Death By Chick Lit (16 page)

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.”

 
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.

Lola decided she’d give herself one trip around the block on which Earl’s sat. She walked first toward the West Side Highway, past the one remaining pre-pashmina hourly rate hotel. Nothing. She rounded the corner and walked, illuminated only by headlights, along the highway, hulking aqueducts lining its far side along the Hudson. Farther ahead, on the next block, she could see some large fellows spilling out of The Choke, the only biker bar left in Manhattan that hadn’t been made into a movie.

Okay, she thought as she turned right again, I covered the waterfront.

The block she was now on was deserted, smelling of salt, bike exhaust, and possibly pee.

Lola’s phone beeped. She started.

I got a message? When did it even ring?

Lola dug the phone out of her bag.

Maybe it’s Annabel.

Please let it be Annabel, but only if she’s calling to take it all back.

Text message.

 
Ooh! That’s right around the corner. I’d love to see how her hair is—

Someone stepped out from behind a Dumpster.

Suddenly, Lola was face-to-face with Reading Guy.

Locking his huge magnified bug eyes with hers, he finally spoke.

“You’re next,” he said.

Thirty-three

This time, Lola did not contemplate the relative merits of backing away slowly. She turned on her heel and sprinted. Next time, she thought, remind me not to wear clogs to a getaway.

Fortunately, The Choke was close by. Lola knew she’d be safe once back on terra biker bar, considering that most of its customers also worked as bouncers. And indeed, she reached the gleaming rows of motorcycles before she’d even had a chance to look back.

Now, though, she did.

And Reading Guy was gone.

“You all right?”

Lola whirled back around. An extremely tan woman in a jean jacket and leather pants was leaning on a motorcycle, cigarette in one hand, pen in the other. The wisp of curling smoke wove past her long feather earrings and into her wavy brown hair.

“Oh, me? Oh, yeah, I’m fine, thanks,” said Lola, waving a hand dismissively. Yeah. Now ask me about my marriage. And my best friendship.

She stood there another moment to catch her breath. The woman nodded and wrote something down. Lola glanced at the notebook balanced on the motorcycle seat.

“Are—are you a reporter?” she asked.

“Oh, no.” The woman smiled. “I mean, not really. A writer. I’m writing a book about being a female biker. You know, a memoir.”