The Pms Murder
“Colin’s living room was a blinding combination of lime green walls, potted palms, zebra-skin rugs, and sequined throw pillows. Tarzan meets Elton John.
“Striking, isn’t it?” he asked.
Yeah. Like a migraine.
“Say hi to Max.”
He walked over to one of the potted palms, where I saw a bright yellow parrot perched in the branches. Colin held out his finger, and Max jumped on board.
“Max, honey,” Colin cooed to the bird, “say hi to Jaine. Say Hi, Jaine. ” The parrot looked at me with weary eyes and pooped onto the zebra skin rug.
“Dammit, Max. How many times have I told you? Poop in your cage, not on the rug.” He put the bird inside an ornate wrought-iron birdcage, the bottom of which was lined with old publicity stills of Marybeth.
“Go ahead. Make doo-doo on the nice lady,” he instructed the bird.
“I know it’s awful,” he said, turning to me, “having Max defecate on the dead. I’m disgraceful, aren’t I?”
And then he shot me a smile that undoubtedly melted many a heart in West Hollywood.
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