By Laura Levine
At the frontlines of the conflict of the bulge, differently often called making an attempt on bathing fits within the communal dressing room at Loehmann's, freelance author Jaine Austen makes a brand new buddy - a wannabe actress named Pam - and will get a brand new task: sharpening up Pam's bare-bones resume. Their feeling of connection is mutual, so Pam invitations Jaine to affix The PMS membership - a women's help crew that meets as soon as every week over guacamole and margaritas. yet becoming a member of the membership proves to be extra a curse than a blessing for Jaine. although she is warned that Rochelle, the hostess, makes a guacamole to die for, Jaine by no means takes the caution actually. until eventually one other PMS member, Marybeth, drops useless over a mouthful of the fairway stuff after confessing she is having an affair with Rochelle's husband. whereas Rochelle and her husband are the most obvious suspects, everybody at that night's assembly is less than suspicion, together with Jaine. So, rather than dishing airborne dirt and dust with The PMS membership, Jaine has to dig up dust at the surviving individuals. and shortly it turns into transparent: a person during this membership thinks getting away with homicide can be a privilege of membership...
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Additional resources for The PMS Murder: A Jaine Austen Mystery
Example text
If Marybeth noticed, she didn’t say anything. “We’re so in love,” she gushed. ” “Tell us all about him,” Rochelle said. But Marybeth just smiled coyly. “No, not yet. ” Ashley sighed, exasperated. ” “Oh, don’t be such an old gwouch,” Marybeth said, pursing her candy red lips into a perfect pout. Ugh. Colin was right. She really was Shirley Temple on uppers. Pardon me while I fwow up. *** Soon after Marybeth’s announcement, the last of the margaritas was slurped and the meeting broke up. Pam started clearing dishes from the coffee table, and the rest of us joined in.
Not that night, she didn’t. She eyed them disdainfully, then stalked off to the living room. Call me when you’ve got something worth eating. “Okay, be that way,” I shouted after her. “I’m not going to weaken. ” Usually Prozac snuggles up next to me when I watch TV in bed at night, belching fish fumes in my face. But that night she stayed alone and aloof on the living room sofa. I figured eventually she’d wander in, but three hours later, there was still no sign of her. I turned out the light, but sleep wouldn’t come.
Yes, after years of dating some of the wartiest frogs on the planet, my best friend and constant dinner companion, Kandi Tobolowski, had done the unthinkable and finally met a prince. Of all places, in traffic school. They locked eyeballs over a lecture on Illegal U-turns and by the time they got to Lane Changing, Kandi knew she’d found the man of her dreams. In the past, Kandi’s dream men have invariably turned out to be nightmares. Last year, for example, she was madly in love with a performance artist, a guy whose act consisted of lying on stage in a vat of hot fudge sauce and spraying himself with Reddi-Wip.