Death By Chick Lit

by Lynn Harris

  “Well, there you go,” said Doug, finishing the article.

  “Yep,” said Lola. “If she did it.”

  “God, my iBook looks hot on your lap,” Doug said drowsily.

  Lola reached for his hand, then remembered. “Shoot, my mom asked me to call her right back.” She reached instead for the phone.

  “Well, now that you’re up to speed, there’s another reason I’m upset,” said Mrs. Somerville.

  Oh God. What did I do? What does she know? The kid-in-trouble neurons, despite their thirty-two years, were—like those breakup neurons—still always thisclose to firing.

  “What, Mom?”

  “It’s about Wilma,” said Mrs. Somerville. “I know she didn’t do it.”

  Thirty-six

  “Wilma and I go way back, back to the days of protesting Deep Throat,” Mrs. Somerville explained. “Of course I was three at the time.”

  “Wait, what?”

  “Lulu, I’m kidding.”

  “Sorry, Mom. I’m just trying to keep my head from exploding.” Lola passed the laptop back to Doug. “Why hadn’t you ever told me?”

  “Well, she’s actually still a client,” said Mrs. Somerville. “I’m supposed to keep those things on the low-down, or the down-low, or whatever you call it.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “This time, no,” said Lola’s mom. “And I know she’s not guilty of murder.”

  “Just not capable of it, huh?” asked Lola.

  “Oh no, Wilma’d rip your throat out in a heartbeat,” said her mother. “I just know she didn’t do this.”

  “How?”

  “I … just do.”

  “Well, can you do something? Say something?”

  “I’d rather wait and see her released for lack of evidence than do anything that would threaten our confidentiality agreement.” Mrs. Somerville sighed. “Even so, this could be a major setback for her. She was doing so well at journaling through her rage.”

  “Wow, Mom,” said Lola.

  “Guess all we can do in the meantime is double our contributions to NOW.”

  “Yeah, I thought of that,” said Lola.

  “Lulu, you’ll keep this under your hat, won’t you?”

  “Of course, Mom.”

  “You do wear a hat, don’t you?”

  “Of course, Mommy.”

  Lola got ready for bed feeling vaguely better. Quentin had e-mailed to say he’d been glad to hear the news about Wilma—at least she wouldn’t feel such acute pressure to come through for him right now. Doug, poor thing, had drifted off with his glasses on and his hands on his iBook, itself asleep. Lola gently removed both and tucked him in.

  I know things will be okay, she thought. I just have to be careful. I trust my mom’s professional instincts a hundred percent, less so the cops’ interest in speedily clearing Wilma’s name. This could buy me a bit more time, Lola thought, to track down the real killer. Then mom’s happy, Wilma’s happy, Quentin’s happy, I’m happy: everybody wins. Except Detective Bobbsey.

  Well, that was easy, Lola thought, adjusting the covers. Now, what about Annabel?

  Okay, I can think about her for five minutes, and then, when I roll over to my other side, I have to stop.

  Lola thought about Annabel.

  She rolled over.

  Lola kept thinking about Annabel.

  With a mystery, I can more or less make my own way. And I’m fine with friendships as long as they’re … fine. But this one, right now, I just don’t know how to fix.

  Finally drifting off, Doug snoring softly next to her, Lola slipped into an unpleasant dream. She was trapped, squinting and blinking, in some too-bright place, some place with an acrid, almost burnt-coffee smell, some place where she felt she didn’t belong but yet, for some reason, had to be. She walked down carpeted aisles with no end, picking up speed as her discomfort increased, then recoiling as her toe touched one body sprawled on the floor, then another. Her heart raced. A rumbling behind her made her turn her head. Rolling down the aisle toward her, like the boulder in Indiana Jones, was a giant blueberry scone. Lola ran. She opened her mouth to scream. Nothing came out.

  Lola woke up in a damp sweat. She touched Doug’s arm gently, then drew back. When morning came, she now knew, her quest would have to take her to its scariest place yet.

  Thirty-seven

  There were few places that frightened Lola more than the bookstore.

