Read Online Death By Chick Lit by Lynn Harris - Free Book Online Page A

she’d been doing in the cab home from Quentin’s, which itself followed the thinking she’d been doing ever since her book hadn’t turned out to be exactly a runaway bestseller. It had all started off so perfectly those few years ago. That is, the last time she’d solved a mystery, she’d gotten a book deal out of it. Oh, and a husband.
    At the time, Lola had become an instant It Girl—her own special-edition Ben & Jerry’s flavor, fan mail from Ira Glass, the whole nine—and stayed that way for one It Girl unit of time. Unfortunately, by the time Pink Slip was actually published, the public had moved on to the next It, whoever it was, and neither Lola, nor her book, could compete with that. All the buzzing interest in a Lifetime movie about her story, a reality show about her then-upcoming marriage, a Michael Moore tell-all about everything that happened (the producers pitched it as a “fuckyoumentary”), had fizzled and faded. Still, the scattered reviews of Pink Slip —including the eleven five-star reader write-ups posted on Amazon.com , nine of which were authored, using various pseudonyms, by Annabel—were overall positive. The book itself, to be fair, was doing okay.
    But after all she’d done, all she’d written, all she’d accomplished, just okay was not okay with Lola.
    Lola knew she couldn’t coast on the past forever. She knew she needed new ideas, a fresh, motivating, identity-reestablishing raison de writer , but, for so long, nothing had been forthcoming.
    So, Lola had been thinking. Maybe I really was right to say yes to Quentin. Maybe this really is an opportunity. An opportunity to get my mind off petty jealousies and help others. An opportunity to come to the aid of someone who wouldn’t have lost his girlfriend if I hadn’t found her for him. An opportunity to remember what’s truly important and meaningful in life. An opportunity, if I play my cards right, for a new, and even better, book deal.
    I am a somewhat good person, thought Lola.
    She fished the key out of a planter and opened Daphne’s door.
     
 
It did not take long for Lola to realize that her day of dog-sitting was not going to offer the kind of opportunity she’d had in mind.

Ten
    “Seriously, Annabel, I can’t get a freaking thing done.”
    Lola had come back from the dog run expecting Gibson and Sidecar to be tuckered out from all that running around on their itty stumpy basset legs, long ears dragging like useless brakes. She figured they’d then go ahead and do what dogs do: sleep for the next five hours. The second she’d sat down and turned on Daphne’s computer, she’d found out she was wrong.
    “Can’t stop thinking about Mimi, huh?”
    “Can’t start thinking about Mimi,” Lola said. “I have to throw the wombat every three seconds.”
    “Throw the wombat? Is that what the Brooklyn kids are calling vomiting?” asked Annabel.
    “No,” laughed Lola, “it’s—”
    “Wait wait wait. Are you pregnant ?” asked Annabel.
    Lola picked up the wombat chew toy and threw it. The dogs skidded across the kitchen, tripping over their ears. “No, I mean throw the wombat .”
    Annabel was silent, stuck.
    “I’m at Daphne’s.”
    Gibson returned the wombat, head held high. Sidecar followed, ever hopeful. Lola sighed and scratched both their noses. The pair had already destroyed one of Lola’s flip-flops, a roll of paper towels, and any hope Lola had of having one productive thought until Daphne came back.
    “Oh,” said Annabel. “Right.”
    “This may have been a mistake.”
    The bassets had spent the morning following Lola around Daphne’s fabulous Technicolor apartment, which was chockablock with groovy flea market finds, including a painting positioned to offer a permanent “view” of the Chrysler building, complete with full moon. Lola half-expected Tab Hunter to knock at the door.
    When Lola looked away, the dogs barked. When she sat at her computer, they whimpered. When she peed, they