Death By Chick Lit (17 page)

Of course you are.

“And my editor—”

Editor? This isn’t just in the idea phase? The permanent idea phase?

“—wanted even more, what’d she call it, ‘real immediacy’ in the bar scenes, so. Just stepped out here to take some notes.”

“I’ll watch for it,” smiled Lola. “What’s it called?”

The woman grinned, showing straight but browned teeth, and pointed down to a sticker on her bike. Which read, If You Can Read This, the Bitch Just Passed You.

Lola had to laugh. “Well, good luck, um—”

“Delilah.”

“Delilah. I’m Lola. Good luck.”

“You, too, Lola. You have a good one,” said Delilah. She looked down. “And next time, be careful running in those.”

Lola waved as she hurried toward Earl’s. The encounter with Delilah—and, actually, with Reading Guy—had buoyed Lola, if slightly. One, it appeared that her plan had worked: she had not only smoked out the killer but also (bonus!) had boosted book sales in the process, and two, this she had confirmed: you gotta get a gimmick. Biking worked for Delilah, Lola thought; maybe sleuthing really was going to work for me.

Now to face my husband.

And then, my best friend.

Taking a breath, Lola walked back into Earl’s.

She found Doug chatting with the bartender.

“No, actually, the other way around: it’s the
even
Star Trek films that are good, and the
odd
Nightmare on Elm Streets,” Doug was saying, a bit wearily.

Lola mustered a smile. “You ready?”

“Yep,” he said, fishing a ten out of his wallet. Nice tip. Nice Doug. “Thanks, man.”

He turned to Lola, nodding back at the bartender. “We bonded.”

She linked her arm in his as they left. She knew he liked that.

For the first five minutes of the cab ride, they sat in silence. As far as Lola could remember, it was also the first five minutes of silence of their relationship.

In her heart of hearts, she actually felt that Doug was being a tad petulant. This trait of his surfaced now and then, and Lola believed it had to do with the fact that he had three siblings. That old chestnut about only children needing constant attention, even into adulthood? Backwards. We
had
constant attention, she thought. It’s the people with siblings who had to fight for it—and sometimes still feel like they do.

At the same time, she was mortified. Right or wrong, Doug was upset with her—he felt she had let him down—and this she could hardly bear. And given that the plot she was involved in was only thickening, she wasn’t about to do anything except beg forgiveness for what she had wrought so far. As soon as she could think of what to say. And as soon as she could get what had happened with Reading Guy out of her head.

The cabbie broke the silence. Lola hadn’t even noticed that the driver was a woman. This was not common.

“So, you guys writers?” she asked. “I just figured, what with Earl’s, Brooklyn . . .”

Not now, lady cabdriver, Lola thought.

“No no,” Doug said, coming to the rescue. “Computer stuff.”

“Oh, even better,” said the driver. “Maybe you can tell me how to start a blog. You know, about being a lady cabdriver. My agent—”

Lola pretended she hadn’t heard. “Listen, Doug.”

I’ve successfully lured the killer with myself as bait, which was both inspired and idiotic. Which is what I really want to tell you, but I can’t because of the “idiotic” part.

“Listen, I—I think what’s really bothering me, beneath everything, and part of why I’m acting so weird, other than the fact that I’ve discovered two bodies in two days and”—lie—“haven’t gotten all that far with helping my friend find the killer, is . . . I just don’t think I’m ready yet to have a baby.”

“Oh,” said Doug.

The cabdriver didn’t press the blog issue.

“I’ve been dodging it because I so hate to disappoint you. Disappointing you is, like, physically painful.” Now she was telling the truth. “I just don’t feel secure enough yet. I mean, not with you. I mean, stable. In my own life. But I do want kids, and I do want kids with you. That’s not a question. And I promise I’m not waiting for some magical day to come that never will. Soon,” said Lola. “I will be ready soon.” Soon as the rest of my life falls into place. Or just one little next big thing. She took his hand.

The cabdriver turned up the smooth jazz.

Doug nodded. “That’s okay, monkey. I mean, I can’t force you—”

“Other than by secretly replacing my birth control pills with Tic Tacs,” said Lola.

“Hmm!” said Doug, arching his eyebrows and tapping together his fingertips, evil genius style. “No, seriously, Lo, it just feels better to have cleared the air. Thanks for saying something.”

They made out the rest of the way home. But Lola knew they were both distracted, and not just because Doug kept having to surface to give directions. Or because Lola kept interrupting their lip-lock to fill Doug in on stuff he’d missed.

“Oh, Annabel sold a book based on her blog. That’s what I was helping her with the other day.”

“Mmm,” said Doug, corralling her mouth with his. “Great. I mean, shit.”

“Mmmmsokay.” It felt good to kiss Doug. It always felt good to kiss Doug. But the many parts of her brain that weren’t saying “kissing . . . Doug . . . nice” were still racing.

I must now put all of my energy into plotting my next move—proving Reading Guy’s guilt—not getting killed, and making it look like none of this is more important than my marriage, or my best friendship, Lola thought. Which, at the end of the day, it isn’t. It’s just more . . . urgent.

“Right up here, just ahead of that hydrant,” Doug said. He glanced at the meter while it clicked and buzzed. As he got out his wallet, the DJ came on the radio.

“Overnight and tomorrow, continued mild, with air quality better than L.A., but not as good as Taos.”

“Just go to the website
Blogger.com
,” Doug told the driver, handing over some bills. “You can use one of their free templates.”

“Hey, thanks!” she replied. Lola was halfway out the door.