  Well, not just any bookstore. Primarily the megastore Starbooks, which had in fact gulped most other bookstores, and even a couple of libraries, into its heaving maw. (Ironically, though, Starbooks had served as a great boon to gay bookstores ever since the uproar over the chain’s refusal to stock the book Daddy’s Roommate.)

  Despite neighborhood protest, a new Starbooks had just opened in downtown Brooklyn amid the Foot Lockers and fried chicken joints. Like the others in the chain, it also sold CDs, DVDs, reading-related accessories—bookmarks, lamps, chairs—and, at the café, baked goods marked with their respective trans-fat content and “Staruccinos” in suspicious flavors such as tiramisu and country peach. The Brooklyn store’s claim to fame was that two employees had recently gotten married in its central aisle, which may have had something to do with the fact that the store’s construction had required mowing down a church.

  So Lola feared Starbooks’ global domination plan, not to mention its bagels, and also the unbecoming feelings that any bookstore provoked in her. Normally, when she’d venture in on perverse impulse, she’d find her books on the shelf, which was great, except they’d be the same three books she’d seen on the shelf the last time she’d checked. (She’d leave a small crease on a back page as evidence for her return trip.) And then, of course, she’d see everyone else’s books enjoying pride of place on an end-of-aisle rack or some sort of exciting “customer favorites” display.

  Maybe today, with her moment on the Day’s bestseller list, would be better.

  Of course, today hadn’t started off so great in other ways, Lola thought as she walked past the cement-and-wire juvie prison whose lower floors were currently being transformed into retail shops. Doug had gone off to Tekserve, leaving the other half of his banana sliced in a cereal bowl for Lola. (“I wasn’t sure when you’d be up!” he’d said, pecking her on the cheek. “And … not sure when I’ll be home. I think I’m gonna meet Chris and Colin—the Old Bath-house is showing Shaolin Soccer in 3-D. Stay out of trouble, ’kay?”) Boy, did he look cute when he wore a button-down that wasn’t a bowling shirt. Or did I notice his shirt ’cause I can’t hold his gaze?

  Lola watered her plants, then set off for the long, hopefully head-clearing walk to downtown. Even Reading Guy, it seemed, had joined Annabel in the Avoiding Lola Club. While she felt fairly confident that Reading Guy wouldn’t attempt to stalk her in broad daylight, she also felt, when she looked back and saw no one behind her, more alone than ever.

  She passed Four Franks, the famous storefront restaurant known for its mob connections and lack of printed menu. What they had that night, you ate. The dinner she had had there with Annabel, not too long ago, was the only time Lola had ever eaten veal, because she’d been afraid to say no to the waiter.

  Annabel. On impulse, Lola dialed from her cell, mostly hoping her friend wouldn’t pick up, unless of course she were to pick up and say, “Lo, I take it all back. I know now that I was a victim of absinthe.”

  Voice mail.

  “Bella, it’s me. I’m just—I suck. Call me back. I mean, if you want.” Lola paused, then hung up.

  Bravissima! That was pathetic.

  Lola put her phone away, making sure the ringer was set to Loud.

  As she pushed open the door of Starbooks, Lola noticed right away that she was among a minority of people entering the store on foot. Strollers everywhere, all going the same way like some sort of Bugaboo wagon train. Lola craned her neck. Over in the kids’ section, she could make out the tips of some white rabbit ears on a furrily costumed grown-
up, likely a graduate of Juilliard’s drama program trying to make a living, and likely there for an event promoting the upcoming release of Pat the Bunny:The Movie.

  Can I really bring a child into this world?

  Lola took a step toward the chick lit section, then stopped.

  Well, that’s handy.

  The books I’m looking for should all be right here on this new display.

  Lola approached the table near the front whose sign usually read something like Hot Beach Reads! or Everything Da Vinci! Today, it read Murdered Authors.

  Lola quickly found Mimi’s, Daphne’s, and Honey’s books among a few apparent murdered-author afterthoughts: Marlowe’s Doctor Faustus and a couple of works by dissident intellectuals.

  Let’s think. Who stands to profit from these deaths? Starbooks, sure, but nefarious as they are, its hard to believe they’d hire assassins. The authors’ agents? Lola knew the three women did not share an agent or a publisher. What else could they have in common?

