Death By Chick Lit (21 page)

Fifteen minutes later, Lola boarded the subway. She was halfway to Manhattan before she realized her first mistake.

Forty-three

Did I learn nothing from my sheltered childhood?

Always tell someone where you’re going to be.

Lola’s note to Doug had mentioned where Nina’s reading was, but not where she was meeting Quentin beforehand. No one on the planet knew where she’d be. Maybe not even Penny who, for all Lola knew, had been part of some sort of ruse. So arguably, she was about to wind up alone in a dark bar with a killer. Not even when she was Internet dating had she broken the “always leave word” rule.

Of course, Lola sighed, she’d always told Annabel.

I am going into this utterly, totally, completely without backup.

Lola sank down into the orange plastic subway seat.

Also? I am a melodramatic bonehead. I’ll just leave a message for—or hey, even text Doug—when I get aboveground. Further, here’s an ego check: tonight’s target is Nina, not you.

Lola peeled the backs of her bare thighs off the edge of the seat, sat up straighter, and looked around the car. She remembered, and she could not believe she remembered it wistfully, the idiotic, purely hypothetical subway game that she and Annabel used to play: “If you
had
to sleep with someone on this car, who would it be?” The challenge was, passing was not allowed. On a rough night, the choice would come down to a man in full clown makeup and a woman eating sardines straight out of the can. On a good night, even though this was not the goal, the game would actually net Annabel a date.

For old times’ sake, Lola settled on a scruffyish, hangdoggy guy at the end of the car, mainly out of pity; if she were to follow through, she’d just get him home, get him showered, and send him back into the world for women who actually found him to be their type. That wasn’t how the game worked, either, but Lola’s heart wasn’t in it, and Annabel wasn’t exactly there to call her on it.

Lola got out of the subway in Manhattan’s East Village, which had been exactly as grubby as it was depicted in
Rent
, right around until
Rent
came along. Before, you couldn’t walk a block without finding a drug deal, a flophouse, or a transvestite. Now you couldn’t walk a block without finding a Fugu-tini, a puggle, or a transvestite. Only now the transvestites were leading the
Rent
bus tours.

Hmm, this place is new. Lola stopped to read the menu outside a restaurant called Foam.

 
Okay, no.

It’s no fun scoffing without Doug, Lola thought, recalling the time he’d taken her to that place called just 4, or 2, or ~, or whatever it was, and when she’d asked the waiter to remind her what was in the ravioli that came with the breast of pheasant, he had replied, “It’s a continuation of the pheasant,” which immediately caused Doug to snarf his Burgundy.

Which reminds me, Lola thought: gotta call Doug.

But as she got out her phone, still moved by her memory of the subway game, Lola found herself dialing Annabel instead.

“Hi, Bella. I know we’re like not talking right now. This is—this is totally stupid. But I’m meeting someone at a bar—meeting Quentin, not a date—and Doug is at a total cell-phone-not-even-on-vibrate movie, and long story short, I just wanted you . . . I just wanted someone to know where I am. Just like, you know, old times. It’s stupid, I know, I’m sorry. Okay, bye.”

Shit.

Lola, kicking herself, called back. “Jesus. Meant to say. We’re going to Yard. Sorry. Bye.”

Such. A. Heel.

Lola felt no better, no less alone.

She opened the door to Yard, thinking again about Annabel and the subway game.

Then it hit her. That guy she’d picked was totally Ethan Hawke.

 
I have to admit I like this place, Lola thought as she opened the door to Yard.

The bar was almost all outdoors, like that Bohemian beer garden in Queens—capital
B
Bohemian, as in the region in the Czech Republic, not as in
alternative
—where Doug had taken her on an early date. But no Czech soccer jerseys or posters for the famed U Fleku beer hung here. Yard’s ceiling and walls were practically solid wisteria and grapevines. Emerald tendrils braided themselves with strings of white lights; scattered purple blossoms, just beginning to emerge for the season, hung down like fragrant lanterns.

Lola glanced around. No Quentin yet. She leaned against the end of the bar.

A glint of light outside the bar made her turn her head before she even realized it. A glint, then a square-shaped reflection.

