Death By Chick Lit

by Lynn Harris

  “Mmmm, the tallest … 420 feet, ninety-degree incline, speeds up to 120 miles per hour,” Doug murmured. “How did you know about that ride?”

  “I’m married to you,” said Lola, kissing him.

  The next few days passed mercifully murder-free, just as Lola had hoped. She spent the time hunkering down with her Mac, finishing up an assignment for Stylicious called “Is It Time to Break Up with Your Friend?” that was remarkably, though not action-ably, similar to stories she’d written the year before, and the year before that, which were entitled, respectively, “Spring Clean Your Social Life: Do All Your Friends Still Fit?” and, yes, “Is It Time to Break Up with Your Friend?” After finally doing some emergency gardening—stripping some dead leaves from her peonies and giving her honeysuckle a haircut—she wrapped up a reported essay for Frisson.com about the social history of female action figures. This stuff, she loved. And Doug was happy to lend his Tomart’s Price Guide to Action Figure Collectibles to the cause.

  “I can’t decide if it would be cool or uncool if they made an action figure of you,” said Doug, having corrected a few of her facts. (“No, Lady Jaye didn’t have swivel-arm battle grip. Baroness did.”)

  “Um, cool?” said Lola.

  “Right, but would it also be, like, objectifying?” He thought for a second, eyes on the ceiling. “No, yeah, it would be cool.”

  Doug put the book back down and massaged the back of Lola’s neck. “Hey, haven’t you written articles about how married couples should have, like, Date Night?”

  “Yes,” said Lola. “I believe that tip appeared in my articles ‘10 Ways to Make Your Marriage Sexier,’ ‘15 Ways to Get That Spark Back … Tonight!’ and ‘20 Ways to Make Your Marriage Sexier.’ ”

  “I trust you got paid double for the twenty?” laughed Doug. “No, really. How about tomorrow? Let me make you dinner. It’ll be our do-over from Coney.”

  Oh dear. Tomorrow could be bad.

  He was nuzzling her neck. “I’ll fire up the kitchen torch.” That could mean only one thing: crème brûlée.

  “Mmmmmm,” said Lola. “Sweetie, I would love that.” She nuzzled him back. “But can it be Saturday?”

  Doug leaned back. “Saturday. Well, I’m supposed to volunteer at Tekserve, which I’d rather not miss. But I guess if we had to … Why, what’s tomorrow?”

  “Well, I’m not sure yet. But it could be something good and fun, and I’d want you to be with me,” said Lola. “Thing is, there’s a chance it might not happen, so—”

  “Jeez, Lo, what is it?”

  “You’ll see. Or not. Uch, sorry. I promise we’ll have our dinner, sweetie.” About her ongoing machinations—which were much more, of course, than the “desk job” Lola had described—Lola just couldn’t bring herself to admit the details to Doug. Not just because they were, potentially, crème brûlée for her ego, but also because they could put her in danger.

  I want him neither to stop me nor to think I’ve sunk this far.

  “Okay, Lo, whatever,” said Doug. “You know what, better let’s wait for a night we can definitely commit to. And maybe until your basil is just a few days bigger.”

  “That works,” Lola smiled as sweetly as she could. She pulled her husband close. Let’s just get through the next couple of days, she thought, and then I can go back to avoiding the discussion about children.

  Lola got up early, even for her, and opened the New York Day’s website before even checking her garden. She paused briefly to acknowledge the generally brilliant front page headline (naked guy stranded on midtown windowsill: “Moon Over Manhattan”), then clicked to the Books page.

  Yep.

  There it was.

  I cannot freaking believe this worked.

  Thirty

  Lola had rallied Doug and Annabel to meet her at Earl’s, a steakhouse in Manhattan’s meatpacking district that dated back to the era when denizens of the district actually packed meat. The crooked cobblestone streets, once awash in blood and feathers, were now lined with velvet ropes and limos. Basically, it made SoHo look like New Jersey’s Paramus Mall.

  Earl’s, on the other hand, at the farthest edge of the district at the West Side Highway, was like the lone building standing after a pashmina hurricane. Old wooden bar, career waiters in white, giant thick steaks, creamed spinach. Writers hung out there, real writers, escaping their better-known haunts now overrun by college kids in the Village and the tourists in midtown. Lola thought of it as the Algonquin: West.