  Grabbing copies of her friends’ books, she went looking for a chair. The bookstore’s Biography and Emeril Lagasse sections were too crowded, but Lola found an empty seat in Current Events. As she settled into the crumb-flecked chair, someone caught her eye.

  It was Blanca Palette, with some really lovely new auburn highlights. But she didn’t look as good as her hair. Sniffling slightly, she was pulling her books out of the chick lit section and placing them in the crook of her arm.

  Oh no, Lola thought. Has she resorted to buying them all herself to boost sales?

  More likely, of course, is that she’s bringing them up to the front desk so she can sign them and get them affixed with Signed By Author stickers, which could help a bit with sales. It always struck Lola as funny that when she went in to ask to sign her books, no one ever seemed to double-check her face against her author photo. She’d always wondered what would happen if she came in and asked to sign Alexander Haig’s autobiography, say.

  Watching Blanca turn away, Lola was struck by a hunch. She set her reading project down on her seat and tiptoed after Blanca, her steps muffled by the store’s ambient music, which appeared to be Andrea Bocelli’s earsplitting duet with Elmo. Sure enough, Blanca took a left into the literary fiction section and seemed to go straight to a familiar spot. Calmly, like a practiced criminal, she set her books on the shelf, facing out, and walked briskly off. Lola waited a beat, then took a look. Sure enough, there they sat, under P, between Paletta and Palevsky, in their rightful literary place.

  Poor Blanca.

  Lola found her chair still empty and picked up her books again. She wasn’t sure what she was looking for. She just knew that police-work-wise, she was at a loss: utterly confused by recent events with Reading Guy, unsure of how to proceed with the Wilma defense. That’s why she had a strong urge to turn, for her next step, to what she did know: books. Could these three departed authors have more in common than a literary genre? Lola wondered. And, simply by doing a close reading, could I be the one to uncover it?

  Let’s see. Should I start in murder order or alpha by first name? Lola selected the less creepy option and opened Daphne’s book.

  Half an hour later, she was still engrossed—and more than halfway done.

  This is actually pretty good, Lola thought, stopping for a moment to stretch. Poor Daphne.

  She turned a page. Then another. And then, frowning, she read that same page again.

  No way.

  She read the section one more time to be sure.

  Yep, it’s there.

  Can this possibly be a coincidence?

  Thirty-eight

  I was in his remarkably clean bathroom, putting in my contacts, thanking God that I’d finally gotten mature enough to realize that traveling with saline solution was not so much slutty as practical, when I heard a sudden and rather dramatic yelp from the kitchen.

  What could be the matter? Had Max just realized he’d made decaf instead of regular? Had he been bested by Lianne Hansen on the Morning Edition word puzzle? Had he realized he wished that last night, though not much had happened, had never happened?

  I was curious to know what was wrong, of course, but I also really wanted to be out of there already. Just because I’d stayed over at his apartment didn’t mean I knew how I felt about him; it simply meant that I lived in Brooklyn.

  So into the kitchen I went, still blind in one contactless eye, to see what had happened.

  “Hey, you okay?” I asked.

  Far as I could make out, Max was sitting on a kitchen stool, gripping its sides, staring at the open door under his sink.

  “Can you do me a favor?” he asked. He sounded terribly rattled.

  “Does it require binocular vision?” I asked.

  “Can you get rid of the mouse under the sink?”

  It all sounded crazily, impossibly familiar. There was just one salient difference.

  With my useless eye closed, I took a piece of paper towel, used it to remove the poor dead mouse from the “humane” trap, dropped it into a blue New York Times bag, walked it all the way down to the trash can on the street, washed my hands, and put in my other contact, thinking all the while, “Now, this is a man who’s not afraid to show that he’s vulnerable.”

  I walked back into the kitchen, smiling, and took Max’s hand.

  “Brooklyn can wait,” I purred. “Let’s go back to bed.”

  Lola shut the book, her head spinning. How could Daphne have come up with that? Aside from the, uh, happier ending, the rest of the scene was, play by play, practically line by line, exactly what had happened between Lola and Quentin that infamous mousy morning.

