Death By Chick Lit (19 page)

 
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 T-shirts with cracked iron-ons that said things like Free Winona and Quispy, Quunchy, Quazy Energy Cereal, their children shaded from the 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.

Browser history. Lola clicked, deathly afraid she’d find links to naked photos of Alexandria Coltish.

Well. Quentin was apparently a fan of Annabel’s blog. Harrumph. But other than that, she found mostly links to obscure reference sources on military history, rare fauna, and famous shipwrecks—work stuff, must be. Ah, and here was a directory of baby names—surely Zoe would be a handy Z word? Xander could also be of use.

Sucked in, Lola searched one particular baby name site for “Lola,” though she knew the answer already. “Spanish: sorrowful.” Just for once, couldn’t one resource say “Welsh: wildly successful” or at least “Persian: forgivable”?

A name that meant
sorrowful
indeed seemed an odd choice for the generally cheerful Somerville family. In fact, Lola had been named for her father’s older brother Laszlo, whom Lola remembered only dimly. An avid athlete and healthy eater who had smoked about twice, like, ever, Uncle Laszlo had succumbed far too young to lung cancer, which had
really
crossed Lola’s mother’s worry wires.

Suddenly sentimental, Lola found her eyes wandering to an ad in the website’s margins that featured a photo of a supercute baby hatching from a giant egg.

Eggspirationdate.com? Lola clicked.

Oh, dear.

“YOUR TIME IS RUNNING OUT!”

The cute baby was gone. Instead, giant red letters flashed against a black screen.

“YOUR TIME IS RUNNING OUT!”

“YOUR TIME IS RUNNING OUT!”

Warily, Lola scrolled down.

“We know you’re busy. Busy focusing on your career, your fun, your desire to live in the moment, your search for a great guy who’s worthy of forever. But do you know what your eggs are doing while you’re so busy? They’re
spoiling
, if not running out entirely. And do you know where that’s going to leave you when—if!—you finally get around to trying to get pregnant? Busy . . . being
barren
.

“Fortunately, we are here to help. Click on the links at right for testimonials by women who wised up just in time; information about invasive, expensive, last-ditch fertility treatments; and our Internet dating partner,
Good-Enough.com
.”

Lola wiped her brow. Ye gods, was that a bead of sweat?

I am
not
going to hurry up and breed just out of fear, she resolved. That can’t be good for the baby.

Though now I really am a little scared, she thought. Sorrowful, maybe even. Why? Because that damn site awakened my true—and bereft—maternal instincts? Or because I’m one of the lucky ones who found someone “worthy,” but he and I are not in a very baby place right now? Even though my most recent actions might have led him to believe we’re closer?

Lola squeezed her eyes shut and quit Quentin’s browser altogether.

Focus, Somerville, focus.

Okay. Okay. Think.

What’s left?

Quentin’s e-mail archives.

Lola clicked.

Hell’s bells.

I’m going to need his password.

Lola noodled around Quentin’s internal settings, searching for any sort of clue or perhaps a handy document marked List of Quentin’s Passwords.

Eureka!

I am a genius, thought Lola. She’d dug up the list of passwords stored by his Web browser.

Going back to his e-mail, she tried them one by one.

Not one of them worked.

God
damn
it.

Lola leaned back in her chair, letting out a long breath. There’s only one thing I can do right now, she thought. And it’s really, really bad.

Forty

“Dougie, I need your help.” Lola had the phone propped between her ear and shoulder. “I know you’re busy over there. I’m sorry.”

“Of course, monkey, no problem. I actually have a couple minutes right now. Do you need Help as in ‘I need your input on this life decision’ help, or help as in—”

“Tech support,” said Lola.

“Even better,” said Doug.

“I’m—I’m trying to help Sylvie—you know Sylvie, the editor?—anyway, I’m trying to help her open something she sent to Web mail for safekeeping. Only now she’s forgotten the password, and she needs it. Much as I have learned from you, this is beyond my hacking ability.”

