The PMS Murder by Laura Levine Read Free Book Online Page A

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
    55
    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