by Laura Levine
I’d just unlatched my stall when I looked up and, much to my surprise, saw a man walking into the bathroom. Good heavens. What was a guy doing in here? Then I looked beyond the sinks and saw a row of urinals. Unless they’d started installing tiny showers in ladies’ rooms, I’d run into the men’s room by mistake!
I could’ve sworn the little blue figure on the bathroom door was a woman. But in my haste, I could’ve been mistaken.
I quickly darted back into the stall.
Okay, no reason to panic. I’d just wait until the guy was through and then I’d leave. So I waited. And waited. And waited some more. I wasn’t the only one doing an impersonation of Niagara Falls that day. Finally, he finished. But then, just as he was washing his hands, another guy walked in.
They started talking about some idiotic football game, a conversation that lasted twelve minutes. I happen to know this because I timed it. At last, they started to leave, but on their way out, two other guys came in. And so it went. For the next hour and seventeen minutes, I sat on the toilet lid in that damn stall, my knees jammed up in my chin so my high heels wouldn’t be visible under the stall door.
The less said about what I heard (and smelled) in that hour and seventeen minutes, the better. I once read that men have a less developed olfactory sense than women. And now I knew why. Self-preservation.
On the plus side, at least I lost my appetite.
Guys came and went, a steady procession of men who’d clearly had massive portions of refried beans for lunch.
At one point, a couple of the branch managers came in and I heard them talking about me.
“How do you like the way Sam ambushed her?” one of them said. “Putting her on the spot like that.”
“Yeah, but she came through. That Tattler Tales idea was pretty good.”
I almost blurted out “Thank you” but managed to contain myself.
Eventually the bathroom emptied out. At long last, I was alone. I unlatched my stall and made a mad dash for freedom.
I flung open the bathroom door and ran smack into a guy who was just about to walk in.
Phooey. Just when I was convinced the coast was clear.
I looked up and nearly fainted.
I hadn’t bumped into just anybody. The man I’d practically mowed down was—why do these things always happen to me?—Andrew Ferguson.
Damndamndamndamndamndamndamn!
“Jaine!” His speckly hazel eyes were wide with surprise. “What are you doing here?”
Breaking the world record for Time Spent Sitting on a Toilet Bowl.
“Actually,” I stammered, “I didn’t realize it was the men’s room. I thought the little blue person on the door was wearing a dress, but I guess not.”
We both looked at the figure on the door. Nope. No dress.
“Maybe you can write this up as a Tattler Tale,” he said, with a big grin.
He clearly thought this whole thing was a riot.
I, on the other hand, was desperately praying for a hole in the floor to open up and swallow me. This was all too humiliating. I’d just have to salvage whatever remnants of pride I had left and make my exit with as much dignity as possible.
“That would be very amusing, wouldn’t it?” I said.
Then I walked away, head held high, shoulders erect, and—as I was about to discover minutes later in the elevator—toilet paper stuck to the heel of my shoe.
Chapter 19
The PMS Murder was back in the headlines the next day:
DESPERATE HOUSEWIFE CHARGED WITH HOMICIDE; OUT ON ONE MILLION DOLLARS BAIL.
Underneath the headline in the L.A. Times was a photo of Rochelle shielding her face from the camera with her handbag. I recognized her wispy ponytail peeking out from behind the Gucci Gs on her purse. Poor Rochelle. What a miscarriage of justice.
I put in another call to Lieutenant Clemmons. Once more, I got his voice mail. I slammed down the phone in frustration and called back on the central number, where I told the desk sergeant on duty that I absolutely positively had to speak to Clemmons, that it was a matter of life and death.
A few seconds later Clemmons was on the line.
“What the hell do you want?”
Okay, so his exact words were, “How can I help you?”
I took a deep breath and told him everything I’d discovered, how Marybeth had been indirectly responsible for Glen Jenkins’s death, how Ashley desperately needed the money from Marybeth’s will, and how Colin had been boning up on Cooking with Peanuts.
To say that he was unimpressed is putting it mildly. I could practically hear him dozing in the background.
