Death By Chick Lit (25 page)

Okay, pleasantries out of the way. Any second now.

“Anything else to report?” asked Dixie. “Not that your life hasn’t been a thrill a minute lately.”

“Uh—” Lola began. “Well, actually, it
has
been exciting. I’d actually been involved in the murders, I mean, not in a bad way, since the beginning.”

“Oh, I know,” said Dixie. “Very impressive.”

“So I was thinking,” said Lola. Looks like, once again, I’m going to have to do this my own damn self. “How about a book about that? You know,
The Inside Story of the Chick Lit Killings
, kind of thing. Sort of . . . an investigative memoir. Sebastian Junger meets V. I. Warshawski meets . . . Plum Sykes.”

“It’s a terrific idea, Lola,” said Dixie.

Oh, yay! Lola’s arms shot up in victory. At this point, Doug had turned to watch.

“So terrific, in fact, that it’s been done,” said Dixie. “I’m afraid your friend Wally Seaport sold that very book this morning.”

Fifty-four

Lola clonked her forehead down on her keyboard, making her browser twitter in irritation and causing her
Ciao, Italiano!
CD-ROM, unused for months, to start asking directions to the Ponte Vecchio. Doug rolled his chair over, flipped Lola’s hair over to the right side of her head, and hit a few buttons to shut Fabrizio up.

God
damn
it, thought Lola, still flopped forward.

God. Damn. It.

I mean, yes, I am so glad—
seriously
glad—that I helped catch the killer, to the degree that I did, before he hurt anyone else. I’m happy in principle to, you know, fight evil.

But will no one,
no one
give me a freaking break?

“. . . as soon as you have a moment,” Dixie Desmond had continued.

Lola flung her head back up. “I’m sorry, Dixie, my phone did something weird. What were you just saying?” She scribbled “Wally got the deal” on a corner of paper and passed it to Doug. He shook his head and grabbed her hand.

“Oh, just that I really would like to see a new proposal from you, Lola. Your voice is so authentic, attention’s back on you and
Pink Slip
—the iron is hot,” said Dixie. “Let’s strike.”

This, at least, was good to hear.

“Just no chick lit,” said Dixie.

“Why, you think it’s played out?” asked Lola.

“Oh, hardly,” said Dixie. “But I just lured that lovely Blanca Palette away from her old agency, and I’ve just also signed someone else with a truly fresh, gritty voice. Name’s Destiny. Runs a car service. A real hot ticket. So, I’m afraid, my own women’s commercial fiction plate is full.”

“I understand,” said Lola.

Gah.

“Oh! And! Small world. Looks like I’ll also be working with your detective friend and his wife. The Bobbseys. Soon as they’re back from leave. A memoir about New York’s finest overcoming infertility. Working title:
The Thin Pink Line
.”

“Sounds great,” Lola said.

“Right-o,” said Dixie. “No one wants to read those fertility-guilt books anymore. That
Rotten Eggs
book, don’t know if you’ve heard of it—apparently they keep scaling down the first print run. It’ll be dead in the water.”

Lola took a moment from her umbrage to give Sylvie a mental high five. “Okay, Dixie, I’ll definitely put on my thinking cap.”
Again,
she added sourly to herself.

“Capital,” said Dixie. “By the way, how’s that marvelous husband of yours?”

“Marvelous,” smiled Lola, turning just far enough to kick Doug’s foot.

“Good. I still remember him from your book party,” said Dixie. “You two have such a nice rapport. Very Stiller and Meara.”

Lola laughed. “Though I think I’m the Stiller.”

“Probably so,” said Dixie. “Anyway, I’m looking forward to your next brilliant idea.”

“So am I,” said Lola.

Just as she hung up with Dixie, the phone rang again. Detective Bobbsey.

“Detective! Congratulations!”

“Thank you, Ms. Somerville. Everyone’s doing fine. We got ourselves a great little Bradley, Jr., here,” he said. “Sleeping now, but soon’s he wakes up we’ll be prepping him for the Academy.”

“That’s just great, Detective. I’m so happy for you both. And you get to write about your . . . fertility . . . journey! I just heard.”

“Yes, ma’am. So thank you for that. And for nabbing the killer while we were busy creating life,” he said. “Deep.”

“Well, you’re welcome. But why thank me for the book?”

“You’re an inspiration. So were your late friends. Your book is terrific.”

