Death By Chick Lit by Lynn Harris

you.”
    Heading downstairs, Lola heard Doug start tapping on a keyboard. He was never more than a foot or so from some kind of computer, even during Battlestar Galactica . “You know, you could do this on that phone I gave you.”
    “I know, but then I couldn’t talk to you at the same time.” And then I’d be admitting that the bells and whistles on this gizmo are actually useful.
    Tap, tap, tappity tap. The night, a deepening washed-out gray, was warmer than the last. The dogs were quiet now, sniffing vigorously at the trash cans that people had put out for the morning’s pickup.
    Beep. Call waiting.
    “Sweetie, hang on a sec,” Lola said. “Bella? I am so sorry. I fell asleep and—”
    “Don’t worry, I know how wrecked you were. No big.” Lola could hear whoops in the background. “Leo came by and we wound up going to Trivia Night at Saloon. You wanna join us? There’s this complete hottie on my team who knows even more than I do about French bacteriologists,” Annabel said. “He will be mine.”
    “Annabel, listen. Daphne isn’t even back yet!”
    “Oh God, you’re kidding. She didn’t call?”
    “Nope,” said Lola. “Weird, right? Doug’s on the other line checking the flight. I’ll call you back.”
    “Tuberculosis!” yelled Annabel. “Sorry. Jesus. Definitely keep me posted.”
    Lola juggled the leashes and phone and clicked back to Doug.
    “Hi, sweetie, sorry,” said Lola.
    “Listen, Lo,” said Doug. “Daphne’s plane got in on time.”
    “You’re kidding.”
    “Nope. Over three hours ago.”
    “Okay, there’s got to be some explanation,” said Lola. “Can you check and see if traffic’s bad on the BQE or something?”
    “Lo, I can basically hear you, but you’re starting to break up. Wanna call me in a few?”
    “Sure,” said Lola. “Probably ’cause I’m right near the canal bridge.” Reception was sketchy there.
    “Okay, just be careful over there,” Doug said, as far as Lola could make out.
    “Don’t worry. Anyone messes with me, the dogs will gaze at him mournfully.”
    “I didn’t hear that, but I’m sure it was funny,” said Doug.
    “Yes, it was. Love you! Bye.”
    “Lv yw tw,” said Doug.
    Lola looked around, then at her phone. The signal was weak, but just enough to try Daphne again.
    As she dialed, the dogs lurched forward toward the dimly lit Rio Stinko bridge, noses glued to the ground. She quickened her pace behind them. “Whoa, guys, relax,” she murmured. “I promise you don’t smell a rabbit.”
    Riiing.
    God, that ring sounds really real, like it’s—
    Coming from that phone lying on the edge of the bridge.
    Lola caught up with the dogs and swept the phone up from the concrete. Flashing on the screen were the words “Lola Somerville.” The dogs were running in circles, tangling their leashes. As they yanked, something below caught her eye. Before she’d even had time to think, Lola peeked over the railing. All she could make out below was a dark form wedged in some rotted piling. And accessorized with a bright pink scarf.

Thirteen
    Lola didn’t faint this time. A steely survival calm took over as she yanked the dogs to the other side of the bridge and back into better-signal territory, where she called 911, Doug, and Annabel. Lola squatted down and patted the agitated dogs, speaking softly. “Good dogs. Yes, good dogs. This isn’t really happening, so you have nothing to worry about. Good dogs.” Touching their velvety ears actually calmed her down, too.
    Two squad cars and an ambulance squealed onto the bridge. One cop asked Lola if she’d mind sticking around. She shook her head no. Close behind, someone stopped a rusting beige Volvo—the kind Lola’s parents had had back when professors, not lawyers, drove Volvos, which suggested that this one was a family hand-me-down. Wally Seaport got out, notebook in hand.
    “That was quick,” Lola said to Wally after pointing out the scarf, and what it was attached to, to the