“Thank you for your input,” he said, when I was through, “but we feel we have a very solid case against Mrs. Meyers.”
“But what about my theories? Aren’t you even going to consider them?”
“Rest assured, we’ll give your crackpot theories the attention they deserve.”
Okay, so he didn’t use the word crackpot, but he might as well have. I could hear it in his voice.
I hung up and sighed. Clemmons had the case wrapped up tighter than a Beverly Hills facelift. And he wasn’t about to take direction from a part-time detective in waist-nipper pantyhose. I only hoped Rochelle had herself a damn good defense attorney.
I was sitting on my sofa, feeling helpless and hopeless and wondering how many calories there were in the seven martini olives I’d had for breakfast, when Pam called.
“I just heard the news about Rochelle,” she said. “It’s crazy. She didn’t kill anybody. The woman is afraid to hang up on telemarketers, for crying out loud.”
“Go tell it to the cops. They sure aren’t listening to me.”
“Isn’t there anything we can do?”
“Nothing, short of staging a prison break if she gets convicted.”
I guess she could hear the misery in my voice.
“Don’t feel bad, Jaine. You tried your best.”
“I suppose so,” I sighed.
“I feel guilty bringing this up when Rochelle’s in so much trouble,” she said, “but I’ve got some good news to share.”
“Great,” I said. “Lay it on me. I could use some good news.”
“That audition I went on? I got the job!”
“That’s wonderful.”
“It’s a fast food commercial for Bucko’s, a burger chain in the Southwest. I play a talking ketchup packet. I guess they must’ve been impressed by my star turn as that eggplant in the vegetable soup commercial. Anyhow, it pays big money, and all the Bucko burgers I can eat.”
“Congratulations. We have to celebrate.”
“That’s why I’m calling. How about lunch this Friday? My treat.”
“We’re on!”
I was glad Pam landed her dream job. Because it sure didn’t look like I was going to get mine. Not after that ghastly men’s room episode yesterday. The toilet paper on my shoe was probably the final nail in my employment coffin. I’d be surprised if I ever heard from Andrew Ferguson again.
I did, however, get a call later that morning from one of my regular clients, Seymour Fiedler, of Fiedler on the Roof roofing, with a writing assignment for a new sales brochure. Short, pudgy Seymour Fiedler was a far cry from the hunkalicious Andrew, but I accepted the job eagerly, grateful for the distraction—and the paycheck.
I plucked Prozac from where she was napping on my computer keyboard and hunkered down to write about the joys of reroofing. But my heart wasn’t in it. I kept thinking about Lieutenant Clemmons and how he’d blown me off. I felt like yanking out that silly cowlick of his, one hair at a time.
Finally, after staring at the same paragraph on Fiedler’s No-Leak Warranty for twenty-five minutes, I gave up and drove over to Rochelle’s house.
If the cops wouldn’t take me seriously, maybe Rochelle’s attorney would.
I drove past the gauntlet of news vans parked in front of Rochelle’s house and rang her bell.
“Go away,” a woman’s voic
e called out from inside. “We’re not talking to the press.”
Poor Marty and Rochelle. This was getting to be their theme song.
“Rochelle? Is that you?” It hadn’t sounded like her. “It’s me. Jaine Austen.”
A sweet-faced woman in her seventies opened the door.
“Quick,” she said, yanking me into the foyer. “Get inside before those vultures take our picture.”
When I was safely inside, she smiled apologetically.
“Sorry to shove you like that, but those newspeople out there are impossible.”
She wiped her hands on her sweatpants, leaving a faint trace of flour behind. She must’ve been busy baking when I showed up. I could smell the heavenly scent of warm chocolate in the air.
“I’m Rochelle’s mother, Adele.”
I suspected she was Rochelle’s mom before she introduced herself. The family resemblance was unmistakable. The same wispy hair. The same caring smile. The same dishtowel slung over her shoulder.
“Rochelle told me all about you. She said you were investigating the case on her behalf.”
“That’s right.”
