Death By Chick Lit (23 page)

“Hot, hot, hot,” said Leo. “But you missed one. Or, rather,
I
missed one. And you helped.”

“What?”

“Blanca.”

“I’m not following,” Lola said.

“I know you’re not,” Leo said with a sneer. “Remember that day when you saw me on Atlantic Avenue and I slowed down but didn’t stop?”

“Yeah,” Lola said. “You were with Annabel—oh, wait.” A tiny bubble of joy swelled somewhere inside her.
Yes
. Annabel was blowing her off most of the time, but not that one. “No, you weren’t with Annabel. You ran into Blanca outside Starbooks, thought you’d take advantage of the opportunity to try to get rid of her, but then you saw me and thought I’d seen her, so it was too risky.”

“Again, very hot,” said Leo.

Poor Blanca, Lola thought. She’d rather die than be considered a chick lit author, and she almost did both.

“And that brings us to Penny,” she said.

“Yeah, with that one
I
got a little careless,” Leo admitted. “Heard about her new deal today while I was over at Jitney, got annoyed—I mean, it’s like, everyone and his sister has a book deal, you know?”

Yes, I do know.

“So, not my best work, but crime of passion, what are ya gonna do?” Leo said.

“And the others weren’t? Crimes of passion?”

Leo smiled, teeth as shiny as his car. He held up his hands, one still holding the pointy item that was still holding Lola’s primary interest. “Guilty,” he said jauntily, then waxed serious. “That’s how much I love her.”

“Sweet,” nodded Lola.

“I turned the honcho at Poncho onto Annabel’s blog—then I just had to get the competition out of the way,” he said. “I know they get a brief blip with the murdered authors publicity and all, but in the long run, it’s better. Thought maybe I’d even scare other would-be chick lit writers into tearing up their proposals.”

He took a step toward Lola. “Didn’t think I’d have to take
you
out, though,” he said. “I mean, it’s not like your book is much competition.” He took another step toward Lola. “And women think I’m ‘unthreatening.’ ” He smirked.

Leo raised his weapon.

Forty-nine

Doug, appearing behind Leo in the nick of time, grabbed his right arm just as Annabel grabbed his left. Surprise on their side, they wrestled Leo to the bridge. Lola heard a click.

Doug’s collectible Batcuffs.

Leo, hands chained to a girder behind him, looked at Annabel with pained, penitent longing. He was defeated in his murderous rampage but, evidently, not in his obsession.

Doug turned back to Lola, who threw herself on her husband. “Doug!” she cried. “Those cuffs were mint in box!”

Doug grinned and kissed his wife, her cheeks in his hands. “Yeah, but think how much more they’re worth now that I can say ‘used to apprehend actual villain.’ ”

Annabel, her back to Leo, joined the group hug, then stepped back. “Yeah, so we got your e-mail.”

Lola looked up at Doug with exaggerated embarrassment. “Thanks for the phone,” she whispered. Just as she had gotten out of Leo’s SUV, she had used the once-reviled gadget to snap a photo of the Escarole, its location, and its weapon-bearing driver. When she’d referred to the dandelions she’d “dug,” she was actually using the phone’s voice command capability to e-mail the photo to Doug.

“Turns out you
would
use the photo function if your life depended on it,” he said.

Lola laughed, then glanced over at Leo. “By the way, do you want to borrow it to call the police?”

“Done,” said Annabel. “Now we wait.” She pulled a can of Red Bull out of her backpack and offered it around.

“No thanks, still wired from the attempted murder,” said Lola. She untangled herself from Doug and looked at them both. “This is a little awkward, considering you guys both hate me.”

“Hate’s a strong word,” said Doug. “I’d say more like . . . love.”

Lola melted, a little. She was still puzzled. “But what about all the skulking around and blowing you off and, well, blatant lying that I was off the case?”

“You’re a good liar,” nodded Doug. “Just not a great one. I knew you were still
CSI
ing. But what was I supposed to do,
make
you stop? Didn’t we say something about in sickness and in health, in safety and in reckless, ego-driven danger?”

Lola sighed, tears welling.

“The only part that really upset me was that even after we’d talked about it, you still thought you couldn’t be straight with me,” said Doug. “No more of that, okay, monkey?”

Lola nodded, chastened. “I am both deeply moved and deeply embarrassed.”

“See what we could have had?” It was Leo, hollering out from the bridge. “Just know this was all for you, Annabel.”

