Death By Chick Lit (2 page)

Lola felt Blanca’s pain. She had nothing against chick lit itself, or its authors, Mimi included. To her, the catch-all, now-derisive term and the snooty, apocalyptic attitude toward the genre was the problem. Ever since Bridget Jones—whom Lola considered a classic screwball heroine, not some sort of tipsy antipioneer—it seemed that every book written by a woman or with a female protagonist was now labeled
chick lit
. (While anything written by a guy was, of course,
lit
.) According to assorted stern reviewers and opinion writers, chick lit—which, like any genre, had its more or less distinguished iterations—was itself responsible for the decline of Western literature. It was, at the very least, “bad for women,” a charge—as Lola herself had written in many letters to the editor that had never been optioned—that implied, condescendingly, that women can’t tell the difference between instruction manuals and entertainment. Some journalists had already declared the genre “dead,” but obviously, editors were still buying, and nothing had stopped that one curmudgeon at the
New Yorker
from calling the newest edition of
The Guns of August
“military chick lit.”

The whole matter had hit especially close to home lately for Lola. As a freelance magazine writer and former online advice columnist—who, up until the dot-com bust, had had a pretty serious following—she’d done pretty well for herself. She’d been writing professionally in one form or another since college, where she’d been a bit of a big journo on campus; after that, she’d jumped right into local reporting, eventually breaking into national glossies and their crunchier, more political counterparts. Then came
AskLola.com
, and then Lola’s ill-fated tenure at the now-extinct women’s media giant, Ovum, Inc.

Lola’s novel,
Pink Slip
, was her account—fictionalized into a mystery/thriller/whodunit—of her own successful investigation into Ovum’s villainous wrongdoing and spectacular demise. Her publisher had duly positioned
Pink Slip
as a “seriously hard-hitting
and
entertainingly readable exposé: in the truth-through-fiction tradition of Christopher Buckley, a story about the story behind the biggest media scam of our era.” The press, in turn, had labeled it “the hilarious misadventures of America’s newest titian-haired sleuth.”

If this chick lit classification had been accurate—or, frankly, a sales-booster—that would have been fine, Lola had figured. Instead,
Pink Slip
had gotten neither the pop-commercial success that should have come with the chick lit label nor the writer’s writer accolades that should have come without it. Her agent was ready for her to “try again,” but Lola, who was really proud of
Pink Slip
, wasn’t quite ready to let go.

Also, she was out of new ideas.

This she knew, at least: no
pink
in the title. Not even if it was about Communism.

As Lola excuse-me’d her way through the crowd on her way downstairs, bonking into people with the giant shoulder bag that held everything she needed for the day, for the next thirty days, she reflected on the personal progress she’d made over the past few years. She used to call Annabel from the ladies’ room to report on dates. Now she’d call Annabel from the ladies’ room to report on her career. So that was a step. Unfortunately, the news in the career department was, these days, almost always nonexistent.

Marriage doesn’t fix your life, thought Lola. This she had learned.

Lola started to push open the restroom door. No checking voice mail, she resolved; just a quick call to Annabel to make sure she was on her damn way. If Mimi was going to make some sort of grand late entrance, she wanted to be there to silently resent it.

Except this wasn’t the restroom.

The cool nightclubs had no sign outside; the
really
cool nightclubs had no sign outside or on the bathroom doors. Having attended her share of book parties, this wasn’t the first time Lola had walked into a supply closet.

But this was the first time she had sensed something very, very wrong.

I did not just see a foot, Lola thought, opening the door wider to make sure. A chunk of gray light fell in from the hall.

Oh,
there’s
Mimi.

Covered in blood.

The broken martini glass that had slit her throat lay nearby.

In the 0.03 of a second before she screamed and passed out, Lola felt really, really guilty.

Two

Lola blinked. All she could see was television snow. She blinked again. Her arm ached where she must have smacked the doorframe on her way down; her filmy poncho hadn’t served as much cushion. But the snow was starting to clear, and from her one other experience with fainting—which was the one time she’d tried acupuncture, which she did only because someone said it would help her get a new literary agent, so really, she deserved to have passed out—she knew just what to expect this time. She would blink once again, and then open her eyes to see, clustered above her, a hazy circle of concerned faces: her mother, her husband, Doug, I’kea the bodyworker, Bella, Abzug, and Steve, her Weimaraner mix from childhood. And then everything would be all right. And I’kea, kind soul, wouldn’t even charge her.

