The PMS Murder

by Laura Levine

“Don’t you feel marvelous?” Ashley sighed.

  Yeah. Like a crab at high tide.

  “Marvelous,” I echoed feebly.

  At first I’d felt embarrassed about getting naked in front of Ashley. But I was heartened to see that, out of her designer clothes, Ashley was packing a few extra pounds of her own, in the dreaded hip/thigh area. Nothing like somebody else’s fat to improve your own body image.

  Once we were covered head to toe in marine ooze, Aloe and her fellow masseuse left Ashley and me alone in our private massage room.

  “We’ll be back in a half-hour,” Aloe chirped, “as soon as you’ve absorbed your kelp.”

  “I thought they’d never leave,” Ashley said the minute they were gone. “Now tell me about your investigation. I think it’s wonderful that you’re trying to help Rochelle. And I’m so impressed that you’re a private eye.”

  “Just part-time.”

  “It sounds so exciting. Except for the footwear.” Her brow furrowed, turning the seaweed on her forehead into tiny rivulets of mud. “I suppose you have to wear sensible shoes on the job?”

  “Usually, yes.”

  “Too bad. There’s always something, isn’t there?”

  I liked Ashley, but I was beginning to think she was just a tad shallow.

  “So how can I help you?” she asked. “What did you want to know?”

  “For starters, did you see anyone go into the kitchen alone the night of the murder?”

  “No.” Her blue eyes gazed out mournfully from behind the gunk on her face. “I’m afraid the only one I saw was Rochelle.”

  “What about Colin? He showed up at the house before any of us. Do you think he might have done it?”

  She waited a beat before answering.

  “I didn’t want to say anything to the police, but to tell you the truth, if I had to guess one of us, I’d pick him. He was furious when he found out Marybeth had passed him over for partner. And he does have a temper. I remember Marybeth telling me that he once got so frustrated over a job they were working on, he punched a hole through the wall with his fist.”

  Very interesting, I thought, filing that tidbit away for future reference.

  After a half-hour of marinating in seaweed, Ashley and I were hosed down and then polished off with a final coat of body lotion.

  “Made from genuine algae,” Aloe informed me, proudly holding out the jar.

  Great. I always wanted to smell like the bottom of a fish tank.

  But actually, it didn’t smell too bad. Just a faint musky odor. And I have to confess that when Ashley and I headed off to the locker room to get dressed, I felt marvelous. Relaxed and invigorated at the same time. Maybe there was something to this seaweed therapy after all.

  “What I don’t understand,” Ashley said, slipping into a pair of pink velour sweats that cost more than my wedding dress, “is why anyone would want to kill Marybeth. Sure, she got on everyone’s nerves, but underneath it all, she was a wonderful person.”

  “Really?”

  Somehow I had a hard time believing that.

  Ashley smiled wryly.

  “Okay, maybe she wasn’t so wonderful. Not at the end. But I remember when I first met her, back in college. She was a lot different then. Very sweet and unaffected. That Little Miss Sunshine act of hers that drove everybody crazy? Back then, it wasn’t an act. She was a genuinely sunny, happy person.”

  She smiled at the memory.

  “As the years went on, she got to be a pain in the ass, but I never stopped loving her.”

  Quickly, she reached for her imported British hairbrush and started blow-drying her hair. But not before I saw the tears well up in her eyes.

  Well, alert the media. Somebody out there actually cared about Marybeth.

  Or at least wanted me to think that she did.

  Ashley hugged me good-bye in the parking lot of the Brentwood Day Spa, enveloping me in a cloud of massive boobs and designer perfume.

  “Good luck, hon,” she said. “I hope you catch Marybeth’s killer. I’m just praying it turns out to be a dreadful accident, that whoever did it thought they were adding lime juice or something. Not very likely, though, is it?”

  I shook my head no.

  “Pity,” she sighed. Then she got in her Jaguar and sped off, undoubtedly to work on her Black Belt in shopping.

  As long as I was in Brentwood, I figured I’d swing by Doris’s place. I’d checked out her address and saw that she lived not far from the spa, off San Vicente Boulevard, on Darlington Avenue.