“Let me guess. Beach bag?”

“Nope. Bought it myself. Wife tracked down your agent, you know the rest. Hope you don’t mind.”

“Hardly. I’m so glad it all worked out.”

“Oops, looks like we’ve got company—Junior’s uncle,” said Bobbsey. “Which reminds me: heard you met my twin brother.”

“Your twin brother,” Lola repeated, foggy. “I thought you said you didn’t have a twin brother.”

“Nope, I just said my twin wasn’t my partner. But my bro is also a detective, also a fan of the chick lit. And also very, very near-sighted.”

No way. “Reading Guy? Reading Guy is your twin brother?”

Doug spun back around in his chair.

“Yeah, Bailey said that’s what you call him. Fraternal,” said Bobbsey. “And here right now, bearing a large, misshapen gift that I fear will produce unwelcome noises.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “Why can’t people just buy from the registry?”

“Well,” said Lola. “Give Read—er, Bailey, my best.”

“Will do. And Ms. Somerville, may we call you if we hit any, what do they call it, writers’ blocks?”

“Of course, Detective,” Lola said. “Of course.”

Her other line beeped as she said good-bye.

Quentin. Who was, no doubt, going to be the one who’d really help the detectives with their writers’ blocks.

“Lola, listen, I heard the whole deal, obviously, with Leo and all, and I just wanted to thank you again for everything,” he said. “You know, I never really liked that Euro-bozo in the first place,” he said.

“You are very, very welcome,” said Lola, fiddling with a pen. “Actually, Leo’s from Oxnard.”

“I know, but you know.”

“I know,” said Lola.

“Also, I decided I’m getting out of the business. The writing business. The crossword writing business,” said Quentin.

“Really?” said Lola.

“Yeah. It’s . . . a dirty job. Hard to believe, I know. But I just quit this morning.”

“Wow, Quentin, this is a big deal,” said Lola. “So what next?”

“Small and exotic animals.”

“I’m sorry, what?”

“Terrible what happened to that illegal kinkajou. She only bit out of fear, you know!” said Quentin. “First I’m starting an internship at the zoo—the toxicologist who saved Penny, who by the way I think I might be dating if I decide I’m ready, her brother works there, and he set me up. Meanwhile, I’m applying to veterinary school.”

“You’re kidding.”

“I realize it’s a bit of an about-face,” Quentin admitted. “But it’s something I have to do. And given that it’s not ‘artistic,’ my cardiologist mother will subsidize. Not people-doctoring, of course, but close enough.”

“Right, she always wanted you to go to medical school?”

“That, and at this point she’s seen how dangerous literature is,” said Quentin. “Oops, hang on.” Lola heard some banging around in the background. “I’m just on my way out to clear my head with a bike ride.”

A thought that had been leaning on the outer edge of Lola’s consciousness suddenly broke through. She gripped the pen hard.

“Quentin, you’re in your foyer?”

“Yeah.”

“Is your doorman there?”

“Uh, yeah, sure. Why?”

“Can I speak to him for a second? I—I just wanted to thank him again for letting me in that night.”

“Sure, I guess—hang on.”

“Moe?” Lola heard Quentin say, extra-loud and clear. “My friend, my friend Lola Somerville, she came by the other night? She wants to talk to you for a sec.”

There was a pause and some shuffling.

“Hello, young lady.”

“Hi there, uh, Moe. I won’t take too much of your time. Can I just ask you a few quick questions?”

“Nice gal like you? Moe’s got all day.”

“Thanks. You can just answer yes or no, if—if you prefer. That is, if you know what I mean.”

“Aye, aye.”

If I’m wrong, he’ll think I’m a complete loon. Probably already does. But at this point, what have I got to lose?

Lola plunged forward with her hunch. “Remember that envelope you gave me that night?”

“Yes’m.”

“Did you give it to me on purpose?”

“Yes’m.”

“Because you wanted me to know what was inside?”

“Yes’m.”

Lola snapped her fingers. Bingo.

“So . . . why?”

Oops. Not yes or no. But this was the money question.

And Moe, discreet doorman to the core, was right there with the answer.

“Loved
Pink Slip,”
he replied. “Read it in one shift. Know the whole backstory, so on, so forth.”

“You did? You do? Thanks!” Lola gushed, forgetting her mission for a moment.

