The PMS Murder by Laura Levine Read Free Book Online

self-satisfied smirk on her face as she watched me search for the missing hose. I’d decided to put her back on her diet that morning, and clearly this was her way of getting revenge.
    I’d checked under the bed and behind the sofa cushions, two of her favorite hiding places. No sign of the pantyhose. She probably buried them under her kitty litter. She did that once to my bra 52
    Laura Levine
    when she was mad at me for being late with her dinner. I couldn’t face the sight of my twenty-dollar pantyhose buried under cat poop, so I’d grabbed a pair of stretched-out knee highs, finished dressing, and hurried off to my meeting with Andrew Ferguson.
    I checked my watch. Quarter past ten. Queen Elizabeth was staring off into space, avoiding my gaze, determined not to engage in idle chatter with the likes of me.
    I should’ve used the time to go over my research on Union National, but I was too busy being irritated about the roll of fat pressing against my waistband that wouldn’t have been there if I’d been wearing my waist-nipper pantyhose.
    “Ms. Austen?”
    I looked up, and all thoughts of my flab flew out the window.
    Standing before me was a dollburger of the high-est order. Tall and slim, with the boyish good looks I have a particular weakness for. No studly guys with megamuscles for me. I prefer the sensitive, artistic, 99-pound weakling variety of guy. I guess it must be an Opposites Attract kind of thing. Anyhow, whatever I was attracted to, this guy had it in spades.
    “I’m Andrew Ferguson,” he said, holding out his hand. “Pleased to meet you.” I don’t know how long I stood there staring at his Adam’s apple before I realized I was supposed to be shaking his hand. But finally I caught on and murmured something exceptionally clever like,
    “Um. Me, too.”
    I followed him back to his office, fascinated by the way his sandy brown hair curled at the nape of his neck.
    Good heavens. I’d only felt this kind of attrac-THE PMS MURDERS
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    tion to three other men in my life. One turned out to be a lying sociopath. The other turned out to be studying for the priesthood. And the third turned out to be The Blob, a man who actually wore flip-flops to our wedding. So you can see that I haven’t had a great track record when it comes to guys who make my G-spot sing. Which is why I decided right then and there to rein in any and all lustful feelings for Andrew Ferguson.
    It wasn’t easy, but I almost managed to ignore his crooked smile and pay attention as he told me about the job as freelance editor of the bank’s monthly newsletter.
    “You’d write employee profiles. You know, employee-of-the-month kind of thing. The branch managers would supply you with news items about promotions. And we’d expect you to cover any events the bank sponsors. What do you think?
    Sound like something you’d be interested in?”
    “That depends. Are you married?” Okay, so I didn’t really say that. What I said was,
    “Yes, it sounds great.”
    “The salary is forty thou a year.” Forty thousand dollars a year? For a newsletter that probably wouldn’t take more than a week each month to put together? Yikes. I’d just died and gone to paycheck heaven!
    Well, not quite, I reminded myself. I didn’t have the job yet. Far from it.
    “So,” Andrew said, putting the palms of his hands on his desk, waiting for the show to begin. “Let’s take a look at your writing samples, shall we?” Fortunately, I’d done some freelance journalism in the past. Human interest stuff. Garden Clubs. Senior Water Aerobics at the Y. The annual Santa Monica Frisbee Olympics for Dogs. Not exactly 54
    Laura Levine
    Woodward and Bernstein. But then, the Union National Tattler wasn’t exactly the Washington Post, so I was hoping I might have a shot at that forty thou.
    Act confident, I told myself, as I opened my at-tache case. You’ve got some fine work here. For all you know, he’ll be fascinated by octogenarians in water fins.
    But