  Darlington was a leafy street lined with condos and townhouses. Parking was tight, but I managed to squeeze the Corolla between two SUVs and walked the half-block to Doris’s New Englandy clapboard townhouse. I climbed the steps to her tiny front deck, lined with pots of hot pink impatiens, and rang the bell.

  She came to the door in jeans and a denim work shirt. Her steel gray hair glinted in the morning sun.

  “Jaine!” she said, flustered. “What are you doing here?”

  “Actually, I wanted to talk to you about Marybeth’s murder.”

  “Oh?” She stood there, making absolutely no move to invite me inside.

  “Do you mind if I come in?”

  I could practically see the wheels turning in her brain as she tried to think up an excuse to turn me away.

  “It won’t take long,” I promised.

  Reluctantly, she stepped aside.

  “Why don’t we go into the kitchen?” she said, taking me by the elbow and steering me straight toward the back of the townhouse. “I’ll warm up some coffee.”

  Aloe had warned me not to drink coffee or alcohol for at least 24 hours, while I cleansed my system with herbal tea, preferably made from lemongrass, tree bark, or sassafras root.

  Yeah, right. One of my major principles in life is to never drink shrubbery.

  “Sure,” I said. “Coffee sounds great.”

  Doris plunked me down in her tiny white-tile-and-pine kitchen, while she bustled around, fussing with a Mr. Coffee machine.

  “Pam told me you were investigating the case,” she said. “But it’s so hard to picture you as a hardboiled private eye.”

  “Everyone says that. I guess I’m more the soft-boiled type.”

  She shot me a blank stare. There was absolutely no sign of the hip, wisecracking Doris I’d met at the PMS Club. This woman getting mugs from her cupboard was a Stepford Doris.

  “So what did you want to know?” she asked.

  “Can you think of anyone other than Rochelle who might have had a motive to kill Marybeth?”

  “No, not really. Except maybe Colin. I mean, she did pass him over for that job, didn’t she?”

  She handed me my coffee and faked a stiff smile.

  “Really, Jaine, I already told the police everything I know, which isn’t much.”

  “If you don’t mind,” I said, tossing a fake smile right back at her, “I’d really appreciate your going over it with me.”

  She sat down opposite me and began stirring her coffee.

  “Did you see anyone go into the kitchen alone that night?” I asked. “Anyone who could’ve doctored the guacamole?”

  She didn’t answer at first, just kept staring down into her mug and stirring her coffee so hard I thought she’d scrape the enamel off the mug.

  Finally, she looked up.

  “I didn’t say anything about this to the police, because my memory’s not what it used to be, but at one point while you and Pam and Ashley were upstairs, I left Rochelle and Colin in the kitchen and went to the living room to lay out cocktail napkins. After a while, I remember Rochelle coming into the living room to spike her margarita at the wet bar.”

  It didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out what she was trying to tell me.

  “Which means Colin was alone in the kitchen?”

  “If I’m remembering correctly. But I’m not really sure. Nowadays, my life is one big senior moment. That’s why I didn’t say anything to the
police. What if I’m wrong?”

  It was amazing how different Doris was here in her kitchen. At Rochelle’s, she’d radiated confidence. Here, in the bright morning light, she was a befuddled woman who looked every one of her sixty-odd years.

  We sipped our coffees, making idle chat about the murder.

  “It’s still so hard to believe that Marybeth is dead,” she said. “All that energy, all that irritating positive thinking. She seemed so…indestructible.

  “By the way,” she added, “my condolences to you.”

  “To me? I hardly knew her.”

  “Not about Marybeth. About that picture of you they ran in the paper. You’ll have a hard time living that one down.”

  She shot me a smile. So Wisecracking Doris wasn’t dead, after all.

  By now we’d finished our coffee, so I thanked her for her time, and she led me back to the front door. As we passed her living room, I couldn’t resist peeking in. It was strange how she’d whisked me straight to the kitchen when I first showed up. I wondered if her place was a pigsty. Or maybe she had a stash of porn videos on her coffee table.