  Lola also happened to know that Earl’s massive, dungeonlike basement contained a meat locker, as any self-respecting scary basement must.

  Lola and Doug ordered gin and tonics, their house drink in the summer, unless Doug was in the mood to muddle mint for mojitos.

  The bartender slid the tumblers toward them. “Oh, and um, I’m Lola Somerville?” Lola told the bartender.

  “Oh! Hang on!” He peeked down at something behind the bar. “Cool. On the house! Yours, too, buddy. Why not?”

  Lola grinned.

  “Wow, thanks. What—?” Doug asked, fishing out a couple of singles.

  “Tell you as soon as Annabel gets here,” Lola smiled.

  Beep.

  Lola’s phone announced a text message. She hesitated, sensing that she should be giving Doug her full attention.

  Okay, just a quick peek.

  9:04 PM, krispykremey: Honey Porter at Bergdorf’s, highlighting her highlights

  Beep. Another.

  9:05 PM, snowwhite: Who the hell is Honey Porter?

  Hooo-kay, Lola thought, we’ll leave out that part when I tell Honey she made Celebuphone. Good for her for keeping up with the highlights, what with the triplets and all.

  “Sorry,” Lola said to Doug, conspicuously setting her phone to vibrate.

  “Are you ready to admit that you can’t live without that thing?” Doug asked.

  “I can’t live without this thing,” Lola said, pointing at Doug. Okay, that was awkward. Was that smile of his a little forced?

  “Hey, guys,” said Annabel.

  “Hey! That is awesome,” said Lola, admiring Annabel’s cowgirl-style fringed suede skirt. “Where’s Leo?”

  Annabel opened her mouth, closed it, then opened it again. “He doesn’t go everywhere I go,” said Annabel. “On dates, for example, not so much.”

  “We’re not a date,” said Lola.

  “Yeah, but Ari is,” said Annabel. “At ten.”

  “Oh, great!” Lola said.

  Evidently, she wasn’t too convincing.

  “Lola, you can say it,” Annabel said. “You’re amused by my single antics, but you really want me to go out with Leo.”

  Whoa. Where did that come from?

  “Well, the incident with Glassblower Guy was hilarious,” said Lola.

  Annabel didn’t laugh.

  “I—Bella, I want you to do whatever you want,” said Lola.

  Except publish a book based on your blog.

  “Okay, but you think I should go out with Leo.”

  Yow. Clearly this has been brewing. Clearly I have been distracted.

  “I don’t know about should, I just think he’s—”

  “Sturdy? Dependable? Normal?” asked Annabel. “Lola, this isn’t a book. Just because he’s the ‘great guy’ who’s ‘right under my nose’ doesn’t mean I’m ‘supposed’ to be with him. Did it occur to you that I might just like him, but not like like him? Hmm, which advice columnist—former advice columnist—used to write about that stuff, telling people to not feel like they’re being too ‘picky’ if they just don’t feel it for someone ‘terrific’? Oh wait. That was you.”

  Lola wanted to crawl into a bottle of grappa. Always the please-everyone only child, she hated getting in trouble—and above all, she hated fighting with her friends. In fact, she avoided it to the point that this was the first time she really remembered doing it. Even though Annabel was naturally more ornery than she was, she had the sense that this was big, big and a
wful, not like two kids on the playground who scream bloody murder at each other one second and play nice, all forgotten, the next. Lola didn’t know how to do that. Or how to tell herself, “All right, she’s angry; what can I learn from this?” Or what to say.

  So Lola sat, cowed and silent.

  “Lo, I don’t know. You’ve been helpful and supportive on the outside, but still. I get this other vibe in there, too. It’s been feeling like you’re waiting for me to grow up and settle down, like you,” said Annabel. “I know you guys don’t have a den or anything, but still. I never thought it would happen,” she said, shaking her head and taking a breath, “but I believe you’ve become a Smug Married.”

  That hit Lola where it hurt. Smack in the middle of her no-blest intentions.

