildly amusing.

She began licking her genitals, obviously quite proud of herself.

“Well, maybe you think it’s funny, but I don’t.

I’ll have you know I’m furious. Absolutely furious.

Really, Pro. I mean it. I’m pissed.” I stalked off to the kitchen and began tossing her diet cat food into the trash.

“You want to be fat? Be fat! See if I care! Have a pizza. Some ice cream. Maybe a hot fudge sun-dae.”

She stood at the kitchen door, wide-eyed, as I hurled cans of cat food across the room.

It’s funny about Prozac. She knows when she’s crossed the line. Whenever she sees I’m truly 56

Laura Levine

angry, she turns into the cuddly, loveable kitty of my dreams, leaping onto my lap, nuzzling her little pink nose under my chin, purring in contentment at the very sound of my voice.

All of which she proceeded to do. Suddenly she was Miss Congeniality. But I was having none of it.

I was cool. I was aloof. I was unforgiving. No matter how wide her eyes got, no matter how much she purred, I remained indifferent to her charms.

I was merciless, all right.

In fact, that night when she jumped into bed with me and got on her back for a belly rub, I made her wait a whole thirty seconds before I gave her one.

Chapter 6

The following week was relatively uneventful.

There was no news from my parents in Florida, and I assumed that no news was good news. Although with Daddy, that’s always a risky assumption.

On the home front, work was deadly. My only job was a brochure for one of my regular clients, the Ackerman Awning Company (
Just a Shade Better
).

Needless to say, I didn’t hear a word from Andrew Ferguson, not after the Great Pantyhose Episode.

Oh, well. Maybe if I played my cards right, I’d land a job with one of the PMS Club’s wealthy members.

If I couldn’t work for the Union National
Tattler,
maybe I could turn out a
Yummy News
bulletin for Marybeth.

The only true spark of excitement that week happened at—of all places—the Shalom Retirement Home. Once a week I teach a class there called

“Writing Your Life Memoirs.”

There’s not really much teaching involved. It’s mostly listening. Each week my elderly students come to class with their memories scratched out on lined paper. Some of them are written well. Some of them are stiff and awkward. But all are written 58

Laura Levine

from the heart, and I consider it a privilege to hear them.

The only fly in the Shalom ointment is Abe Goldman, the lone man in the group. Mr. Goldman is the kind of student every teacher dreads: loud, yakky, and opinionated. Worst of all, the old fart actually has a crush on me, constantly flashing me his Polygrip grin and asking me to go for moonlight strolls in the parking lot.

The night after my PMS meeting, I drove over to Shalom, and Mr. Goldman, as he always did, nabbed the seat next to mine at the head of the rec room conference table.

“Hi, cookie!” he grinned. “Look what I brought you!”

He reached into his pants pocket and took out a none too clean hanky.

Just what I wanted. Dried snot.

“Now where the heck is that thing?” he said, rummaging around his copious pants pocket.

“Oh, here it is.”

He pulled out a battered Puddin’ Cup.

“I’ve been saving this for you all week. It’s double fudge chocolate. I know how much you love chocolate.”

It’s true, I’m a confirmed chocoholic, but even I—a woman who almost named her cat Mallomar—

was vaguely nauseated at the thought of eating a Puddin’ Cup that had shared space with Mr. Goldman’s dirty hanky all week.

“I brought you a spoon, too,” he said, reaching into his pocket for a germ-ridden plastic spoon.

“Thanks,” I gulped, as he shoved it toward me.

“So, cookie,” he said. “How about it? You want to be my date for Mambo Mania?” Every couple of months, Shalom hosted an event THE PMS MURDERS

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they called Mambo Mania. Which consisted mainly of elderly ladies dancing with each other (some of them on walkers) to Steve & Eydie singing
Besame
Mucho.
Mr. Goldman always asked me to be his date for this gala affair, and I always said no.

“Sorry, Mr. Goldman, you know I don’t dance.”

“Who cares? We can always sneak out to the parking lot and neck.”

Are you kidding? I’d rather eat this repulsive Puddin’

Cup.

Ignoring his leer, I plastered a bright teachery smile on my face and asked, “Okay, class. Who wants to read first?”

Mr. Goldman’s hand shot up. He always wanted to read first, one of his endless essays in the continuing saga of his life as a carpet salesman.

I looked around the room, desperate for another volunteer. I shot an encouraging look at Mrs.

Pechter, a round powder puff of a woman with bosoms as big as throw pillows. But Mrs. Pechter just smiled benignly and popped a caramel in her mouth. I smiled at birdlike Mrs. Rubin, who quickly averted her gaze to her lap. My ladies were always shy at the beginning of class. It took them a while to warm up. I smiled at Mrs. Zahler and Mrs. Greenberg, but they, too, kept their lips zipped.

Finally, I could ignore Mr. Goldman’s flapping hand no longer.

“Go ahead, Mr. Goldman,” I sighed.

And he was off and running. Droning on about the time he sold four rooms of broadloom to Henry Kissinger (who sprang for extra padding, in case you’re interested).

Eyelids began to droop as Mr. Goldman rambled on about the astute foreign policy advice he gave his good buddy “Hank.” Some of the ladies 60

Laura Levine

were nodding off. And oh, how I envied them. I, being the teacher, had to force myself to keep my eyelids propped open.

But inevitably, as it always did during one of Mr.

Goldman’s recitations, my mind began to wander.

I thought about my disastrous meeting at Union National Bank. What a shame. It would’ve been great to land that job. What a welcome break from Ackerman Awnings and Toiletmaster’s Plunge-a-Thon Specials.