“That’s so kind of you, dear. You’re obviously a very caring person. And so much prettier than that dreadful picture of you in the newspaper.”
Good Lord. Would I never live down that picture?
“Rochelle’s sleeping right now,” she said, glancing upstairs, her brow furrowed in concern. “Sedatives. The doctor prescribed them so she could get some rest. It’s all been such a nightmare.”
“I know,” I said, nodding in sympathy. “But I’ve made a few discoveries that might help Rochelle’s case, and I was hoping to give her a progress report. I’m sure her attorney would be interested in what I have to say.”
“I’m sure he would, dear.”
“Do you happen to know his name?”
“It’s Fitzgerald, I think. Or Fitzhugh. It’s Fitz-something. Or maybe it’s O’Connor. Oh, my. This whole murder thing has got me in such a dither. You’d better talk to Marty.”
“Good idea.”
“He’s at the office. The poor man is going to have to do an awful lot of root canals to pay all those legal bills.”
She gave me Marty’s office address and I started for the door.
“Wait,” she said. “Before you go, why don’t you come into the kitchen and have some brownies? They’re fresh from the oven.”
I took another sniff of that heavenly scent.
“With walnuts and peanut butter chips,” she added.
Bet you think I said yes, huh?
Oh, ye of little faith. You’ll be proud to learn I didn’t waste valuable time eating mega-calorie brownies in Rochelle’s kitchen.
No, siree. I ate them in the car on my way over to Marty’s office.
It was lunchtime when I showed up at Marty’s medical building in Westwood.
It was one of those fancy high-rises with a security desk in the lobby and an overpriced pharmacy where you practically need a cosigner to buy a tube of toothpaste. I rode up in the elevator with an enviably slim nurse carrying a container of peach yogurt and a bottle of Evian water. Now why can’t I eat a slimming lunch like that? I asked myself, brushing peanut butter brownie crumbs from my sweater.
I got off at Marty’s floor and headed down the corridor to his office. With any luck, Marty would be there. If not, I’d wait till he got back from lunch. Surely he’d be able to spare me a few minutes before his first afternoon appointment.
I opened the door to the offices of Martin Meyers, D.D.S. The place was deserted, except for a busty blonde receptionist angrily tossing the contents of her desk into a packing carton. Her white nurse’s uniform was near to bursting at the seams, and her bleached hair was tortured into a towering Barbarella do.
I approached her with caution. She looked highly combustible.
“Um. Excuse me. I was wondering if I could see Dr. Meyers on a personal matter.”
She looked me up and down.
“Sorry, hon. You’re not his type. Drop fifteen pounds, get a boob job, and dye your hair blonde, and you might stand a chance.”
I sneaked a peek at her monumental bosoms and wondered if she’d taken her own advice in the breast-enhancement department.
“It’s not that kind of personal matter,” I said. “Anyhow, I need to talk to him. Is he here?”
“No,” she said, yanking her phone from its jack and tossing it into her carton. “The lying cheating turd isn’t here.”
Nothing like a happy employee to make a favorable impression on the public.
“Do you know when he’s coming back?”
“Don’t know, and don’t care.”
I watched, amazed, as she began dismantling her computer and stowing the components in her carton. Not to put too fine a point on it, but in some circles, that might be called stealing.
“I gave that bum the best years of my life,” she said, hurling her keyboard in the big cardboard box. “And what did I get for it?” She looked up at me, her mascara-rimmed eyes blazing with rage. “Zippo, that’s what I got!”
She grabbed a Bose radio and threw it on top of the keyboard.
“He promised he’d leave his wife and marry me. And all along he was cheating on me. First with that decorator bitch. And I just found out he was screwing around with that kid in Laguna, too.”
She reached for a Waterford vase filled with orchids, emptied the water onto a nearby computer, and added the vase to her pile of stolen booty.
Laguna? My mind started racing. Hadn’t Rochelle said something about Marty being down in Laguna the day of the murder?
“What kid in Laguna?” I asked.
“Some bimbo at an art gallery.”
