Death By Chick Lit (10 page)

“I know, but think about it. Can’t believe she didn’t occur to me hours ago. Two chick lit authors in two days. It can’t be a coincidence. Something must have set her off. I mean, who else has that much against them
and
is a little bit crazy?” asked Lola, eyes still closed in thought.

“Well, what about another author? Someone who wants to wipe out the chick lit competition?” said Doug. “Good touch, by the way, being the one to ‘find’ both bodies.”

“Yeah, yeah, I thought of that. But Wilma is even more obvious, I think.” Lola opened her eyes and looked at him. “Technically, my book is not chick lit.”

“I know, but you know what I mean. Lo, I’m not accusing you! Of writing chick lit, or of committing two murders. I’m just thinking that maybe—”

“Sorry. I know. Reflex. I mean, for God’s sake,
Pink Slip
probably would have done better if it had been officially marketed as chick lit. Makes me nuts.”

“I know, Lo. Sorry.”

“But what
really
makes me nuts,” said Lola, “is that so far, it doesn’t seem that my book’s done well enough for me to make the chick lit killer’s hit list.”

“I thought you said—”

“Whatever it takes,” Lola grinned.

“You are insane.” Doug smooshed closer.

“No, you, muffin.”

Their lips touched softly, then harder.

Cue bassets. The dogs bounded onto the bed, pawing and snuffling.

Okay, I cannot get work
or
play done with them around, thought Lola. Boy, am I not breeding anytime soon. It’s just as well. I am so not ready.

“Lola?” Doug was chuckling, scratching a happy Gibson’s nose.

“Yeah?”

He rolled toward her, placed a hand on her belly, and looked her right in the eye.

“Let’s start trying.”

Fifteen

Trying
. “Trying to get more sleep?” Lola asked.

“Yes,” said Doug.

No problem.

“Also? To have a baby.”

Oh.

Doug kissed Lola again. “I love you, Lo. I want to make more of you. Of us. I’ve been thinking about it, and I’m pretty sure I’m ready, and I mean that not as a guy who thinks having a Doug Jr. would be ‘fun,’ forgets the reality of dirty diapers and sleepless nights and having to explain sex and modeling healthy eating habits and figuring out how to be strict about principles and ethics to children without pushing them away. I mean it ’cause . . . I mean it.”

I love him.

Shit.

Lola kissed back, long enough to stall, but not long enough to say yes.

“Let’s definitely talk about it,” she said, eyes closed, lips still near his.

Good. Firm, yet also seductively promising. That oughta hold him.

Doug paused. “Okay, monkey,” he said. “I know it’s been a long day. A long two days.”

“Yeah,” said Lola. “In a world that one might think twice about bringing a child into.”

Or should I not have said that?

“Well, there’s that,” said Doug. “We’ll talk about it later. Let’s get under the covers.” Lola rolled over and sank into his spoon, his chin resting on her head. She could normally feel his jaw relax and open slightly as he drifted off. This time, she could have sworn she felt it tense and grind. But she was too sleepy to be sure.

 
 
“Lulu, are you all right?”

So much for sleeping past daybreak.

“Yes, Mom, I’m fine. How did—”

“Oh, good. Because I just had this terrible dream where these giant bugs were crawling in your eyes.”

Unbelievable.

“Mom, my eyes are fine.” Though they could stand to be closed at some point. “But—well, I guess I should tell you. There’s been another murder.”

“Oh, I know. Isn’t it awful?”

“You knew?”

“Saw it on the computer this morning. Poor girl. Her parents must be beside themselves,” said Mrs. Somerville. “And I see you found the body again. What are we going to
do
with you?”

Lola was silent for a moment, stunned.

“Mom, has Dad checked the basement for pods?”

“No, why?”

“You just—I thought you’d be more freaked out.”

“Well, of course, it’s awful, and awfully strange. But I trust you.

You can look out for yourself. And who knows, perhaps you’ll be able to help in some way.”

“Yeah,” said Lola. “Maybe.” Well, well. Denial seemed to be working its magic. That, or desperation. Could Mom have read my mind? Have we come to the point where even my mother thinks murder could pad my résumé?

Lola’s mind went on a tear. Maybe my parents sense my restlessness, or maybe—chicken? egg?—I’m twitchy because I feel like I’m disappointing them. Have I truly made them happy? Lola wondered, and not for the first time. They’re over the moon that I’m married, but, to their credit, they both know that doesn’t mean I’m, like,
done.
Far from! Progressive and understanding and artsy, even, as they are, do they secretly wish I had some sort of advanced degree, letters after my name? I’m not exactly struggling for food and shelter, but really, have I accomplished what they’d have liked me to? What do they say about me to their friends? Do they say, “She’s perfect!” or do they say, “She’s . . . so
creative
!” Have I done enough, been enough? Are they settling, at this point, for a mention or two of me in the tabloids? For the fact that at least I’m around people important enough to be murdered?

Lola’s mother’s voice cut into her thoughts.

“Just promise me one thing?”

“Sure, Mom.”

“I’m sending Dad out to mail you some latex gloves. Please wear them?”