  Had Quentin told Daphne? He must have, except for the part where Lola was fairly sure the two of them had never met. Even at Mimi’s side, he wasn’t quite far enough up the fabulous food chain. I mean sure, maybe they met at a party, maybe it just came up, maybe the story—in uncanny detail?—just made its way into Daphne’s book.

  Or could Quentin have told Mimi, and Mimi told Daphne? Either could be true, but why? Lola couldn’t imagine Quentin boasting about the real story or lying about the fake one. It wasn’t Quentin’s style, and at the end of the day, with either ending, it just wasn’t that good a story.

  No, the Quentin/mouse story was hardly the stuff of urban legend, and even if it were, it would never have been passed along in such accurate detail. And Lola’s spider sense told her that its strange and ninety-nine percent accurate appearance in the book was more than an idle coincidence.

  Really, Lola thought, this comes back down to Daphne, who is dead. And Quentin, who is not.

  And whose entire hard drive is in my house.

  Thirty-nine

  This time, Lola decided, I’ll take the damn bus.

  She waited on the corner of Atlantic and Ledger, hands shoved in her jean-skirt pockets, tapping her clog.

  C’mon, bus.

  Lola stared at the ad on the side of the small Plexiglas shelter.

  Sweet Nothings, it read. Two Sisters. One Calorie. No Shame.

  Swell, Lola thought. The ridiculous Crystal girls get their own reality show, I get to wait for the bus.

  She stepped out of the shelter and looked down the street.

  C’mon, bus. Detective Somerville’s got a lead to follow.

  She leafed through the rest of Daphne’s book, which she’d forced herself to buy, but found no other mysterious passages at first glance. She tried to scan the others but just couldn’t get herself to concentrate.

  C’mon, bus.

  Of course, if I were Doug, I’d do something useful while I’m standing here, like use my fancy phone to check e-mail or surf the Web.

  Also, if I were Doug, I’d hate me.

  C’mon, bus.

  Laughter erupted behind her. Turning, Lola saw a pack of stroller-pushing moms in vintage granny-style glasses and Tshirts with cracked iron-ons that said things like Free Winona and Quispy, Quunchy, Quazy Energy Cereal, their children shaded from th
e fierce sun with mini-trucker caps. They were heading for a newish-looking bar called Grup, sandwiched between a knitting store and a bail bonds joint. Lola, puzzled, glanced at the blackboard easel sitting on the sidewalk outside the bar: Liquid Play Date, it read. 2 for 1 ’til 2 PM.

  C’mon, bus. C’mon, book deal. The sooner I get my life in order, the sooner I can enjoy a liquid play date.

  Lola glanced down the avenue again, then the opposite direction. Are buses even, like, running? Is there a strike I don’t know about?

  Wait, was that—?

  Lola squinted into the sun, dimly aware that with her level of myopia, which could lead to macular degeneration, she was supposed to wear sunglasses in all seasons and take a daily dose of lutein.

  Yep. That was Leo’s Escarole, coming down the far side of the street.

  Boy, could I use a ride. Was that Leo driving?

  Lola waved tentatively. As she strained to see, she thought she noticed the SUV slow down a bit as she entered its sights.

  Oh, awesome.

  But then, just as fast, it accelerated and sped away. Just as it passed, Lola saw Leo’s face, staring straight ahead, behind the wheel. And someone else in the passenger seat.

  Annabel.

  Must have been.

  Ouch.

  Wounded, Lola blinked back tears.

  C’mon, bus.

  Lola moped for the whole ride from downtown to NoWay, her concentration on her hurt feelings broken only once, by a five-year-old girl in tiny Ugg boots howling for “another cappuccino.”

  “That’s enough!” hissed her weary mother, flylike in her giant sunglasses. “Do you want to wind up in Metropolitan Diary?”

  Once home, Lola made herself shake off the sulk and get to work. Back in her office, she poured herself some seltzer and attached Doug’s minidrive, which held Quentin’s hard drive—and, hopefully, something to go on—to her computer. The Mac clicked and whirred obediently.

  Let’s see.

  Lola opened a folder marked Puzzles. Sure enough, puzzles. She clicked around a bit, but nothing leapt out.

  Hmm. How about Misc.? Feh. Just some drafts of a speech Quentin had given at some sort of puzzle writers’ convention.