that guacamole.”
“Right,” he said, snapping his steno pad shut.
“Thank you for your time, Ms. Austen. I’ve got all I need to know. For now, anyway. Please notify us if you plan to leave town.”
Ouch. I didn’t like the sound of that.
“You know the way out.”
I got up to go. I would’ve given anything to reach over and mess the papers in his In Box, but you know what a wuss I am. Instead, I used my purse to push his stapler an inch out of place.
It wasn’t much, but it made me feel better.
I wasn’t looking forward to my class at Shalom that night. I was certain the PMS Murder would be the topic du jour. Many of my students are news junkies. These are, after all, ladies of leisure with many hours to fill between bagels and bingo, and most of them while away the hours with Eyewitness News blasting in their rooms at full throttle. I fully expected them to be chattering about Marybeth’s dramatic death by guacamole.
But I needn’t have worried. When I showed up at Shalom’s rec room, nobody was talking about the murder. They were preoccupied by another hot topic of discussion.
“I thought he was an idiot before,” Mrs. Pechter was saying, “but now, he’s worse than ever.” The others tsk-tsked in agreement.
“Making such a fool of himself,” Mrs. Rubin chirped.
“His wife is probably rolling over in her grave,” Mrs. Zahler opined.
It didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out who THE PMS MURDERS
109
they were talking about. It had to be Mr. Goldman.
There were few other men living at Shalom. And none, I imagined, capable of provoking such ire.
Strange, I thought, that Mr. Goldman wasn’t there yet. He was always in class when I showed up, always in the seat next to mine, waiting for me with a stale cupcake, wilted flower, or other exotic love offering. But tonight, Mr. Goldman was nowhere in sight. And neither was our recent arrival from Paramus, New Jersey, the flamboyant Goldie Marcus.
“Good evening, ladies,” I said, settling down in my seat.
“Hello, Jaine, dolling,” Mrs. Pechter said, leading a chorus of hellos.
“That poor dead wife of his,” Mrs. Zahler resumed when they were through greeting me. “Can you imagine being married to a jerk like Abe?” The others shook their heads. Nope, it was beyond their imaginations. And mine, too, if you must know.
“Jaine, you won’t believe what’s happened,” Mrs. Pechter said, setting off a fresh round of tsks.
“It’s disgusting,” said Mrs. Greenberg.
“Makes me want to throw up,” said Mrs. Fine.
“What?” I asked. “What’s happened?” But before anyone could answer, I found out for myself. Because just then Mr. Goldman walked into the room arm in arm with Goldie Marcus.
Goldie hadn’t changed since the last time I saw her. She was still an octogenarian pistol in leopard print capri pants and pink angora sweater, her orange hair piled on top of her head in an Aqua Net beehive.
But Mr. Goldman—holy mackerel! I couldn’t believe my eyes. Gone was his gravy-stained cardi-110
Laura Levine
gan and baggy pants. Tonight he wore a bright yellow and black checkered sports coat, about as subtle as a taxi cab, with white slacks and white loafers.
He looked like a pimp on high blood pressure medication.
But that wasn’t all. He’d dyed his three remaining strands of hair jet black. And as the pièce de résistance, he’d started to grow a mustache. Of course, after only a week, it was just stubble. But this, too, had been dyed black. So it looked like a smudge of charcoal on his upper lip.
A ripple of disapproval followed as he and Goldie headed for the two seats next to mine.
Now, I thought he looked ridiculous. And the ladies thought he looked ridiculous. But clearly Goldie Marcus did not share our opinion. She strut-ted across the room with her arm hooked in his, shooting him sexy come-hither smiles en route.
Mr. Goldman pulled out a chair for her with a flourish. This from a man who’d
“Right,” he said, snapping his steno pad shut.
“Thank you for your time, Ms. Austen. I’ve got all I need to know. For now, anyway. Please notify us if you plan to leave town.”
Ouch. I didn’t like the sound of that.
“You know the way out.”
I got up to go. I would’ve given anything to reach over and mess the papers in his In Box, but you know what a wuss I am. Instead, I used my purse to push his stapler an inch out of place.
It wasn’t much, but it made me feel better.
I wasn’t looking forward to my class at Shalom that night. I was certain the PMS Murder would be the topic du jour. Many of my students are news junkies. These are, after all, ladies of leisure with many hours to fill between bagels and bingo, and most of them while away the hours with Eyewitness News blasting in their rooms at full throttle. I fully expected them to be chattering about Marybeth’s dramatic death by guacamole.
But I needn’t have worried. When I showed up at Shalom’s rec room, nobody was talking about the murder. They were preoccupied by another hot topic of discussion.
“I thought he was an idiot before,” Mrs. Pechter was saying, “but now, he’s worse than ever.” The others tsk-tsked in agreement.
“Making such a fool of himself,” Mrs. Rubin chirped.
“His wife is probably rolling over in her grave,” Mrs. Zahler opined.
It didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out who THE PMS MURDERS
109
they were talking about. It had to be Mr. Goldman.
There were few other men living at Shalom. And none, I imagined, capable of provoking such ire.
Strange, I thought, that Mr. Goldman wasn’t there yet. He was always in class when I showed up, always in the seat next to mine, waiting for me with a stale cupcake, wilted flower, or other exotic love offering. But tonight, Mr. Goldman was nowhere in sight. And neither was our recent arrival from Paramus, New Jersey, the flamboyant Goldie Marcus.
“Good evening, ladies,” I said, settling down in my seat.
“Hello, Jaine, dolling,” Mrs. Pechter said, leading a chorus of hellos.
“That poor dead wife of his,” Mrs. Zahler resumed when they were through greeting me. “Can you imagine being married to a jerk like Abe?” The others shook their heads. Nope, it was beyond their imaginations. And mine, too, if you must know.
“Jaine, you won’t believe what’s happened,” Mrs. Pechter said, setting off a fresh round of tsks.
“It’s disgusting,” said Mrs. Greenberg.
“Makes me want to throw up,” said Mrs. Fine.
“What?” I asked. “What’s happened?” But before anyone could answer, I found out for myself. Because just then Mr. Goldman walked into the room arm in arm with Goldie Marcus.
Goldie hadn’t changed since the last time I saw her. She was still an octogenarian pistol in leopard print capri pants and pink angora sweater, her orange hair piled on top of her head in an Aqua Net beehive.
But Mr. Goldman—holy mackerel! I couldn’t believe my eyes. Gone was his gravy-stained cardi-110
Laura Levine
gan and baggy pants. Tonight he wore a bright yellow and black checkered sports coat, about as subtle as a taxi cab, with white slacks and white loafers.
He looked like a pimp on high blood pressure medication.
But that wasn’t all. He’d dyed his three remaining strands of hair jet black. And as the pièce de résistance, he’d started to grow a mustache. Of course, after only a week, it was just stubble. But this, too, had been dyed black. So it looked like a smudge of charcoal on his upper lip.
A ripple of disapproval followed as he and Goldie headed for the two seats next to mine.
Now, I thought he looked ridiculous. And the ladies thought he looked ridiculous. But clearly Goldie Marcus did not share our opinion. She strut-ted across the room with her arm hooked in his, shooting him sexy come-hither smiles en route.
Mr. Goldman pulled out a chair for her with a flourish. This from a man who’d
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