Free Death By Chick Lit by Lynn Harris Page A

because he was hungry, but because he liked the noise.
    Annabel laughed. “Where was she, St. Louis?”
    “Yeah,” said Lola. “After Atlanta, Miami, Austin, Phoenix, and Chicago.”
    “Jeez, I thought people said authors don’t really do tours anymore,” said Annabel.
    “Correct. If by people, you mean my ex-publicist,” said Lola. Annabel laughed sympathetically.
    Quit it, Somerville. Don’t let her hear you sweat.
    “So you’re calculating what, flight in around six, then half an hour in a cab?”
    “Yep,” said Lola.
    The dogs skidded to a stop in the middle of the kitchen floor. “We’re bored!” they barked.
    “Okay, then. Only like six hours and sixteen minutes to go,” said Annabel, switching back to the receiver. “I’ll be off in a sec,” she said to Leo.
    “Take your time!” Lola heard him say.
    “How great is Leo?” Lola asked. Earth to Annabel!
    “Pretty!” said Annabel. “Look, Lo, I just wanted to say, and I don’t know how to do it without sounding patronizing, but I know you may not be a hundred percent happy to hear this kind of thing, about my book and stuff, and I’m just—what can I say? I’m sorry.”
    “Annabel, it’s really fine,” said Lola. “But thanks for saying something.”
    At least she’s single.
    And I am a total beeyotch.
    “Guys! Shhh!” Lola said to the dogs, resorting again to tossing the wombat. She looked at her computer screen.
    BE HAPPY FOR HER.
    “Annabel, wanna get a drink tonight to celebrate, slash, get our minds off Mimi?” she asked.
    Hell’s bells. First of all, if she were ever to come through for Quentin, she’d have to get her mind on Mimi the second Daphne came back. And in the middle of her own sentence, Lola also remembered that she’d promised Doug to spend a quiet, romantic evening with him curled up together eating salt-and-peppered popcorn and watching the director’s cut DVD of Evil Dead .
    But you know what? Doug will understand. I have to do this for Annabel. I have to show her how happy I am. And, as always, I have to take this opportunity to prove, especially to Annabel, that I haven’t become a married pod person. It’s not like I’d be able to stay awake through the whole movie, anyway.
    “To celebrate your deal, I mean, not my freedom from bassets,” said Lola.
    “Well, both. Totally. Call me when Daphne’s home,” said Annabel. “Thanks, Lo. You rock.”
     
 
BE HAPPY FOR HER.
    Lola hung up the phone and looked at the screen.
    Fucking hell.
    She opened the fridge, poured herself some of Daphne’s Perrier—see, this is why there’s only one seltzer guy left—and sat back down, feeling simultaneously listless and vicious. Her eyes wandered around Daphne’s computer desktop. Hmm. Wonder what’s in her Documents folder?
    Lola clicked. Now that everyone and her sister and her sister’s dry cleaner is writing a book, Daphne must be at work on her second, just like I should be but am not, unless you consider my ceaseless sleuthing-as-research, which is evidently not so ceaseless, as this is really not the kind of sleuthing I’m supposed to be doing.
    But I’m just curious. Just a peek. It’s not snooping if it’s not marked “personal,” or “diary.”
    Lola clicked again.
    That’s weird.
    She looked around again, this time searching the whole computer.
    Nope, nothing.
    Lola found a ton of Daphne’s old etiquette columns—which, she had to admit, were pretty good—but no new book. Not only that, no old book. No drafts, no nothing.
    Okay, it’s not that weird. Either her first book sprang fully formed from the goddess Daphne’s forehead, or all that work stuff is on whatever laptop she took with her on tour. Either way, my fantasies about strangling her—just a little!—with that damn pink scarf of hers are really not very sporting.
    Or at all appropriate, given last night.
    I am going to hell.
    Defeated, Lola took the dogs out again. By that point, she was too tired to feel as upset as she