“He was really pissed at Marybeth for passing him over for that partnership. Not only that, he was at the house a whole half-hour before any of us got there. He said he came to do the toilet paper. But how long does it take to change a roll of toilet paper? He could’ve easily gone down and doctored the guacamole.”

We rode in silence for a while. I was lost in thought, imagining Colin tiptoeing into the kitchen with a roll of quilted peach toilet paper in one hand and a bottle of peanut oil in the other, when Pam let out another piercing scream.

Once again, I slammed on my brakes, setting off an angry volley of honks from the cars behind me.

“What is it now?”

“I’m sorry, Jaine. But it suddenly occurred to me: What if the cops think you or I did it?” She bit her lip in dismay. “Damn. The last thing I need on my new resume is murder suspect.”

“Not to worry,” I reminded her, as I started up the car again. “We were with each other the entire time. We both know we were nowhere near that guacamole. We’ll swear to it on a stack of Bibles.”

She sat back with a sigh of relief. But that didn’t last long. Seconds later, she let out another panicked squeal.

“Now what’s wrong?” This time, I went right on driving.

“What if the cops think we’re lying to give each other alibis?”

Now it was my turn to panic. Pam was right. The cops might think we were in cahoots. If for some reason Rochelle turned out to be in the clear, I could be a suspect in a murder case.

Just my luck to join the PMS Club the week before the murder.

Which just goes to prove that there’s no such thing as a free margarita.

Chapter 10

The next morning, Marybeth’s murder was splashed all over the news. Obviously some blabbermouth cop had leaked the story to the press.

The headline in the L.A. Times was the most sedate: INTERIOR DECORATOR MURDERED IN BRENTWOOD. But the TV news guys were having a field day. The PMS Murder was what most of them were calling it, with phrases like Killer Guacamole and Homicidal Hormones thrown in for added chuckles.

Thankfully none of the club members’ names were mentioned. We were described only as “a group of wealthy Westside socialites.”

“How do you like that, Pro?” I said to Prozac, who was sprawled out on the sofa, licking her privates. “Bet you didn’t know you were living with a wealthy Westside socialite.”