There. She’d done it. The biggest, most specific lie she’d ever told Doug. The second biggest, but more vague—and only other one—had been the night before.

Who
am
I? How did I let it come to this? Is my future, my career, my ego really so important? Why am I willing to betray Doug’s trust? Why do I feel like I’m cheating on him?

I have crossed a line.

Lola felt a caving in her chest, like one of those sinkholes on Third Avenue that could swallow a bus. Only she also felt something else around the edges: a dim buzzing, a fuzzy rush.

Am I actually getting a
thrill
out of this?

See you in hell, serial killer.

“Stay and help you I will,” said Doug.

Now or never, Somerville. Rather: now, or later, when he’ll be much further past the point of understanding.

Lola took a breath. “Find your friend, hmmm?” she said, trying to match Doug’s best Yoda.

“I love you. Love you I. Whatever,” said Doug.

He talked Lola into the right screen and they hunkered down. “

Her? Lola thought. Oh, right. I’m lying.

Lola typed, and clicked, and typed some more, giving herself a chance every moment to stop and admit her transgression. And, every moment, not taking it.

“Okay, now Return,” said Doug.

Click.

She was in.

“Doug, you rule.”

“Strong is Vader. Mind what you have learned.”

Lola grinned. “You are the biggest geek in the world.”

“No,” said Doug. “There is another.”

Lola howled with laughter. “I’ll see you later.”

Assuming I can look you in the eye.

Lola scrolled through Quentin’s e-mail, noting, with some sadness, that of course it all dated back to when Mimi was alive. Lola found several exchanges with her, naturally, but she could tell by glancing at them that they were just banter, plan-making, silly forwards. A handful were work-related, crossword stuff. There was also a receipt from Eddie Bauer, a notice from eBay that Quentin had been outbid for a 1948 Joe DiMaggio card, #1, PSA 8 NM/MT, whatever that meant, for which the higher bid was $6,702.50.
Whoa
. Guess that’s the kind of thing you save up for. Like Doug and his Buck Rogers disintegrator gun, with holster, or his Batman handcuffs that had become extremely expensive collectors’ items when they were recalled after it turned out, hazardously enough, that they actually worked. Doug was so proud of his Batcuffs that he’d never opened them; “mint on card” condition, they called it.

Anyway.

Fuck.

Lola leaned her head back and ran her fingers through her hair, pulling just hard enough to make it start to hurt.

Whole lotta nothing.

I
lied
to Doug for a whole lotta nothing.

Lola swung her head forward and banged Command-Q. Quit.

Now what? Now what the hell do I do?

As Lola raised her head, something in Quentin’s Documents folder caught her eye.

A subfolder marked Other. But I looked at that, right?

Lola scanned down. No. I looked at Misc.

Why would you have a Misc.
and
an Other? Lola wondered, annoyed by this apparent organizational excess. She clicked on Other for the hell of it, with half a mind to merge the two files, just for her own compulsive benefit.

Hmm. Why would this one be password-protected?

She tried the password they’d just hacked from Quentin’s e-mail account.

Nothing.

Crap.

Lola tried the first password from Quentin’s browser list.

No comment.

No time for comment, even. She was in.

Lola quickly scanned the document titles.

Wait.

Did I just see what I think I saw?

Lola opened one document, then another, to be sure.

Oh. My. God.

This
, I’m guessing, is what you call a “break in the case.”

Forty-one

Lola had found four large documents in Quentin’s Other file. Three were entitled, respectively,
Gay Best Friend
;
So Many Men, So Little Taste
; and
Eenie Meenie Minie Man
.

Mimi’s book, Daphne’s book, Honey’s book.

With Quentin’s contact information on the title page, under each of the dead women’s names.

Turns out crossword puzzles aren’t all Quentin writes.

Lola skimmed each book. There were some differences here and there—where Quentin had written “red lipstick,” the published versions said “Cover Girl Scarlettastic”—but it was clear that what Lola was looking at was not a final draft. And—yes—there, indeed, on Quentin’s computer, was the scene with the mouse.