 
 
Lola ran the dogs out, gave her plants a cursory watering, felt guilty about that, poured some coffee, peanut-buttered an English muffin, and sat down at her computer. Having guessed that something was off, the dogs were finally quiet. In the scheme of things, Lola actually liked it better when they drove her nuts. Poor pups.

Lola opened
Royalty
in her browser.

 
Lola sat back in her chair. He did not write that.

She looked back at the screen.

Yes, he did.

Her cell phone rang.

“Where do I start?” asked Annabel.

“Right?” said Lola.

“First, I’m so sorry I didn’t call you back last night. The guy at trivia I mentioned, the guy who totally knew about bacillus and stuff? We were making out at The Back Room for like forever, and it’s out of cell range, so I didn’t know anything ’til I saw the
Day
on my way home. Cover story, natch.”

“What was the headline?”

“ ‘Chick RIP,’ ” said Annabel.

“Eew,” said Lola. “Wait, but what happened to Leo, then?”

“Oh, he dropped me off at home, but then Trivia Guy texted and came to pick me up after.”

“Poor Leo.”

Shit.

“Whaddaya mean, ‘poor Leo’?” Annabel asked, though Lola knew Annabel knew exactly what she meant. Lola meant, “Poor Leo, classic Mr. Right Under Your Nose, bearing and forbearing while you date everyone else.”

But she had not meant to
say
that.

Never, ever will I be the married friend who wants her single friend to see the light and settle down.

Or, at least, never will I admit it.

“I mean, poor Leo, missing a good trivia game,” said Lola. Wow,
lame.
Change subject. “Annabel, seriously, when do you sleep?”

“From 5 to 5:05 AM. Like you.”

“Right,” said Lola.

“Anyway. Daphne. The article. What the—
you
found the body?” asked Annabel.

“Pretty much,” said Lola. “Grand total of two.”

“This is unreal,” said Annabel. “PS, Lola, this is not as important as, like, death, but you totally have to call that guy. Wally. I also just read
Royalty
. You have to find out what he has against you.”

“You know, I think I wi—”

Lola’s cell phone rang. Except she was talking on her cell phone. Plus it was just a beep, not
Mork & Mindy
. Plus her chair had just vibrated.

It was Daphne’s phone, still in the pocket of her jacket, which was draped on the back of the chair she was sitting in.

Hell’s bells.

How
did I forget that I had that?

“Hey Annabel, I—”

I can’t tell her I have it. She’d think I’m so blinded by my own ambition that I don’t know that keeping the phone is illegal and insane.

But she’d be wrong.

I do know that it’s illegal and insane.

“I—you know what?” Lola changed course. “I’m gonna call that dork right now.”

Do I answer Daphne’s phone?

“It’s kind of early,” Annabel said.

Shoot, wait, the phone’s quiet now. But still. It could be a clue.

“I’m—I’m gonna write out what I’m gonna say, so I’m ready. It’ll help clear my head,” Lola said. “Call you back.”

She fished Daphne’s phone out of the pocket.

You dumbass. This is not going to be a clue. Anyone who knows she’s dead isn’t going to be calling her.

But could someone know I have the phone? Someone besides a basset hound?

Really, very unlikely.

Somerville, remember the difference between sleuthing and snooping.

She looked at the phone. Text Message Received. Read Now?

This is none of my business, thought Lola, pressing Yes.

Sixteen

7:20 AM, citigal: Liam Neeson buying gum @ Hudson

News in La Guardia.

 
Oh, for God’s sake.

Evidently Daphne subscribed—had subscribed—to the same celebrity-sighting text-messaging group as Lola did. The whole Celebuphone enterprise was not serious; it was
ironic,
Lola swore. Though she did wonder why everyone else on the list seemed to get to spot A-listers like George Clooney or Natalie Portman, while the only person she ever saw, practically daily it seemed, was Ethan freaking Hawke.

Anyway.

While I’m here.

She selected Recent Calls.

Lola recognized eight of the ten numbers Daphne had most recently dialed as the access number for Verizon voice mail—she must have just been checking her messages. The tenth number, Lola saw, gulping, was her own. That accounts for the mystery call to Lola’s phone, though not for the absence of a message. The most recent number, though also in area code 718, Lola didn’t recognize. She did a quick reverse-lookup on the Internet.

Destiny Car Service, Brooklyn.

The office was only a few blocks away, on Minna Street.

Daphne must have called for a pickup. A gal-about-town like Daphne doesn’t wait on taxi lines.

Could one of the drivers have killed her?

Lola did think about that sometimes. Though she’d been in New York for almost a decade, her mom still noodged her about taking cabs at night (“Keep the receipts. I’ll pay”) instead of the subway, which in Mrs. Somerville’s mind still looked exactly as it had in
The Warriors
. But for some reason, Lola’s mom—and everyone else—never thought twice about believing that it’s reliably “safer” to get into the backseat of a sedan driven by a strange man. Sure enough, you almost never heard about anything untoward, but you have to admit the social contract therein seemed to violate the order of things.

And so did the fact that Daphne had never made it home.

Lola left a note for Doug, threw on her jeans, leashed up the dogs, and set out for Minna Street.