Death By Chick Lit by Lynn Harris Page A

service.”
    Of course you are.
    She gestured toward the computer screen, which Lola now saw was covered with lines of text, not blinking dots on a map or whatever it is a car service would have.
    “Wow, that’s great,” said Lola. “What are you going to call it?”
    “Right now I’m thinking: Destination: Destiny . What do you think?”
    “Not bad!” said Lola. “Two D s, that’s good . . .” She thought for a sec. “You’re a dispatcher, right?”
    “Yeah, that plus owner, den mother . . .”
    “Right. So how about Dispatches from Destiny ?”
    “Hey, I like it! Thanks.”
    “You’re welcome,” said Lola. “Anyway, I’m sorry to bother you. And sorry about, you know.”
    “Me, too, kid, me, too.”
    Lola turned to go.
    “So what’s your name?”
    “Destiny.”
    Ah. Right. “I’ll look for your book.”
    Lola smiled and turned toward the door. So much for that. Do I want a bakery treat?
    Am I anyone’s inspiration?
    As she reached for the door, someone outside did the same.
    Oh my God.
    Reading Guy.
    Seeing Lola, he turned on his heel.
    Lola yanked open the door. “Wait!” she yelled.
    She tried to run after him, but the loping, distracted bassets held her back. A block and a half away, he got on a bus. The sign said Express to Manhattan. He was gone.

Seventeen
    “Uh, hey, Destiny?”
    Lola poked her head back in the door of the car service.
    Destiny put down her Entenmann’s.
    “Yeah?”
    “You know that guy who was just on his way in here?”
    “Yeah?”
    “You do?” Lola walked back up to the window.
    “Do I know who you’re referring to, or do I know who he is?”
    “Both,” said Lola.
    “Yup,” said Destiny.
    “Who?”
    “Can’t tell you,” said Destiny. “Privacy.”
    “Are you sure?” asked Lola.
    “Yup,” said Destiny. She cleared a couple of crumbs from the corners of her mouth with a lacquered thumb and forefinger and turned back to her work.
    “Perhaps this will change your mind,” said Lola, raising an eyebrow and fishing for her wallet.
    Damn. Two dollars would change nothing.
    Destiny eyed Lola and her crumpled singles. “Nope.”
    “Okay, thanks anyway!” I am the least cool detective ever.
    Lola turned and headed quickly for the door.
    Destiny’s voice came behind her. “You’ll have to wait for the book.”
     
Lola spent her two dollars on an espresso and a copy of the Day , to prepare for her irate phone call to Wally. Hello, New York Day , it’s been a while, she thought. (Doug certainly didn’t read it. He actually didn’t even read the Times ; this was mainly a protest against the corny Monday “humor” section he liked to call “Homeless People Say the Darndest Things.” Her husband, he got his news from blogs.)
    She sat on a bench outside the café. The dogs, still rather listless, settled onto the sidewalk. Poor guys, thought Lola.
    Not quite ready to stomach the Daphne story, Lola flipped to the Books section, which at the Day was on the limited side, with maybe one story about the increase in TV sports ratings among females after the success of the novel Football Widow . Still, a small amount of industry attention was paid to its Chick Lit Bestseller List. Which, Lola had pretended to forget, came out today.
    Lola peered at the page.
    No way.
    Could I possibly be the only one to notice this?
    Lola thought for a minute.
    She took out her cell and dialed the main number for the Day .
    Maybe I’m not the least cool detective in the world.
    “Wally Seaport, please.”

Eighteen
    “Seaport.”
    “Uh, Wally?”
    Who else, Somerville? Get a grip.
    “Yep.”
    “Wally, this is Lola Somerville.”
    “Regarding?”
    Jeez.
    “We spoke at Daphne Duplex’s murder?”
    Silence.
    “And Mimi McKee’s?”
    Pause. Lola heard him take a sip of something.
    “What can I do for you?”
    “Well, for starters, you can tell me why you keep writing bizarre, inaccurate things about me on your blog.”
    “Miss—I’m sorry, was it