“And now, some breaking news,” said the radio. “Writer Honey Porter, whose book is due out next week, collapsed inside Bergdorf’s this evening after having her trademark blond hair touched up during the new extended hours at the store’s world-famous, and recently renovated, spa and salon. EMTs arriving quickly on the scene, fresh from treating victims of the stampede across the street at FAO Schwartz for the pregnant Jennifer Aniston action figure, were unable to revive her.”

Thirty-four

Lola collapsed onto the bed.

Honey’s dead.

Is it my fault?

Did Reading Guy go off and kill Honey somehow after—that is,
because
I—embarrassingly easily, foiled his attempt to kill me? How could he have known where she was? He’s the kind of guy who would carry a transistor radio in his bike basket—could he actually have Celebuphone? And even if he did, how’d he get to midtown so fast?

At the very least, Lola thought, so much for my genius theory about the murders following the order of the bestseller list. Or having anything to do with me.

And so much for Annabel’s respect. Not to mention my vow of complete honesty with my husband.

What have I done?

Lola squeezed her eyes shut and rubbed her temples.

“Monkey, let me get you something,” said Doug. “Egg noodles? Sleepytime? Cuervo Gold?”

“Honey,” Lola murmured.

“Yeah?” Doug said. “Oh, duh. Sorry. Honey as in Porter.” He sighed and climbed into bed next to Lola and lay down, knees up. They both faced the ceiling. “Just let me know if you decide you want something.”

“Thanks,” Lola said. “Those triplets . . .”

“You want to adopt Honey’s triplets?”

“No. God, sorry. I’m too spent for segues. I just meant, those poor triplets.”

“I know,” sighed Doug. “It’s even worse than Daphne’s dogs. Say, Lola?”

She turned her head on the pillow.

“Don’t you think it’s about time?” he asked.

“To have babies?” Lola asked, her eyes wide. That was fast.

“No, shit, sorry. Wow, our usual communication skills are just not up to par right now, are they?”

Lola felt a dull thud between her ribs. She said nothing.

“I mean, time for you to drop the case? I was into it when you said it was pretty much a desk job, but now I’m not so sure. That I’m into it, or that it’s really a desk job. Unless you have a new desk on the corner outside Earl’s,” he said. “Once I thought about it, it was pretty clear what you were up to. Though, thankfully—not that it wasn’t clever!—the killer seemed to have been busy in midtown.”

Even as she winced, Lola felt a glimmer of admiration. Her husband was so damn smart.

“I just—not like it was fun when it was only Mimi, but Lo, three people are dead, and the killer, if it is just one killer, is on the loose,” Doug went on. “You’re very capable, and you’re pretty obsessive, and compulsive, but you’re not Monk. You’re not a detective. You’re a writer. And I’m your husband. And I worry. And, as you know, I miss you. I know I can’t tell you what to do, and I’ve read enough of your articles about relationships to know that I should use ‘I statements,’ so here goes:
I
am worried about you getting in too deep with this thing, and
I
would like things to go back to the way they were between us, with nothing hidden and nothing weird, so
I
would be very happy if you would wait until it’s over and
then
write about it, like Sebastian Junger.”

“Actually, he’s totally covered, like, the war in Bosnia and big wildfires, plus once when he was working as a tree trimmer he almost cut off his leg with a chain saw,” said Lola. She paused. “Okay, I will.”

What am I saying?

“Wait. ‘Okay?’ ” said Doug. “You’ll quit?”

“Yes.” What I am saying is that I’ll say anything to avoid conflict.

“
Quit
quit?”

“I’ll . . . keep tabs. You know, read Gawker, text Quentin if I see anything interesting.”

“You’ll text?” Doug was delighted. “Like, send a text message, not just receive, from your fancy phone that you hate and have heretofore refused to text-message from, even though it’s equipped with the super-easy QWERTY keyboard?”

Lola nodded and smiled. She knew that would work.

And that she, quite possibly, had never sunk lower.

 
 
The phone rang. Please let it be Annabel. Please let her announce that she’d freed herself from the sci-fi mind control exercised by that playboy neurologist with the offshore medical degree that she’d dated once or twice, and that she took back everything she’d said at Earl’s.

Or at least let it be Bobbsey, phoning to say he’d missed her at the murder scene. And that he’d caught the killer, so that things could go back to nice, albeit book-deal-free, and normal.

“No, you’re right, she’s not pregnant,” Lola heard Doug say out in the hall.

Huh?

“That’s why her people recalled the pregnant doll, which is why it immediately became so valuable.”

Oh.

Doug came into the room with the phone and his laptop. “Lo, it’s your mom.” He climbed into bed with Lola and passed her the phone.

“Oh good, you’re home,” said Mrs. Somerville. “I heard. I’m so sorry, Lulu. Wasn’t she a friend of yours?”

“Yes, Mommy,” Lola whimpered.

And some friend I am. Was.

“Oh, sweetie. I’m so sorry. Do you want me to get on the shuttle?”

“No, thanks, Mom. I’ve got Doug,” Lola said. He smiled. Shit.

“Of course you do,” said her mom. “And you don’t dye your hair anymore, do you?”

“No, Mom.” Only with some sort of organic vegetable stuff, if you must know.

“Good. You know. Phthalates.”

“I know.”

“And antiperspirant’s no good, either.”

“I know, Mom. Listen, thanks for calling. I think I’m gonna try to get some sleep for once,” said Lola.

“Not before you read this,” said Doug, passing Lola his laptop.

Thirty-five