Death By Chick Lit by Lynn Harris Page A

police.
    “Scanner. Plus I was covering the hunger strike right over at the Organic Depot site,” Wally shrugged, with no hint of recognition.
    You hoser . We just met—re-met!—and at another murder to boot! What does it take to jog your memory?
    Wally tried to follow the cops down the embankment, but one of them stopped him sternly at the already-up yellow police tape. The officer’s eyes on them both, Wally settled instead for asking Lola a few perfunctory questions.
    No, I don’t know anyone who had anything against Daphne.
    No, I actually hadn’t seen her for weeks.
    Yes, that was me with whom you shared two drinks and five shrimp—why, why , do they serve romantic tapas in odd numbers?!—a couple years ago at Doomba.
    Before Lola could answer that third question anywhere but in her own head, Doug jogged into view. “Excuse me, Wally,” said Lola. Doug pulled her into a giant hug, hand on the back of her head, just the way she loved. The dogs, envious, tried to paw their way into the action. Wally went back to the police tape to try to get a closer look.
    That was Lola’s cue to fall apart. “Sweetie. I. Had. Like. A. Vision . Of. This,” she cried, her words coming between gasps.
    “Whoa. Like, a premonition?”
    “No,” Lola switched cheeks, her mouth now facing toward Doug on his damp shirtfront. “A fantasy.”
    “Shhh, baby, shhhh,” he said. “It’s nothing. Just breathe. Let’s sit.” He guided her to a curb. They sat. As, for once, did the dogs. Lola breathed.
    Before too long, two more headlights swept across their laps. Detective Bobbsey. Bobbsey had a few words with the various people surrounding the body, then trudged back up toward Lola. Dog leashes in one hand, Doug helped Lola to her feet with the other.
    “Ms. Somerville,” Bobbsey nodded. “This is a first.”
    “Second, really,” she said, trying to wipe away whatever mascara might have raccooned under her eyes. “This is Doug, my husband.”
    “First, or second?” Bobbsey asked Lola.
    “What? Oh, husband?” asked Lola, flustered. “First.”
    “Sorry,” said Bobbsey. “Wife says I should limit the wisecracks.”
    “Yours, too, huh?” said Doug. Lola, who’d never suggested anything of the sort, knew that Doug, sweet Doug, was just trying to male bond.
    That is, before he got protective. “Detective, my wife’s not a suspect here, is she?” he asked. “We’d be happy to call our lawyer.”
    Bobbsey waved him off. “Times of death, types of trauma, buncha stuff I can’t tell you—it all adds up to ‘don’t worry about it.’ We could just use her help. Given her apparent gift for body-tracking.” He turned to Lola. “The Hoffa people ever call you?”
    “No, but I am part basset,” Lola said. She told Bobbsey everything she knew, which wasn’t much.
    “Boyfriend in the picture?”
    “You know, I’m not sure. Daphne was a kick. She dated a lot of people.”
    “Makes sense,” nodded Bobbsey, scribbling something down.
    “Makes sense?” asked Lola, about to defend Daphne’s honor. Daphne wasn’t slutty. She was old-fashioned. She dated .
    Oh, wait.
    So Many Men, So Little Taste.
    “Wife’s beach bag?”
    “Yep.” Bobbsey nodded. “She and Ms. McKee. They ever date the same person? Quentin Frye. He and Daphne ever an item?”
    Man. “Not that I know of,” Lola said truthfully, though a competing thought had begun to take shape in her head: one that might give her an edge here, one that she wasn’t about to offer up to the detective. Bobbsey wasn’t stupid, but the “it’s always the boyfriend” theory here was likely the wrong tree to bark up. He knew the victims were both authors, obviously, but perhaps he was naïve about the degree to which commercial fiction could inspire crimes of passion. This I know for sure, thought Lola: one person’s angry fantasy—my own, say—could be another’s vindictive murder.
    The flashlight beams down near the water began to skitter closer. Lola