Reading Guy.

Well! It’s about time.

Lola watched the door. Reading Guy did not come in. She gave him another minute. Still nothing.

Had he even seen me?

Eh, no matter, Lola thought. He’s been demoted from prime suspect back down to New York weirdo. We’ll probably just see him at Nina’s reading, like normal, before Quentin makes his next move.

Guess that’s that, thought Lola, vaguely wondering if she’d brushed her teeth before she left. She rummaged around in her bag for some citrus Altoids, which tasted like Sour Patch Kids for grown-ups, and which Oona had turned her on to during her own battles with first-trimester nausea.

Deep in her bag, Lola’s hand brushed against the cellophane window of an envelope. Why do I walk around carrying junk mail? Lola wondered, fishing it out while she peeked over the bar for a trash can.

Oh.

I had completely forgotten.

It was the envelope that Quentin’s doorman had asked her to leave in Quentin’s apartment.

Lola held it up to the light, which, in the near-dark, was useless.

Let’s see. If I get the bartender to make me some tea, or some sort of embarassingly unseasonal Irish coffee, maybe I can find a way to steam it open. Or maybe—oh, fuck it.

Lola tore open the envelope.

Inside was a check for—let’s just say, enough for at least one 1948 Joe DiMaggio whatever-you-call-it. It had been issued by a company Lola had never heard of called The Cover. Lola flipped the check over.

Bingo. The check stub, which had been folded behind, contained just the word Lola had forgotten she’d been looking for.

“Royalties.”

Laugh all the way to the royalty bank.

Even in the dim light, Lola saw a shadow pass across the check. She looked up.

“Hey, Lola,” said Quentin.

Forty-four

Thinking quickly, Lola dropped her entire bag on the floor. As Quentin leaned over to scoop up its contents—how long have I been carrying around that avocado, Lola wondered, and why?—she slipped the check into her pocket.

“Didn’t mean to startle you, Lola,” Quentin smiled.

Yeah, right. “No worries,” said Lola. “Guess we’re all a little on edge these days.”

For some reason, Lola was expecting Quentin to look different, now that she had a bead on him. But there he was, the same old Quentin she’d once had a soft spot for, even though blonds had never been her type, even though he’d really annoyed her when he’d gone through that brief phase of signing his e-mails “
Namaste
, Quentin.” There he was, in his full worn-cork-heeled-sandaled glory, ten-pound book under his skinny arm, what was left of his hair ready for a trim, face probably needing some sunscreen, even at night. It was still, and would never be, the face of a killer. Which was surely why, until now, no one suspected but Lola.

Hmm. Seven-letter word for mild-mannered friend who had everyone fooled:
Quentin. Assassin
. No wait, that has four
S
s.
Butcher?
M-U-R-D-E—

“So you want to grab a table?” Quentin asked.

Did he just catch me staring?

“Penny will be here any sec,” he added.

“Sure,” said Lola, pointing to his book. “By the way, whatcha reading?”
Murderous Greed for Dummies?

He held the book out, practically grunting under its weight.

“How is it?” asked Lola. “Long?”

“So far.” Quentin nodded.

“Hey, guys!” Penny arrived, still in her scrubs. How did she always look great with no makeup and no sleep?

A hostess in gingham culottes and flip-flops led them toward a side table. How am I going to play this? Lola worried. How am I going to play this without my best wingmen?

By ear, she sighed to herself. By ear.

They ordered a round of flower-themed cocktails—Lola, eyeing Quentin, chose a Bloody Marigold, and then, not knowing what else to say, quizzed Penny about comfortable clogs until the drinks came.

“So!” said Lola. “What’s the occasion?” She entertained a brief vision of Quentin putting down his travel-size Purell, pulling a knife, and snarling, “Your death.”

As it turned out, the news was almost as bad.

“Penny,” Quentin said, raising his Bee Balm Bellini, “has just sold her book.”

Christ.

“Cheers!” Lola grinned, clinking her glass all around. Did Penny not ask for my help with the proposal, like, less than two weeks ago? “That’s awesome, Penny. Who’s the publisher?”

“Jitney. You know, one of those hip downtown ones. They’re an imprint of someone, forget who.”

