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 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 cardigan 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.