Free Death By Chick Lit by Lynn Harris Page B

really was, which helped. While the dogs gamboled, Lola’s thoughts limped along. Okay, if I solve this case—that is, if I ever actually start working on it to begin with—something will break for me, she thought. It has to. Feels like it’s all I’ve got. But jeez, am I going to have to start freaking blogging about it?
    Back at Daphne’s, Lola flopped on the faux-fur couch. She was so tired her vision was blurring; the entire world seemed to have shifted three inches to the left. The dogs clambered up with her, sat down, one on each side, and stared at her with their sad eyes.
    There is no way I can have children anytime soon.
    “Please, guys, just a little break,” Lola begged. “I know! Let’s play the sleep game. Whoever falls asleep first wins.” The dogs stared. Lola’s eyes closed.
     
What the—? Lola batted at her ear, smacking Sidecar, who’d been busy licking it. Gibson, to her left, was still staring.
    Oh. Guess I won.
    Wait. Why is it so dark?
    Lola hit the indiglo button on her favorite old watch.
    It was 9:30 PM.
    Sidecar whimpered.
    Where on earth was Daphne?

Twelve
    Okay. Okay. I just need a moment to thi—
    The dogs, sensing Lola’s need to concentrate, started to bark.
    If I could just get a thought in edgewise.
    A faint beep came from Lola’s giant bag. Her cell phone, like a kid in a well, was calling for help.
    Three messages. Doug, Annabel, and Private Number, in that order, according to the caller ID. Perfect. It’s the two people I’m letting down simultaneously, plus ever-fabulous Daphne, no doubt giggling that “something has come up” but she’d be on the next flight from Capri.
    The dogs were now sprinting back and forth between Lola and the door, tripping on their ears as they went. Lola toggled between hooking up their leashes and punching into her voice mail, skipping ahead to message three and bracing herself for another day with the dogs.
    Nothing. Just a pause, then a click.
    Nothing?
    Under “received calls,” the last incoming number was listed as “unknown.” Lola tried the “return this call” option, but the voice mail robo-lady refused. “That service is not available for this number,” she said, just to spite Lola.
    Nothing. Fine, probably just a wrong number, but then—where was Daphne?
    Lola called Daphne’s cell. No answer. She left a message.
    Then she called Doug. “Sweetie, I’m so sorry, I fell asleep and didn’t hear the phone.”
    “I’m not surprised you conked out,” he said. “But where are you now? Wasn’t Daphne supposed to—”
    “Yeah, that’s the thing. I have no idea where she is,” said Lola. “And I’m sorry, I know we were supposed to just chill together tonight.”
    The upside of Daphne’s lateness? At this point I don’t even have to tell Doug I was going to bail. Nor do I even have to fake- fete Annabel. At least not tonight. In that regard, I am golden.
    “It’s okay, monkey, it’s not your fault,” said Doug. “We should have assumed she’d be late, anyway. I think they don’t let you take either liquids or solids on planes now, so imagine the security delays.”
    “I know, but still,” said Lola. The dogs, waiting at the door, were emitting low, sad howls. “Uch, I have got to take the dogs out.”
    “Just take the Doug out sometime, too, okay?”
    Ouch.
    “Oh jeez, sweetie. I know. I will. I’m sorry,” said Lola.
    “It’s all right,” said Doug. “Just saying.”
    At this point Lola had her hands full with the door and the dogs. “Listen, sweetie, not to change the subject, but can you do me a huge favor and check FlightTracker.com? I’ve got Daphne’s flight info memorized.”
    Lola had learned about FlightTracker not from Doug but from her mom, who made no secret of the fact that she always used it to make sure Lola’s plane had landed safely. “But Mom, I always call you when I land,” Lola had said.
    “Yes, I know,” Mrs. Somerville said, “but the computer is faster than