Death By Chick Lit Read Online Free PDF

ba—” Doug started, but he didn’t have to. Right then, her cell phone vibrated so hard her giant bag jumped.
    Lola dug for it madly, hoping to find it before the actual ringing kicked in. She really wasn’t up for any shrill noises right now, especially not the theme from Mork & Mindy . Note to self, thought Lola: no more “ironic” ring tones.
    She flipped open the phone, assuming it was Annabel. But her caller ID read “Unknown.”
    Hmm. Must be Detective Bobbsey, calling to say he nabbed Reading Guy and got a full confession and Quentin is free to go.
    “Hello?”
    “Lola?” Hmm. A detective would call her Ms. Somerville.
    “Mmmhmm?” She started to get out of the cab. Doug was paying.
    “It’s Quentin.”
    “Oh, Quentin!” Lola dropped her bag and switched ears. “Quentin. I am so sorry. I don’t even know what to—”
    “Me neither, Lola, me neither.” Lola heard voices and a metallic clang.
    “Quentin, where are you?”
    Doug closed the door and the cab sped off, its Available light fading futilely over the canal bridge and into the distance. He folded his arms and listened. The hazy half moon seemed to be tilting down and listening, too.
    “On a pay phone at the police station.”
    “Really? God, they should let you go home! They really think you can help them?”
    “Sort of.”
    “What do you mean?”
    “Well, I feel like they really think I did it.”
    “You are fucking kidding me.” I know it’s “always the boyfriend,” Lola thought. But not this boyfriend.
    “What!?” Doug mouthed.
    “Hang on.” Lola put a hand over the receiver and said, “They think he did it!”
    “Who, Reading Guy?” asked Doug.
    “No no no, Quentin!” said Lola.
    “No way,” said Doug.
    “I know!” said Lola. “It just doesn’t—” Doug motioned to her phone.
    “Sorry, Quentin,” she said. “So what’s the deal? Is this, like, your one phone call or something?” Lola asked.
    “Lola, I need your help.”
    “Well, of course, Quentin.” Of course. If I hadn’t set you up with Mimi, you wouldn’t be miserable or under suspicion right now. I owe you. Big time. “Do you need help finding a lawyer? I have my Palm right here.” Lola reached for her bag, which sat between a peony and some lemon verbena. Oh wait, my Palm is in my phone. Forgot. Technology.
    “No, yeah, I called a lawyer, thanks. Guy from my biking club,” said Quentin. “But what I want you to do”—his voice dropped to a whisper—“might not be legal.”
    “Might not be legal?” asked Lola. “You want me to marry a woman?”
    “Heh, no,” said Quentin.
    “You know I’d do just about anything for you right now, but—”
    Doug smiled slightly, perhaps feeling a tad superior. He knew about the mouse.
    “—but I have to tell you, my crime-fighting—not to mention my crime-committing days—are over,” said Lola.
    Before she and Doug had started dating, they had bent a few laws in the process of helping expose what had turned out to be a bigger-than-Hallmark conspiracy involving their former employer. Through that experience, Lola had learned, first and foremost, that Doug was the kind of guy who both calls himself a feminist and enjoys a good high-speed car chase: just her type. She had also confirmed beyond a doubt that her childhood obsessions with Harriet the Spy and Encyclopedia Brown—and, yes, the Hardys, the Bobbseys, and of course Miss Drew—to the exclusion of most other preadolescent literature, had paid off; she, like her young adult literary idols, was actually pretty good at blowing covers and solving whodunits. That type of skill showed not only in Pink Slip but also in the investigative journalism pieces she didn’t feel editors assigned her often enough, even though she’d won a lefty media watchdog award for her article proving that the leak about the guy who totally didn’t kill JonBenét Ramsey had come from inside the Beltway.
    “What I need you to do, well, I don’t think it’s a