“Right,” Lola nodded. A nasty thought came to her. A nasty, but probably pretty accurate, thought.

“When on earth are you going to have a chance to write it?”

“Guess I’m just gonna have to make time!” Penny said, shrugging a shoulder coyly.

Mmmhmm. I’ll bet Quentin is totally writing her book.

“But listen, Lola,” Quentin said, leaning forward.
“shER”
—he made air quotes around the title—“is a complete secret right now. No one but her publisher knows. We just wanted to tell you,” he added, looking over at Penny, “because we both sort of—well, we consider you an inspiration.”

Just for a moment, Lola’s evening sucked a little less.

“Yeah, we do,” Penny said. “But just please don’t say anything until the deal is inked, signed, sealed, delivered, the whole nine. I just—I’m a scaredy-cat, except when it comes to blood. I just don’t want to jinx anything.”

I
do! thought Lola. “Of course,” she replied, turning an invisible key on her lips and tossing it over her shoulder.

Quentin, meanwhile, was reaching for his cell. “Excuse me one sec,” he said, holding the phone up to one ear and sticking a finger in the other.

“Anyway . . .” Lola smiled, hating them both.

“Anyway!” said perky Penny.

“No
way
!” said Quentin, suddenly paler than ever. “Not
Nina
!”

Forty-five

Lola and Penny stared.

I’m wrong about the killer again?

Nina’s dead?

These were Lola’s thoughts, not necessarily in order of importance.

“Oh, come on,” Quentin was saying. “You couldn’t possibly—I haven’t read
Karenina
since like sixth grade.”

Wait, what?

“
Ivan Ilych
, yeah, but—” Quentin paused to listen again. “Well, look, must be that someone just got careless. You know how many people—” Realizing Lola and Penny were listening, he remembered his manners. “Hang on one sec,” he told the caller, then covered the phone’s mouthpiece.

“Nina. Her book. Some blog revealed that portions of it appear to have been cribbed from
Anna Karenina
,” he said. “Bit of an uproar. The publisher recalled it. There’s no reading tonight.”

Lola’s head spun. Could Quentin have done that, purloined from Tolstoy? He seemed way, way too smart for that. But then who did, and
why
? And could no editor have noticed at some point during the process that there are not that many horses named Frou-Frou in New York? Little dogs in bags, maybe, but not horses? Could Quentin have just scrapped any plans to kill Nina, considering that her book may be dead in the water? Or will whatever copies do sell become some major pre-recall collectors’ item, like the Jennifer Aniston doll?
Now
will people realize that Nina Sambuca is a big fake?

“How on earth could that have happened?” Lola asked.

Quentin shrugged and shook his head. “Honestly, beats the heck out of me.” His tone was light, but Lola could have sworn she saw something dark behind his eyes that she’d never seen before.

“Well, don’t worry,” Penny said. “I promise not to crib anything from
Coma.”

“Hey, isn’t that Annabel’s friend?” Quentin, perhaps eager to change the subject, had spotted Leo through the crowd at the bar.

Lola started at the mention of Annabel’s name. She turned her head. Leo was solo. Crap/whew.

Quentin’s wave caught Leo’s eye. He smiled and walked over.

Wait. I told Annabel I’d be here. How does Leo fit in? Has she told him what’s going on between us? How would she have explained the part about how
he
is basically what’s going on between us?

“Quentin, Lola . . . Doctor,” said Leo, clad in his mandals and a nice striped shirt Doug would dismiss as “Banana Republican.” Lola always thought it was so gentlemanly, the way Leo greeted everyone individually. But a little less gentlemanly, perhaps, the way his eyes seemed to rest a little longer on Penny.

Dammit, Annabel, I’m not gonna say anything, but if,
if
, you wake up and realize you want this guy, you’ve got to act faster. The man is not made of wood.

Quentin introduced Penny and Leo. The waitress swung by to take Leo’s order. “Rest of you okay?” she asked. Quentin and Lola declined another round, but Penny accepted, draining her first Ginkgo and Tonic as the waitress walked away. “I love it when I’m not on call,” she said, excusing herself to go to the bathroom.