Wait a minute. Rochelle said Marty had been buying paintings at an art gallery the day of the murder, that the saleswoman had vouched for him. But if Marty had been having an affair with the saleswoman, she could’ve been lying to protect him.
What if Marty wasn’t in Laguna that day? What if he was back at his house, doctoring a batch of guacamole to get rid of an inconvenient lover?
“Do you happen to know the name of that gallery?” I asked.
“Sure do. I found the bimbo’s business card in the glove compartment of Marty’s car—along with a pair of crotchless panties.”
“Can I have it?”
“Honey, I don’t think they’d fit you.”
“Not the panties. The business card.”
“Help yourself,” she said, pointing to her wastepaper basket. “It’s in there somewhere.”
I spent the next few minutes rummaging through Nurse Medusa’s trash. Which was a fairly pukeworthy experience, considering she had the unfortunate habit of tossing her used gum in the garbage unwrapped.
At last I unearthed it.
THE MONTAGUE GALLERY
444 LAGUNA AVENUE
LAGUNA BEACH, CALIFORNIA
CISSY MCDONALD
SALES ASS
Cissy McDonald may or may not have been an ass. That remained to be seen. I just assumed that the card was supposed to have read “sales associate.” The “ociate” was covered by a wad of Juicy Fruit.
I wrote down the address of the gallery and headed for the door, just in time to see my buxom friend coming out from what must have been Marty’s office—with a flat-screen TV tucked under her arm.
Chapter 20
The first thing you noticed about Cissy McDonald was her hair.
It was shampoo commercial gorgeous, a silken blonde blanket falling nearly to her waist. Of course, if you were a guy, the first thing you’d notice would be her cleavage. That was pretty darn spectacular, too. As were her nonstop legs and to die-for waistline.
And in the Life Isn’t Fair Department, the lucky young woman was also blessed with big blue eyes, a perky little nose and, as I was about to discover, an amazing pair of dimples when she smiled. It was easy to see why Marty had dumped Nurse Medusa for her. It was no contest. And poor Roche
lle—with her thinning hair and thickening waist—she didn’t stand a chance.
“Hi, there,” Cissy chirped as I walked into the gallery, a sleek boutique on Laguna’s picturesque main drag. The walls were hung with colorful seascapes and cottage-y scenes, expensive souvenirs of a Laguna Beach vacation. It was the middle of the week, and I was happy to see that she and I were alone in the gallery.
“How may I be of assistance?” she said, flashing me her dimples. They must have netted her a lot of sales. “We have some wonderful new seascapes.” She gestured to a wall of pastel watercolors. “Aren’t they marvelous?”
You didn’t have to be a rocket scientist to figure out that Cissy was no rocket scientist. I could practically see the little valentines dotting her i’s as she spoke.
“Cissy McDonald?” I asked.
“That’s me,” she said, a note of wariness creeping into her voice.
“Detective Austen,” I said, in my most officious voice. “L.A.P.D.”
I flashed her my driver’s license, careful to cover the words California Driver’s License with my thumb. You’d be amazed at how often people fall for that trick. Especially people with dimples and blonde hair down to their waists.
Her blue eyes grew wide with fear.
“What do you want?” she gulped.
“Dr. Meyers confessed everything.”
“He did?”
She put her fingers to her lips and began biting her nails. I was happy to see that her fingers were short and stubby, her nails jagged and bitten to the quick. At last. A flaw. There was justice in the world, after all.
“I’ve come to take a new statement from you,” I said.
Her face went pale under her beach bunny tan.
“Oh, geez. Am I going to be arrested for perjury?”
“Not if you tell the truth now.”
I rummaged through my purse and took out a pad that I kept there to jot down spur-of-the-minute Toiletmasters ideas.
“First things first,” I said, pretending to take notes. “You two were having an affair, right?”
She nodded, blushing.
“I met Dr. Meyers about a month ago when he and his wife were vacationing in Laguna. He bought a really expensive painting and told me I had beautiful teeth. Anyhow, we’ve been seeing each other ever since.”