Annabel turned on the heel of her sneaker to face him. “Next time try just admitting your feelings or asking me on an actual date,” she said evenly.

“You mean you would have gone out with me?” he asked.

“No,” she said. “But it does seem like a better idea in principle.”

Leo seemed to think about this.

“Listen, Bella,” Lola said. Annabel turned back, braids swinging. “Just for the record, I get your point. Not every ‘great guy’ is automatic boyfriend material. I’m sorry.”

“Well, not every great guy is a martini murderer, either,” said Annabel. “But listen, that’s not all I wanted to hash out with you.”

Just then, the sound of sirens cut through the heavy air; red and blue lights smudged the sky. Two police cars skidded to a stop on the bridge, the Wally Seaport-mobile close behind.

Doug handed the Batcuff key to the cops—“I’m gonna need those back,” he added—while Lola accosted Wally. She was genuinely surprised to see him, assuming he would have sniffed out the book angle on the Penny story by now. Shouldn’t he be home working on
Royalty
now, or back at the
Day
, banging out a piece that would inevitably be entitled “Doc Lit: Dead on Arrival”?

“Why aren’t you covering the murder?” she asked.

Wally, for his part, was not surprised to see Lola. “What murder?” he asked.

Fifty

Lola’s phone rang. When she turned toward her bag, Wally took the opportunity to duck away and pester the cops.

“Lola, it’s Quentin.”

“Oh my God, Quentin.”

“Save your condolences, Somerville!” Lola had never heard Quentin sound so giddy. “I’m with her at the hospital right now. Penny’s gonna be fine.”

“Oh, my God. Oh, thank God,” said Lola. “You guys, Penny’s okay!” she yelled to Doug and Annabel, who scurried over to eavesdrop.

“Quentin, what on earth happened?”

“Strangest thing. Wisteria poisoning. The restaurant insists they check the vines for seed pods daily to avoid exactly that. I guess the cops are still poking around. And—”

Before Lola could tell him about the cops poking around right next to her in Leo’s van, he interrupted himself.

“Oh! Lo, there goes the toxicologist I’ve been trying to talk to. Apparently she’s been distracted; some starlet got bitten by her own illegal kinkajou. Lemme go grab the doctor—”

“Okay,” Lola jumped in quickly, “can you just pass the phone to Penny, if she’s up for talking?”

“Sure. Here ya go—!” Quentin was off and running.

“Hello?” Penny’s voice sounded weak, but Lola was glad to hear it, even if this did mean her book would be coming out after all.

“Penny, I’m so glad you’re okay!” said Lola.

“You and me both,” she said. Lola figured she’d hold off, for now, on telling her that there was one person who wasn’t so glad. She glanced over at Leo, who by then was staring soulfully at Annabel from the back of a squad car.

“Say, Penny, I don’t want to keep you, but can I ask you a question in confidence?”

“Of course,” said Penny. “I mean, Lola, I might be dead if you hadn’t found me when you did. I shall deny you nothing.”

Lola laughed uncomfortably. “I’ll cut to the chase. How did Quentin get into ghostwriting?” Doug looked puzzled. Annabel didn’t.

“Wait, how did you—” Penny started.

“Doesn’t matter. I know it’s a secret.”

“Okay—” Penny paused, then went on. “Guess it couldn’t hurt to tell you this part. There was this patient a couple years ago, I guess she thought I played some major role in saving her kid’s life—scooter accident, I think it was—and so she was like, ‘Is there anything I can do to repay you?’ And I was like, ‘Well, I’m sick of loaning money to my brother.’ I told her Quentin wrote crosswords for a living, and she was like, ‘Well, can he write more than one word at a time?’ And I said, ‘Yeah, I think so. His first job after graduation was a staff writer for
Corduroy Aficionado.
And the lady goes, ‘Give me his e-mail; I’ll take care of him.’ And that was that.”

Aha. Patient zero. Which also perhaps explains why Quentin doesn’t seem to have an agent. It all began with this person, whoever she was. “I don’t suppose you can tell me who that patient was,” Lola said.

“Honestly, I don’t even remember her name,” said Penny. “I didn’t think much of it at the time. If it were someone famous or something, I’d be like, ‘Well, I can’t violate HIPAA regulations by telling you it was Fane Jonda.’ ” She lowered her voice. “Anyway, here comes Quentin.”

“Thanks, Penny. That was helpful. Keep feeling well, okay?”

“What was that all about?” Doug asked.

“Tell ya on the way home.”