And then, of course, there was Andrew Ferguson.
Quel
doll. I remembered his crooked smile and the way his hair curled at the nape of his neck. I wondered what it would be like to run my fingers through those curls. And before I knew it I was lost in a reverie of me and Andrew in a hot tub drinking champagne and reminiscing over how we first met.

You know,
he was telling me, as I ran my fingers through his curls,
I took one look at those waist-nipper
pantyhose with the cotton crotch and right then and there
I knew I had to have you—

Oh, dear, no. That simply didn’t work. No one in their right mind would be turned on by my industrial-strength pantyhose. I really had to work on my fantasy skills if I expected to have any sex life whatsoever.

It was then that I realized Mr. Goldman had stopped talking. He’d probably finished his essay, and I hadn’t even noticed. I looked over at him, expecting to see him beaming with pride, the way he always did when he was through reading. But no, he just stood there staring at the doorway, his eyes bulging, his jaw gaping.

I followed his gaze, and my jaw did a little gaping of its own.

There in the doorway stood an eightysomething Las Vegas showgirl.

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Okay, technically she wasn’t dressed like a showgirl. She wasn’t wearing pasties or a G-string or feathers in her hair. But she was wearing tight capri pants, towering wedgie heels, and a plunging spandex top that revealed a San Andreas–sized cleavage.

Her eyelids were slathered with sparkly turquoise eyeshadow, her fingers were studded with honker cubic zirconia rings, and her copper-red hair was piled high on her head in a hurricane-proof beehive.

I’m guessing she was somewhere in her eighties, because that was the median age of Shalom residents, but it was hard to tell underneath her thick layer of makeup.

“Hiya!” she said, snapping some gum. “I’m Goldie. Goldie Marcus.”

We all just sat there, staring at her. Even Mr.

Goldman was at a loss for words.

“I just moved in today. From Paramus, New Jersey. My son took me out to dinner, so I didn’t get a chance to meet anybody yet. Anyhow, they told me about the writing class, and I wanted to join.” I finally managed to jump-start my vocal chords.

“Of course, Ms. Marcus. Take a seat.”

“Here!” Mr. Goldman shouted. “Sit here! Next to me!”

He practically knocked poor Mrs. Rubin off her seat as he wedged in a chair by his side. Goldie Marcus tottered across the room on her wedgies and shot Mr. Goldman a seductive grin.

“Have a Puddin’ Cup!”

And with that, Mr. Goldman grabbed the Puddin’ Cup he’d given me earlier and slid it over to her. “It’s double fudge chocolate.” The nerve of the bum! Giving her
my
Puddin’

Cup. Yes, I know I said it was repulsive, but it was 62

Laura Levine

double fudge, after all. And I could have always sprayed the lid with Lysol when I got home.

“Thanks, hon.”

Was it my imagination, or did I actually see Goldie wink at him?

“My pleasure, dear lady,” he said, practically bow-ing. “My pleasure!”

“Welcome to our memoir-writing class, Ms. Marcus,” I said.

“Please. Call me Goldie.”

“Everybody, let’s welcome Goldie to the class.” The other ladies exchanged sidelong glances of disapproval and murmured tepid hellos.

“Well, Goldie. Each week, we try to bring an essay to read. It doesn’t have to be long,” I said, shooting Mr. Goldman a meaningful look. “Just a page or two.”

“Oh, I know all about the essays. Mrs. Maitland told me everything.” Mrs. Maitland was Shalom’s saint-cum-administrator. “I took lots of writing classes back in Paramus.”

“That’s wonderful,” Mr. Goldman boomed, staring worshipfully in the general direction of her cleavage. “Taking classes is just wonderful!” Goldie shot him another smile, followed by yet another wink.

Mrs. Pechter saw the wink and sniffed in disdain.

Mrs. Rubin, who played Robin to Mrs. Pechter’s Batman, sniffed, too, only not quite as loud as her more imposing friend.

“In fact,” Goldie announced, “I brought something to read tonight.” She rummaged through her purse and took out a piece of paper. “It got an A in my last writing class.”

“An A!” Mr. Goldman boomed. “How about that?

An A!”

“You’re only supposed to read things you wrote THE PMS MURDERS

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for
this
class,” Mrs. Pechter pouted. “Isn’t that right, Jaine?”

“Well, yes,” I said, “that’s true. But as long as Goldie brought it, she might as well read it.” As far as I was concerned, anything that took the spotlight away from Mr. Goldman was okay with me.

“But Abe wasn’t finished reading,” Mrs. Pechter protested.

It had to be the first time in the history of the class that anyone ever asked to hear more of Mr.

Goldman.

“Oh, I talked enough,” Mr. Goldman said. “Time to give somebody else a chance.” Mr. Goldman giving somebody else a chance?

Alert the media!

“Go on, Goldie,” he urged.

She unfolded her piece of paper, which had obviously been in her purse for decades, just waiting to be whipped out, and began:

My Favorite Things, by Goldie Marcus.

It was a shameless ripoff of the Julie Andrews song from
The Sound of Music.
Instead of raindrops and snowflakes and whiskers on kittens, Goldie preferred rhinestones and lip gloss and herring in sour cream, preferably with a side of dill pickles.

With each Favorite Thing, Mr. Goldman let out an explosive burst of approval. “Me, too! I love that!” The other ladies in the class looked at one another and rolled their eyes.

Goldie finished to a hostile silence. Normally the ladies applauded each other’s essays in a show of sisterly support, but not that night.

The silence was finally broken by Mr. Goldman, who leapt to his feet and shouted: “Wonderful!