  But no, it was a tasteful if somewhat bland living room. Standard sofa, armchairs, fireplace. And a grand piano in the corner. But then I saw something that caught my attention. There, over the fireplace, was a portrait—of Doris and a man sitting together holding hands. Clearly they were a couple. A couple in love.

  I stopped in my tracks.

  “That’s you, isn’t it?” I asked.

  She nodded, blushing.

  I walked up to the portrait and saw that Doris and her companion were both wearing wedding bands. It had to be her husband. But hadn’t Doris said she’d been through an ugly divorce? Not many divorced women I knew had pictures of their exes displayed over their fireplaces. On dartboards, maybe. But not over fireplaces.

  “Is that your husband?”

  “Yes,” she sighed. “That’s me and Glen. I was hoping you wouldn’t see it.”

  I crossed over to the piano and saw dozens more pictures of Doris and her husband. Wedding photos. Holiday photos. Vacation photos. There was no mistaking the love in their eyes.

  I shook my head, puzzled.

  “I don’t understand. I thought you hated the guy.”

  “I didn’t hate him. On the contrary, I was very much in love with him. He died nearly a year ago. It’s much too painful to talk about.” Her eyes misted over with tears. “So I lie and tell people I’m divorced. It’s easier that way.”

  She picked up one of the photos from the piano. It was a small photo, one I hadn’t noticed, and handed it to me. In it, Doris sat by her husband’s side, but now her husband was in a wheelchair, looking pale and gaunt.

  “Two years ago, Glen was in a terrible car crash. It crippled him and caused internal injuries that eventually killed him. It was a slow, lingering death. I wouldn’t wish it on my worst enemy.”

  By now the tears were streaming down her cheeks.

  “See?” she said, wiping them away with the back of her hand. “Now you know why I can’t talk about it.”

  So that’s why she’d been acting so strange, why she’d been so flustered to see me. She didn’t want me to discover the truth about her husband.

  I felt like such a jerk, making her cry like that.

  “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.”

  “I’ll live,” she said, with a wry smile.

  We said our good-byes and I headed out to my Corolla.

  It’s funny how you never know what’s going on in people’s lives. I’d never have guessed Doris was living with such a painful secret.

  In the meanwhile, though, she’d tossed a very important piece of information in my lap—the juicy tidbit about Colin being alone in the kitchen the night of the murder. That, together with the Cooking with Peanuts book I’d seen in his apartment, catapulted him to front runner in my Suspects Sweepstakes.

  As I headed over to the Earth Café to meet him, I couldn’t help feeling a bit apprehensive.

  For all I knew, I had a lunch date with a killer.

  Chapter 16

  The Earth Café is a reasonably priced health food bistro in Beverly Hills, popular for their low-cal salads and wrap sandwiches. The kind of place skinny people go to load up on bean sprouts.

  Huh? you’re probably saying. What’s Jaine Austen, a gal who pops Quarter Pounders like Altoids, doing at a health food restaurant?

  Well, you’ve got a point. Normally health food and I go together like pizza and grits. But I’d decided to follow Prozac’s shining example and watch my calories. If Prozac could summon up enough willpower to stick to her diet, there was no reason why I couldn’t, right? After all, I was at least one hundred points ahead of her on the IQ scale. Well, twenty-five, anyway.

  Colin was waiting for me at a wrought-iron bistro table in the café’s charming outdoor patio. He wore chinos and a button-down baby blue oxford shirt, his dark blond hair cut short and spiky.

  Could someone this cute and clean-cut really be a killer? Of course, he could. I wouldn’t be surprised if 9 out of 10 crazed killers looked like models in a Gap commercial.

  After exchanging greetings, we went inside and gave our orders to the guy behind the counter. You’ll be proud to know I did not order a burger or fettucini alfredo. (Mainly because they didn’t have burgers or fettucini alfredo on the menu.) Instead, I ordered a free-range turkey wrap, hold the mayo.

  Colin got the jumbo roast beef wrap, extra mayo, with a side of potato salad. Life sure isn’t fair, is it? The guy had a waist the size of my ankle and he was ordering extra mayo and potato salad.