Lola went for it. She opened her eyes once more. Ah, there was the cluster of heads.

But hey! They weren’t even looking at her.

Figures, thought Lola, sinking her head back down.

Oh, wait.

She turned her head. That stale, musty smell was not dog breath. The guy in the jacket and tie? Can’t be Abzug: no hat. And the one with rubber gloves? Most certainly not Doug. And—as Lola now finally, clearly, gut-flippingly recalled—someone had performed an altogether less healthy type of bodywork on Mimi McKee.

Lola sat up on her good elbow.

Don’t look don’t look don’t look—
uch
, you looked.

A gloved EMT was just pulling a sheet over Mimi’s face.

I really, really, need to not be where that body is, Lola thought. Oh, Mimi’s poor mom.

As Lola bent a knee and put one clog on the floor to stand up, the jacket and tie guy—must be a detective—noticed that she’d come to.

“Welcome back,” he said, not smiling. At least he was blocking the view of Mimi. It occurred to Lola that his dimensions might actually be square. His black hair was slicked back, perpendicular to his mustache, and he had those thick oversized glasses that make the wearer look a bit like a grouper. Which reminded Lola of someone.

“Detective Bobbsey,” he said. “You all right?”

“Relatively,” Lola said. She grabbed his outstretched hand and hauled herself onto her feet. “Thanks. Bobbsey?” Lola asked before she could stop to think. “Is your partner your twin?” She immediately regretted her impertinence, though she had nothing but respect for the Bobbsey Twins mysteries of her youth.

“Nope,” he said. “My partner is my wife. Maternity leave. Due in a couple weeks. They still haven’t found me my requisite rookie replacement.” His arm behind Lola’s shoulders, he guided her out into the hall. She didn’t look back.

“Well, congratulations,” Lola said. “Your first child?” Was that what you were supposed to ask? she wondered.

“Thanks, and yes, our first,” he answered, then deadpanned, “. . . that we know of . . .” in air quotes. He looked about ten years older than her, maybe; seemed to Lola like he’d have a whole brood of squarish children by now. “And thanks for the straight line,” Bobbsey added, still not smiling. “Mind answering a few questions?” He raised a teeny memo pad and poised his golf pencil. Why do detectives always have unsatisfactory note-taking equipment, Lola wondered. Maybe his partner-to-be will be green enough to bring a couple of decent Papermates to the relationship.

“No problem at all,” said Lola. She felt a sudden wicked thrill, the thrill of being in on something, close to something. Then, just as quickly, she felt like an ass. Hi, Lola? Mimi is dead.
That
is what you’re in on, she thought. I know I have to talk to Bobbsey, but boy, do I need to see Doug’s face.

“You a friend of hers?” asked Bobbsey, nodding back toward the storeroom of death.

“Not close, but I know her. Knew her,” said Lola.

“I’m sorry,” said Bobbsey, adjusting his glasses. “What were you doing down here?” he asked.

“Going to the bathroom,” Lola said. “I mean, looking for it.”

Bobbsey nodded. “Did you see anyone else around?”

“No, I didn’t.”

Hell’s bells. Does this mean I don’t have an alibi? Do I have to call a lawyer? Who do I know? Lola racked her brain. C’mon, I must know one attorney who doesn’t do environmental law or electronic civil liberties. “You don’t think I—”

“Slit her throat, wiped the blood off your hands, and then fainted?” asked Bobbsey.

Right. “Not so much,” said Lola. You go, Miss Marple.

“Detective, buddy, you got a sec?” Apparently someone had talked his way past whoever was guarding the stairs. Someone tallish and thinnish, with reddish wavy hair and freckles he could stand to outgrow. Someone who looked incredibly familiar.

“Nope,” said Bobbsey.

“Okay, how about now?” asked the interloper.

“Nope.”

Oh, for God’s sake, thought Lola. It had come to her.

I totally went on a date with that guy.