  “But Annabel, I don’t get it. It’s not like I vanished, like, you know, everyone else, and got all uncool and ‘we just don’t have the energy for fun anymore.’ I don’t wax rhapsodic about how ‘someday you’ll understand.’ Didn’t we just have that talk about how everyone else is old? I still come out to parties and hang out with friends and—”

  “Lo, it’s not how you talk about you, it’s how you talk about me,” said Annabel. “To me. Besides, how well do I know you, Lola?”

  Better than I want you to?

  “It’s not something specific that you did or said,” Annabel went on. “It’s something I can feel.”

  Then it hit Lola, sickening and sudden, like a wet, moldy gym towel someone snapped in her face. Annabel was right, but only half.

  I don’t want Annabel to “settle down”! I want to want her to. I want her right where she is, single and nutty, so I can be the sturdy one. I want her right where she is, so I can sit in judgment.

  “Annabel, I—”

  “I don’t want to be mad at you, Lo. But I’m going to go be early for my date now, how crazy is that?” She drained her drink and left a ten on the bar. “I’ll talk to you.”

  She kissed Lola on the cheek, said “Bye, Doug,” and left.

  Lola turned to Doug, helpless. He looked into his drink, then at his wife.

  “Smug, I don’t know,” he said. “It’s the married part that’s bugging me.”

  Thirty-one

  Lola stared.

  Is he breaking up with me?

  She knew she wasn’t single anymore, but somehow, the same neurons were screaming “Mayday!” In any case, she was clearly in trouble.

  With the two people I love most, is all.

  “Doug? What do you mean?”

  “I just—God, I hate to bombard you after all that …”

  “No, no, go ahead,” said Lola, signaling the bartender. “What, you should wait till I’m happy?”

  “Well, I mean—and maybe in a weird way this is also related to what Annabel’s feeling, so it seems maybe relevant … I just, it’s like—uch, okay, I can’t pretend this isn’t bugging me anymore. It’s that—especially since the murders, which I know has only been like a week—I never see you. Or like, even when I see you, I don’t, really. Like at Coney. I feel like something should have shifted since then, but it hasn’t,” Doug said. He picked up his drink and absently wiped away the damp circle underneath. “’Cause I know, Lo, that you’re doing anything you can to not talk about what I brought up the other day.”

  “The season finale of 24?”

  Doug didn’t laugh.

  Gah. For once, Lola, could you deactivate your Humor Defense Shields?

  “Doug, I—”

  “I know you love me, Lola. And I know being the easygoing good sport is, like, my thing. But I feel a bit … taken for granted. I know you’re trying hard not to be swallowed into wifedom, making sure to see your friends and everything, but what advice columnist—”

  “Former.”

  “Whatever. What advice columnist was always reminding readers that marriage isn’t the holy grail; it’s when the work starts?”

  Lola, chastened, raised her hand. “Me?”

  “Not like I think there’s anything to work on, like anything’s wrong. But, you know, plants need water.”

  “I know,” said Lola. About that grappa bottle, she did feel just about small enough to crawl in. “I’m—”

  “And it’s not just the friends; it’s work. Your work. I’m glad you have lots; that’s great. It’s not just the time you spend, though. It’s this all-about-you persecution-complex ambition thing you have going on—it’s, like, running you. I just feel it, like Annabel. Even more so—way more so—since the murders. It’s like, your jaw is set so hard.”

  “Sweetie, I—”

  “And while we’re on the subject, why on earth was schlepping to the West Side Highway for a Tanqueray and tonic more important than date night at home?”

  “I—” Lola began. Doug didn’t interrupt her this time. “Well,” Lola tried again, drawing a breath. “This may not be the most festive time to tell you that I made number three on the New York Day Chick Lit Bestseller list.”

  Or that the late Mimi McKee and Daphne Duplex were still holding steady in, respectively, places five and four. Right where they’d been the last time Lola checked, right after she’d met Destiny.

  Thirty-two

  “Whoa,” said Doug. “I guess people do read those reviews! That’s great, sweetie.”

  Lola was right, of course. It wasn’t the best time. His tone was sweet, yet hollow, like those hard candies that melt into sharp edges that cut your tongue.

