Death By Chick Lit

by Lynn Harris

  “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 CSIing. 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?r />
  “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.”

  “Really!?”

  “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.”

  “Are you still gonna work with them?” Doug asked.

  “If you call it work. I need the money. If I ever see it,” said Annabel. “Far as I know, they don’t actually kill people—though they don’t exactly step up when their ‘authors’ die. But mainly, Lo? I was embarrassed. I knew you would think the whole thing was sketchy. I knew you’d be pissed off that you were actually writing—or trying to write—while people sped past you and hit the jackpot, seemingly, or actually, without doing anything. And I knew I might be one of those people. I took everything out on you, like a huge spaz, because I didn’t know how to tell you.”

  “Well, you’re right,” said Lola. “It is sketchy, and I would have been pissed. But I’d be lying if I said I wouldn’t have done the exact same thing in your shoes.” In fact, she was smarting a little that this company had never contacted her about a project. Even just to give her the opportunity to say no. Which is what she’d like to think she would have said, but she wasn’t entirely sure.

  They were just about home. Lola’s trumpet vines stirred a bit in the feeble breeze. “Hey, Annabel,” said Lola. “By any chance is this company called The Cover?”

  “Shh!” said Annabel, eyes wide. “How did you know?”

  Just then, a chunky figure emerged from behind a hollyhock.

  “Reading Guy!” said Lola.

  Fifty-two

  “Reading Guy, huh?” said Reading Guy, his hands up. “I expected worse.” He pushed up his glasses with one hand, then returned to I-come-in-peace position. “Name’s Bailey.”

  “Any particular reason you’re hanging around my wife’s garden, Mr. Bailey?” Doug asked.

  “The tomatoes aren’t even ready yet,” said Lola, glaring, hands on hips.

  “There’s something you need to know about me,” Reading Guy said, letting his hands fall by his high-waisted sides. Now his voice sounded remarkably … normal. No heavy, snotty breathing, no mention of having crafted any sort of Lola doll using her real fingernail clippings. “Or rather, about your mom.”

  “My mom?!”

  Reading Guy sighed, his froggy head coming to rest even closer to his shoulders. “She hired me.”

  “Hired you? For what?”

  “Well, you know, she worries about you,” said Reading Guy, hiking up his pants. “She wanted me to keep an eye on you.”

  Lola stared.

  “I’m a part-time private detective. And a chick lit fan, as you know. Perfect match, she thought.”

  “You’re kidding.” Lola squinted, urging her memory to make sense of this. “So that time outside Earl’s, why did you tell me I was next?”

  “You were. If the killer were going by the Day bestseller list. Your mom actually alerted me to that.”

  Damn, she’s good. Lola couldn’t help a slight smile. “But what about tonight? If you’re supposed to be keeping an eye on me, how come you’re here instead of the crime scene? You do know about that, right?”

  “Yeah,” Reading Guy looked back over Lola’s shoulder. “Got there right about when these two did. Managed to lay low.” He fiddled with a leaf. “As I said, I’m only part-time. And frankly, not that good. Plus, I don’t have a car. Oh, and Bailey’s my first name—”

  “Why did you bother following me to Coney Island?” she asked. “I was clearly just on a date with my husband, who, not that we’re not both feminists, is perfectly capable of protecting me as the situation warrants.”

  “Oh, I didn’t follow you that day,” Reading Guy said. He rubbed his glasses on a loose plaid shirttail. “I just had some time to kill before a meeting with the antidevelopment coalition. It’s a crime what those voracious capitalists want to do to a place of such deep cultural and historical significance, not to mention unsurpassed corn dogs.”

  Not only is Reading Guy exactly right about Coney, he’s also just kind of a dweeb, Lola realized, contrite. Well, a huge dweeb, really, but just a dweeb.

  There was just one more stone to turn here.

  “Can you hold on for one sec?” Lola asked, stepping aside.

  “Dude, who has the better corn dogs, Pete’s Clam Stop or Nathan’s?” Doug asked Reading Guy.

  “Hey, don’t forget that other place next to the haunted wax museum,” Annabel chimed in.

  Lola had gotten out her now-famous phone. “Mom?”

  “Lulu, I was just about to call you! I just read they caught the Chick Lit Killer! I can’t tell you how relieved I am.”

  “The article you saw, did it happen to mention me?”

  “No, it was just one of those breaking headlines from the Times. I get them e-mailed. No full story yet. But why do I have a feeling you had something to do with it?”

  Lola laughed.

  “No, really. Ask me why.”

  “What? Oh. Okay, why? Why do you have a feeling I had something to do with it?”

  “Because, well, I’d like to think I had something to do with your having something to do with it,” her mother replied.
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br />   “Wait, what?” asked Lola.

  “So you did? Have something to do with it?”

  “Well, I did kind of catch the killer,” said Lola. “Shortly after he caught me.”

  “Oh honey! I’m so proud! Wait till I tell your father,” said Mrs. Somerville. “But first, let me stop talking in circles.”

  “Yes, please!”

  “Lola, about Wilma. I was actually on the phone with her the entire time she was at Bergdorf’s. That’s how I knew she didn’t do it. Had she been charged with the crime, I certainly would have come forward right away. But I called you and gave you a hint when the opportunity arose because I wanted to give you the chance to get ahead of the cops on the case.”

  Whoa. “Which you knew I was working on because of the guy you hired to keep an eye on me.”

  Mrs. Somerville paused. “Well, partly because I know you. But … yes. Also because, well, I found Bailey on The Craig List, and—” said Mrs. Somerville.

  “Mom! That’s just—it’s embarrassing. I’m a grown, married woman. You have to figure out how to trust me.”

  “Lola, I know. I do trust you. Completely. I admire you. You’re principled, thoughtful, you’ve got a real head on your shoulders—I couldn’t ask for a more wonderful daughter,” Mrs. Somerville said.

  Lola’s heart took an extra beat, sort of the way it used to when a cute boy called. I so needed to hear that, she thought.

  “And are you forgetting the part where I threw you a bone?”

  “Yes,” said Lola, chastised.

  “I know you love a caper. I know you’re looking for your next big thing,” her mother said. “I wasn’t at all surprised when Bailey told me he thought you were also trying to find the killer. Though I thought it was pretty funny that for a little while there you seemed to think he was the killer.”

  Heh. Right.

  “But, as you know, I’m a little cuckoo,” Mrs. Somerville went on. “I trust you—I just don’t trust myself not to go crazy with worry, especially when there’s a chick lit killer on the loose, even though your book isn’t technically chick lit,” she said. “Hiring Bailey was an indulgence. For me. I know it was probably a little over-the-top, but you have to admit, so were the circumstances. Anyway, I’m sorry. And I guess we won’t be needing him anymore, will we?”