Lola’s mother’s friend Fern—this fellow’s aunt—had set them up forty-eleven years ago. (“You’re both single, you’re both writers, and you both have red hair and freckles!” she’d exclaimed.) The two of them had had a perfectly nice time, which was the kind of date Lola used to hate the most. If you don’t have a great time, you at least deserve a good story.

Neither he nor Lola had seemed to have any interest in a second perfectly nice time, and that had been that. Lola had not thought about Wally at all on the way home—this had been her litmus test for whether or not to see someone again—and therefore not at all thereafter. He had left her a voice mail just to say thanks, but that was it. He was not even looking at her right now.

“Wally Seaport,
New York Day
.” He extended a hand to the detective.

Sure enough. Wally was a reporter for the tabloid
New York Day
, whose weekly chick lit bestseller list had once been a weekly source of torment for Lola. Everyone knew Wally also wrote
Royalty
, the must-read blog for the New York publishing industry.
Royalty
was impossible to describe without using the word
snarky
, but given its success and taste-making status, the
Day
looked the other way, even though Wally’s posts openly mocked its shameless tabloid style. They requested of Wally only that, for the sake of appearances, he use an open-secret pseudonym. Lola had quit reading both the blog and the
Day
when her yoga teacher had said something about “being compassionate enough with yourself to limit the ‘shoulds’ that serve only to cause stress.” Which for Lola also included yoga, but whatever.

Lola also knew for a fact—though she thought she’d gotten over it—that
Royalty
had never once mentioned
Pink Slip.
(Her yoga teacher had never said anything about limiting the Googling.) Wally had to have known about the book. Not only had she gotten a pretty decent advance—the kind of thing Wally normally snooped out and reported in his weekly “Lucky Them” list—but
Pink Slip
was itself about a media scandal. If that wasn’t
Royalty
material, Lola didn’t know what was. Why the snub? Right now, standing not twenty feet from the murdered body of someone she considered a friend, Lola was ashamed to feel the sting of wounded pride start to flare anew.

“Hi,” Lola said to Wally, as nicely as possible.

“Evening.” Wally nodded, still not looking. “Now?” he asked Bobbsey.

Jeez Louise. He doesn’t remember me a bit. Not even a glimmer.

“Maybe, maybe when I’m done talking to this young lady,” Bobbsey replied. “Can you give us a minute?”

Wally hesitated.

The detective didn’t. “How about now?” Bobbsey asked.

Wally backed off and pretended to be very absorbed in his notes.

“So. Sorry, miss. How well did you know Miss McKee?” Bobbsey asked. Lola knew Wally was listening. Maybe she could drop a hint that would trip some sort of memory wire.

“We’re—we were—friendly acquaintances, I guess,” said Lola. “I mean, we’re both, you know,
writers
—”

“She have a boyfriend?”

“Yes, she does. Did.”

Oh my God, poor Quentin.

“Oh, really?” asked Bobbsey.

“Yes,” said Lola. Quentin and Mimi hadn’t been dating for long—maybe two months?—but as far as Lola could tell, it had appeared to be heading toward the magic three.

“Really?!” asked Bobbsey again. “Like, steady?”

“Uh, yes, steady,” said Lola, puzzled. “You sound surprised.”

“I mean . . . well, I mean, the book,” said Bobbsey.

“The book . . .”

“The book. Miss McKee’s book. I thought you had to be, like, perpetually single and unhappy to write that stuff, the chick flicks or whatever you call them,” said Bobbsey. “I mean, I don’t know, it seemed really, you know, true-to-life to me.”

Lola had to smile. Wally shot the detective a look. “It was in my wife’s beach bag.” Bobbsey shrugged. “I thought it was great. Really funny.” He glanced back toward the storeroom. “Poor kid.”

I love this guy, thought Lola. “Yeah. Chick lit. They’re not necessarily a hundred percent autobiographical,” she said. Sensing an opportunity, she went on a bit too loud. “I mean,
even my recent book,
while based on fact, was mostly fictionalized.”

Wally didn’t bat an eye.

Damn.

Bobbsey nodded, all business once again. “So, the boyfriend,” he prompted.

“Right,” said Lola. “Poor guy.” Lola opted not to mention that she’d dated Quentin, too. Very, very briefly. Years ago. Not pertinent.