The PMS Murder (20 page)

But something told me that reaching over and gobbling it down would not make the sophisticated impression I was hoping to impart. With a sigh, I poured myself some coffee, which I loaded with sugar, hoping that the sugar rush would get me through the meeting.

I tried to look interested and alert as the others droned on about projections and percentiles and other math stuff I studiously avoided learning in school. But my attention kept wandering. When I wasn’t gazing longingly at my neighbor’s bagel crumbs, I found myself gazing equally longingly at Andrew Ferguson.

I was in the middle of a delicious daydream involving me and Andrew and a vat of Philadelphia Cream Cheese when I suddenly realized that Sam was talking to me.

“—So I thought you could tell us your ideas for the
Tattler.
”

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What on earth was she talking about? I hadn’t even had a chance to look at the darn thing yet.

“But, Sam,” Andrew said, echoing my thoughts,

“Jaine hasn’t seen the
Tattler
yet.”

“Here,” she said, sliding a copy of the newsletter down to me at the end of the table. “She can see it now.

“You don’t mind giving us your ideas, do you, Jaine? I want to see how you think on your feet.” There was no mistaking the challenge in her eyes. Was she trying to sabotage me? I wondered if she’d seen me staring at Andrew.

“No,” I said, with a sickly smile, “I don’t mind.” I hurriedly looked at the newsletter, a skimpy four-page affair with routine news of hirings, retirements and promotions. Not exactly Pulitzer material.

“So,” Sam said, her arms crossed over her chest.

“What would you do with the
Tattler,
Jaine?” How generous. She’d given me a whole thirteen seconds to think it over.

“Well,” I said, putting on my tap shoes and wing-ing it, “how about a column called ‘Tattler Tales’?

Each month, an employee would tell about an experience dealing with clients. I bet there are all sorts of wonderful stories your people could tell. It might be a nice human interest touch. And maybe the person whose story is chosen could get a free dinner in a nice restaurant. Employees might try harder to accommodate customers, hoping to make it into the newsletter.”

“Very good, Jaine!” Andrew beamed.

I was happy to see that several of the bank managers were nodding in approval.

“Hmm,” Sam said, with a marked lack of enthusiasm.

196

Laura Levine

Why did I get the feeling she’d been hoping I’d fall flat on my face?

“Any other thoughts?” she asked.

She had to be kidding.

“Well, no,” I conceded. “Not right now.”

“Then if you’ll excuse us, there are a few things I’d like to discuss with the others in private.” Suddenly I felt like a sorority pledge about to be blackballed.

“Better take home a copy of the
Tattler
,” she ordered, “so you can think up more ideas.” I grabbed the newsletter, murmured something about what a pleasure it was to have met everybody, and headed out the door, hoping my tush didn’t look too tubby as I made my exit.

By this time, it was nearly noon and I was weak with hunger. I hadn’t eaten a thing all morning.

But before I could think of eating, I simply had to pee. I must’ve slugged down at least three cups of Union National coffee in that meeting, not to mention the coffee I’d had at home.

I dashed down the corridor into the bathroom and flung myself into a stall. I was glad nobody else was in the room to hear me. Trust me, it was Niagara Falls in there.

What a relief. Now I’d head over to the nearest McDonald’s as fast as my Corolla could carry me, and stuff my face with a Quarter Pounder and fries.

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 THE PMS MURDERS

197

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 olfac-tory 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.

198

Laura Levine

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 sal-vage 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
G
s 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 200

Laura Levine

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.” THE PMS MURDERS

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“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 202

Laura Levine

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 voice 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 apologeti-cally.

“Sorry to shove you like that, but those news-people 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.

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“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. “Seda-tives. 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?