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kitchen.”
    “Don’t bother, honey,” Marybeth said. “There’re still a few left.” Emphasis on a few.
    By now, I was firmly entrenched in the anti-Marybeth camp.
    Marybeth rifled through the nuts carefully.
    “There aren’t any peanuts in here, are there, Rochelle?”
    “Heavens, no, Marybeth. No peanuts. Just macadamias. You know I’d never serve you peanuts.” I shot Pam a puzzled look.
    “Marybeth’s allergic to peanuts,” she explained.
    Satisfied that there were no offending peanuts in the bowl, Marybeth popped a macadamia in her mouth and made us wait while she chewed and swallowed before telling us about her two good men.
    The first was a decorator she’d met on a recent trip to New York.
    “Rene is an absolute genius,” she gushed. “And you’ll never guess what he’s going to do!”
    “You’re right, Marybeth,” Pam said. “We’ll never guess. So why don’t you tell us?” THE PMS MURDERS
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    “He’s going to move to L.A. and be my partner!
    Isn’t that the most marvelous news?” Everyone agreed, with a distinct lack of enthusiasm, that it was marvelous news. Everyone except Colin, who didn’t even bother to paste a phony smile on his face. On the contrary, his jaw was clenched tight with anger.
    “And now for the best news of all!” Marybeth beamed. What a build-up. I was surprised she hadn’t arranged for a fanfare of trumpets.
    “I’ve met a man!”
    “That’s wonderful,” Rochelle said, a genuine smile on her face, the only genuine smile in the room. “When did this happen?”
    “Oh, I’ve been seeing him for a few months now.”
    “And you haven’t said anything to us?”
    “I didn’t want to jinx it. I wanted to make sure it was the real thing.” Marybeth beamed. “And it is.
    We’re going to be married!”
    Everyone murmured their congratulations, except for Colin, who was still stone-faced with anger.
    If Marybeth noticed, she didn’t say anything.
    “We’re so in love,” she gushed. “So madly in love.”
    “Tell us all about him,” Rochelle said.
    But Marybeth just smiled coyly.
    “No, not yet. I’ll save that for next week.” Ashley sighed, exasperated. “It’s just like you, Marybeth, to keep us waiting all week.”
    “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.
    *
    *
    *

    48
    Laura Levine
    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.
    “Really, girls,” Rochelle said. “I can clean up myself.”
    “We know you can,” Pam said, “but you’re not going to.”
    I helped the others in the kitchen and then excused myself to go to the bathroom.
    I was heading down the corridor toward the bathroom when I saw Colin in the dining room, talking on his cell phone. Snoop that I am, I stopped to listen.
    “I’d like to kill that bitch,” I heard him hiss.
    “She promised she’d make me her partner.” So. That explained why he’d been so angry.
    It’s funny, I thought, as I sniffed the triple-milled French soap in Rochelle’s guest bathroom, except for Rochelle, there wasn’t a single person in the PMS Club who was happy for Marybeth.
    For someone who preached positive thinking, she sure managed to stir up a lot of negative energy.
    After thanking Rochelle and assuring her once more that her guacamole wasn’t too spicy, we headed for our cars. It was quite an impressive assortment. Doris drove an Audi; Colin, a BMW; Ashley, a Jag; and Marybeth, a Porsche. (True, Colin’s BMW was at least ten years old, but it was a BMW.) Clearly Pam and I were the low-rent members of this group.
    Colin bid us all a curt good-bye and got into his car.
    “Nighty-nite, Colin,” Marybeth waved.

    THE PMS MURDERS
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    “Nighty-frigging-nite,” Colin muttered. Only he