  Our sandwiches each came with a package of all-natural yam potato chips. Once again, you’ll be proud to know I gave mine to Colin. After all, 120 calories was still 120 calories, natural or not.

  “So how’d things go at the reading of the will?” I asked, as we dug into our food.

  “What a bust,” Colin said. “Marybeth’s estate was worth nearly two million dollars and all she left me was a crummy armoire.”

  “How do you know it isn’t valuable?”

  “I was with her when she bought it. It cost her fifty bucks at an auction.”

  “That’s too bad,” I said.

  “But,” he noted, “at least it means I didn’t have a motive to kill her.”

  I wasn’t so sure about that. He could’ve tossed the peanut oil in the guacamole in a moment of rage, as payback for years of workplace abuse.

  “So who got her money?” I asked.

  “She left most of it to her relatives. There was a small bequest to her maid, and Ashley got ten grand. The one person who didn’t need any money got ten grand. Talk about the rich getting richer.”

  He shook his head, disgusted.

  “She could’ve at least left me her Porsche,” he pouted, “considering all the times I took it to the car wash for her. Or a percentage of that lottery money she won. After all, I was the one who had to race out in rush-hour traffic to pick up the damn ticket for her, along with her daily frappuccino and chocolate chip muffin.”

  He took a desultory bite of his yam chip.

  “I still can’t believe she won that money. Some people have all the luck.”

  “Colin, she’s dead. I think it’s safe to assume she didn’t have all the luck.”

  Colin had been so busy bitching about his inheritance he’d barely touched his sandwich. I, on the other hand, had wolfed mine down in record time. I thought about asking for my yam chips back, but I reined myself in. Really, I told myself, I’d had plenty to eat. More than enough. Me and my hips did not need any yam chips. End of story.

  Besides, I had to stop thinking about food and get back on track with my questioning. It wasn’t going to be easy, but I needed to confront Colin.

  I took a deep breath and plowed ahead.

  “Colin, I was just talking to Doris—”

  “Oh?” A glob of mayonnaise oozed out from his wrap. Oh, Lord. Isn’t mayonn
aise heavenly? I wondered if he’d notice if I reached out and scooped it up with my finger. Of course, he’d notice! Was I nuts? I had to stop this nonsense and concentrate on the murder.

  “Anyhow,” I said, forcing myself not to stare at the mayonnaise, “Doris said she was certain she saw you alone in Rochelle’s kitchen on the night of the murder.”

  Of course, Doris had said no such thing. She hadn’t been certain at all, but I wasn’t about to tell him that.

  Colin’s face clouded over.

  “So? What if I was? I didn’t go anywhere near that guacamole.”

  Bingo. My gambit had paid off. He had been alone in the kitchen. I tried to look as stern as possible.

  “Colin, I saw the cookbook in your apartment.”

  “What cookbook?” He looked genuinely puzzled. “I don’t cook.”

  “Cooking with Peanuts.”

  He laughed.

  “Oh, that. It was a gag gift, from my ex-boyfriend. He knew how much Marybeth got on my nerves and he gave it to me as a joke. Honest. Did you think I was sitting around dreaming up poisoned peanut dishes for Marybeth?”

  He laughed again, as innocent as a choirboy.

  It was then that I heard someone call my name.

  “Jaine! Jaine Austen!”

  I looked up and saw Lance coming our way, dolled out in his finest three-piece Armani.

  “What a surprise running into you like this,” he said, doing the worst acting job since Attack of the Killer Tomatoes.

  He’d obviously overheard me making plans this morning and decided to take my matchmaking duties into his own hands.

  “Aren’t you going to introduce us?” he said, ignoring me and grinning at Colin.

  “Of course,” I muttered. “Lance, Colin. Colin, Lance.”

  They locked eyeballs, and I could’ve been a bean sprout in my turkey wrap for all they cared.

  The next thing I knew Lance had drawn up a chair at our table and he and Colin were talking about an upcoming revival of Gypsy.

  I made a few feeble attempts to join in the conversation, but I’d morphed into the Invisible Woman. Any more chatter about the murder, I could see, was out of the question.

  I mumbled an excuse about an urgent appointment, took back my yam chips, and ran.