  “Thanks,” said Lola. She sighed. “And see, well, ugh, it feels so lame now, but I was so happy I wanted to come here because they serve free drinks to any writer on any bestseller list the day it comes out—and I’d just never had the chance—”

  “Ah,” said Doug.

  “I just thought the scene might be a little more festive,” said Lola. She looked around. Most of the scruffy characters lined up at the bar, hunched over amber-filled glasses, did look like writers. Specifically, writers in a Graham Greene screenplay about writers down on their luck.

  Now I’m in a fix, she thought. I finally hatched a plot, and it’s actually falling into place. I really need to try to do what I came here to do. And I could really use Doug as backup, but God, I so can’t ask him now.

  Or Annabel, of course.

  Wow, am I alone right now.

  “Sweetie, let me just go to the bathroom,” Lola said. Compartmentalize, Somerville. Deal with horrible guilt and lameness later.

  Her only ally at this point was, of all people, Wally Seaport. He—not even her mother!—was the first person she’d called after seeing the bestseller list.

  “Thanks again for your help,” Lola had said that morning, polishing off her second cup of coffee.

  “Don’t mention it,” Wally replied.

  “Actually, I was going to ask you to,” she answered.

  “Mention it?”

  “Yes, please. On Royalty. Say I’ll be at Earl’s tonight. You know, the free drinks thingie,” she said. “I know you don’t owe me anything, but—oh, wait.”

  “Did you send me that cell phone?”

  “I can neither confirm nor deny,” Lola said flatly. She was enjoying this.

  “Well, I was just about to follow up with this Destiny place about the murders, so thanks.”

  Lola smiled silently, spinning in her desk chair.

  “Okay,” Wally went on. “Are you sure you want me to post about you and Earl’s? Have you ever—oh, I guess not. ’Cause really, it’s—”

  Lola interrupted. “I’m sure.”

  Bald-Faced Names

  Posted by Page Proof

  Jonesing for creamed spinach? Dreaming of meeting Pink Slip author/corpse magnet Lola Somerville, whose novel finally made an appearance on the Day’s Chick Lit list? Tonight you can satisfy both urges at Earl’s, where Royalty hears that Somerville, perhaps unaware that most writers play it cool and wait to hit the Times before collecting, will pop in for the free drinks she has technically now earned. For this drop-e
verything news, we thank our tipsterHey, c’mon! Royalty never reveals its sources.

  Ouch.

  Figures.

  Well.

  Whatever it takes.

  Lola did have to pat herself on the back when she got down to Earl’s basement. Just as she’d remembered, it was dark, deserted, full of weird storerooms. There was certainly no one hanging out near the ladies’ room—not so many ladies came here, after all. Good going, Somerville. You’ve laid the virtual bread crumbs; any chick lit killer in the know would follow the trail right here. This is indeed a good place for a murder.

  Attempted murder.

  Lola used the bathroom, dawdled at the scratched beveled mirror, listening for sounds. Nothing.

  Back out into the hall. Nothing. No one.

  What was that? She whirled around, catching her breath. Still nothing.

  Lola followed the hall to the end. EMERGENCY EXIT: ALARM WILL SOUND. Hmm. No way out but back up. Not the best getaway route. Maybe this is a bad place for a murder after all.

  Or maybe this plan is utterly insane and will never work in a million years.

  But while I’m here, let me take one more opportunity to make myself vulnerable. To the killer, not to my husband.

  “Doug, this has all been a bit heady,” Lola said, back at the bar. “I’m just going to walk around the block for a minute—you know, clear my head, gather my thoughts. I know most women do this in the ladies’ room, but that didn’t quite do it. I’ll come right back.”

  He hesitated for a moment. “Okay. But be careful. And then let’s go home?”

  “Sure,” said Lola. “Yes, definitely.” She kissed him on the cheek and squeezed his arm awkwardly. She was well aware that she—as before, and even now—had listened to and heard what Doug had to say, but they still hadn’t had an actual conversation about it.

  Okay. First this. Then that.

  It will surely be that simple, as my plan is, once again, insane, and nothing will happen on this redonkulous killer-luring venture into the dark creepy streets of the west end of the meatpacking district.