By then the police were ready to speak with Lola. A blond woman in a sharp Dana Scully suit handed Doug his Batcuffs, flashed a badge, and introduced herself to Lola.

“Out of curiosity, where’s Detective Bobbsey?” Lola asked.

“In the hospital,” came the answer.

“Oh, no!”

“His wife just had a baby,” came the clarification.

“Oh, yay!” said Lola. She described everything she could to the detective, hoping—actually, believing—that it was the last such statement she’d make for a long, long time. Then she, Doug, and Annabel watched as all the cars pulled away, Leo mouthing the words “Ciao, Bella,” from his window.

“This may be inappropriate in some way, but all I want to do right now is go home and eat salt-and-peppered popcorn and watch
Evil Dead
,” said Lola. “Who’s with me?”

Doug and Annabel raised their hands. They started back over the bridge. Lola noticed for the first time that tonight the canal smelled weirdly of maple syrup. A few stars shone wanly like faraway flashlights in need of new batteries. Lola reached out and held Doug’s hand. The sticky night made their palms a little clammy, but neither of them cared.

I guess Annabel’s my friend again now, thought Lola, feeling a bit like a third grader. If I keep talking about something else, maybe she’ll forget she ever wasn’t. Lola opened her mouth.

“So, Lola,” said Annabel.

Crap.

Fifty-one

“I think what I have to say to you might also shed some light for Doug on the conversation you just had with Quentin.”

Lola blinked. “I’m all ears.”

“Listen, I
was
mad at you for the whole anyone-on-her-happily-married-high-horse-could-see-that-you-should-be-dating-Leo thing, I really was.”

“As well you should have been.”

“But that wasn’t all.”

Oh, God. What else was she mad about?

Annabel looked behind her. “You guys have to swear not to tell anyone I told you this,” she said.

What on earth?

“Awesome!” grinned Doug.

“Look, there’s this company,” said Annabel, lowering her voice. “They stay under the radar, but they’re behind almost all of these books, these trendy, write-by-numbers jobs. They find people with good gimmicks or platforms or whatever, then they develop the concepts, then farm the books out to different writers and publishers. More than one writer per book, sometimes. Writers like Quentin.”

This kind of thing didn’t sound so secret to Lola. “Well, yeah. Like a book packager?”

“Wait, back up. I thought Quentin wrote puzzles,” said Doug.

“Oh yeah,” said Lola. “During that time I ‘quit’ the case, I figured out he’d also ghostwritten Mimi’s, Daphne’s, and Honey’s books.”

“So that puzzle you solved,” Doug said proudly, adding, “Hey, with
my
fancy flash drive, right? We are a genius.”

Lola squeezed Doug’s hand and turned back to Annabel. “Right, so a book packager.”

Annabel nodded. “Except evil,” she said. “Publishers work with this outfit all the time because they’re so efficient, but they have no idea how shady the operation is. Seriously. For example: Honey’s triplets?”

Lola shuddered.

Annabel leaned in close. “Not. Hers.”

“They’re her
neighbors’
,” Annabel pronounced. “Honey was their
nanny.
This company arranged the whole thing. It’s research for her next book, would you believe? They saw a niche for a single-mom-with-triplets title, wanted to fill it.”

“Well, that’s a relief-slash-totally vile,” said Lola.

“I’m telling you. They’re responsible for so much more than you think. Except
The Da Vinci Code
,” said Annabel. “They’re still bummed about that.”

Lola knew where this was all going. “
And
. . . they’re doing your book,” she said.

Annabel thinned her lips. “Yeah.”

“Which is how you know all this?”

“Partly,” Annabel said. “Guy who took me to lunch at Qwerty? Well, let’s just say it was a . . . long lunch. The second half of which was at his forty million square foot loft. You know.
Ve haf vays.
”

Lola thought for a second. “So this is the other reason you were avoiding me? You didn’t want to admit that you’d sold out? I mean—” Lola corrected herself. “Sorry. You didn’t want me to think you had sold out.”

“Well . . . yeah. Actually it’s the reason I asked for your help at first with the proposal. They actually told me they didn’t need me to write one at all—that I should just sit tight and they’d take care of it. You know, have someone experienced, in-house, crank out exactly the concept they needed to develop,” Annabel said. “And I thought, that’s, like,
wrong
. I wanted to write it for real, to be legit, you know? So I flirted with this guy and made him meet me for lunch so I could give him my own proposal. Which I couldn’t have written without your help. And which, naturally, he left on the table.” Annabel shrugged helplessly. “So. I tried.”