“Yes’m. Terrible what’s going on these days.”

Lola paused. Does he mean what I think he means? Could my wild intuition actually have been a hundred percent right?

“You mean . . . you know what kind of work Quentin does, who he works for—”

“I’m a doorman,” Moe said with some pride. Meaning:
I know everything.

“And . . . you don’t like it.”

“No, ma’am.”

Turns out I am a genius after all, thought Lola. “So. Right. You recognized me, had the envelope, took the opportunity to give it to me, but not in a way that would ever look suspicious on the security camera, on the off chance that I’d somehow be inspired to snoop and start asking questions, maybe figure out what this Cover outfit really is,” she pronounced.

“I knew you were a smart young lady.”

“Well, Moe, you’ve been very helpful,” she said.

“I know,” he said.

Quentin got back on the phone. “Guess he’s a fan,” he said. “When you were in the news, and then when your book came out, I kinda showed off that I know you.”

“Dork,” Lola teased.

“Anyway, honestly, I owe you.”

Lola tapped the pen on her desk six, seven, eight times. “What’s an eight-letter word f—”

“Indebted,” said Quentin. “Beholden.”

“Damn, you’re good,” said Lola. “But just kidding. You’re really not. Indebted, I mean.”

“Okay, then. Grateful. Thankful.”

Lola smiled. “Quentin, have a great ride.”

 
“Doug, can you take a quick break? Come for a little walk with me?” asked Lola.

“Gimme five minutes?” he asked. “Just finishing this Wikipedia entry on CMYK/RGB conversions.”

“Oh, why don’t you let me do that?” Lola teased.

She put on a little sunscreen, brushed out her hair, pulled some dead leaves off a ficus, walked around the living room, ate some strawberries, glanced at the
New York Times
lying untouched on the kitchen table. According to the Styles section, which had recently gone daily, knitting was hot, the eighties were back, and more and more women were smoking cigars. What, Lola thought, did they just deliver the paper from 2001?

“Where to?” Doug came in and glanced inside the fridge. “We need half and half.”

“Can we stop at the book idea store?”

“Sure,” said Doug. “We’re out?”

Lola smiled ruefully.

They left the house, turning away from the bridge over the canal. Even before noon, the sun was burning high and hot. Doug steered them to the shady side of the street.

“Hang on.” Lola doubled back to the mailbox on the corner. The pickup time label on the inside of the chute handle was covered with looping black graffiti. She took Quentin’s check from The Cover out of her bag and dropped it into the box. Inside an envelope wiped clean of fingerprints and addressed, with her left hand, to Wally Seaport.

Surely they would reissue Quentin’s check—perhaps his last.

And meanwhile, she’d let Wally investigate The Cover, maybe connect a few dots, write the exposé that’s been waiting to happen.

Lola felt a bit bad about her potential role in revealing that authors like Mimi, Daphne, and Honey had had so much “help.” But if The Cover’s reach was as far as it seemed, their involvement was but a drop in the bucket. And as for their current contracts, there was no reason Annabel wouldn’t keep her deal with her publisher; Quentin, whose actions were not so much wrong as annoying, would likely come out clean.

“Mailing anything interesting?” Doug asked. He then frowned in mock horror. “You don’t pay bills with actual checks, do you?”

“Actually, in this case, yes,” said Lola. He will be so proud of me for handing this one off. “See, the part I hadn’t had a chance to tell you yet—”

Her phone rang.

Doug clapped his hands. “Your phone! Your favorite!”

Lola punched him in the arm.

“Hello?”

“Lola, so sorry to bother you on your cellular, but I just had an inspiration.”

“No problem at all, Dixie.” Lola stopped walking and raised her eyebrows at Doug. This was interesting. Dixie hated cell phones. She refused to use them except for matters of colossal importance.

“I was thinking about you and your husband. Your collaboration in the Leo Guinness affair. How well you seem to work together. How well do you think you would
work
together?”

“Like,
work
work? Probably pretty well, actually,” said Lola.

“And pretty fast?”

“When can we start?” asked Lola.

“Start what?” Doug mouthed.

“Good girl. Here’s the inspiration. A marriage guide. A
hip
marriage guide. Not that self-help pabulum that no one like you would be caught dead with on your nightstand. A guide for people like you. There are hip dating guides, there are hip parenting guides, but nothing for preeps like you.”