seen running.
Without raising her head, Lola looked up through her lashes.
It was Reading Guy.
Eight
Lola thought immediately of those signs at Yosemite at which she and Doug had once laughed nervously: “If confronted by a mountain lion, do not run, as this may trigger its instinct to attack. Instead, back off slowly.” Or something like that. Lola backed away from the sneakers without making eye contact and set off briskly toward home, deliberately jingling her keys as if to say, “Back off, Reading Guy! My mom just forwarded me an e-mail about someone who saved her own life by using her mailbox key to gouge an attacker’s Adam’s apple.”
Or, wait. Shit. Was that it? Or were you supposed to run toward the mountain lion?
Lola glanced behind her, covering the move by pretending to scratch her ear with her shoulder. No one. Too late.
Should I call Bobbsey? And tell him what? That I happened to see the same oddball in two places, and at no point did he move toward or threaten me in any way?
Lola reached her garden. A clematis vine had sprung from its trellis, reaching across her way like a bony arm.
No, she thought, I’m gonna keep this to myself. Remember, I’m supposed to be helping Quentin by knowing stuff the cops don’t, and remember, I’m supposed to be solving the mystery and turning it into a book. Kind of the way that woman did, the one who talked her kidnapper out of kidnapping her by reading him the Zone Diet, or some such? Or did we later find out that she was saved not so much by the soothing words of Barry Sears but by the fact that she gave her attacker crystal meth? Anyway. That lady was plucky. And, of course, she’s now totally writing a book.
Lola wrapped the stray vine back around a stake and tiptoed inside.
Uch, of course. My brave “escape” from the guy who was clearly not chasing me made me come home without the damn paper.
There’s always the on line, she thought.
No . It’s so freaking late. Get to bed, Somerville. Whatever you do, do not turn on the computer.
Lola fired up her Mac.
Publishing Biz to Perp: We Meant “Cutthroat” As a Metaphor
Sadly, Not Your Usual Royalty Party Report
Posted by Page Proof
Acclaimed and adorable chick lit author Mimi McKee, 31, was found mysteriously murdered at her own party, a celebration of the publication of her novel Gay Best Friend at the ultratrendy Bowery watering hole, Cabin 9. Coquettish and comely even in death, she lay in a rarely used basement storage closet, her stylish wrap dress revealing just hints of ivory thigh and décolletage. Ms. McKee’s throat had been viciously slashed with a broken cocktail glass.
Could the weapon of choice be a nod to the beverage of choice of the typical chick in McKee’s genre of lit? Police declined to say, noting that the killer was still at large. “I assure you, we’ll get the guy. And by ‘get’ I mean ‘nab,’ not marry,” said police detective Bradley Bobbsey, who admitted to being an aficionado of the promising young writer’s work.
Reached at home late at night in Mexico, Maine, Ms. McKee’s distraught parents declined to be interviewed. A relative said only that the burial would be private.
Others who knew McKee were shocked to hear that she fell victim to a violent crime. “She’s was just such a sweet all-American girl,” said McKee’s third-grade teacher, Priscilla Wren, roused from slumber by the shocking news. “I still have the note she wrote me about how much she loved the hot dog stands everywhere in New York, because they made it so easy to buy food for homeless people.”
McKee’s seemingly unthreatening boyfriend, Quentin Frye, was questioned and later released.
The body of Ms. McKee was discovered—too late—by partygoer Lila Summerville, who appeared to have been wandering, confused, in the basement. Ms. Summerville claimed to be a fellow “writer,” but her “books” did not appear on a search of Amazon.com .
What the—?
Told
Without raising her head, Lola looked up through her lashes.
It was Reading Guy.
Eight
Lola thought immediately of those signs at Yosemite at which she and Doug had once laughed nervously: “If confronted by a mountain lion, do not run, as this may trigger its instinct to attack. Instead, back off slowly.” Or something like that. Lola backed away from the sneakers without making eye contact and set off briskly toward home, deliberately jingling her keys as if to say, “Back off, Reading Guy! My mom just forwarded me an e-mail about someone who saved her own life by using her mailbox key to gouge an attacker’s Adam’s apple.”
Or, wait. Shit. Was that it? Or were you supposed to run toward the mountain lion?
Lola glanced behind her, covering the move by pretending to scratch her ear with her shoulder. No one. Too late.
Should I call Bobbsey? And tell him what? That I happened to see the same oddball in two places, and at no point did he move toward or threaten me in any way?
Lola reached her garden. A clematis vine had sprung from its trellis, reaching across her way like a bony arm.
No, she thought, I’m gonna keep this to myself. Remember, I’m supposed to be helping Quentin by knowing stuff the cops don’t, and remember, I’m supposed to be solving the mystery and turning it into a book. Kind of the way that woman did, the one who talked her kidnapper out of kidnapping her by reading him the Zone Diet, or some such? Or did we later find out that she was saved not so much by the soothing words of Barry Sears but by the fact that she gave her attacker crystal meth? Anyway. That lady was plucky. And, of course, she’s now totally writing a book.
Lola wrapped the stray vine back around a stake and tiptoed inside.
Uch, of course. My brave “escape” from the guy who was clearly not chasing me made me come home without the damn paper.
There’s always the on line, she thought.
No . It’s so freaking late. Get to bed, Somerville. Whatever you do, do not turn on the computer.
Lola fired up her Mac.
Publishing Biz to Perp: We Meant “Cutthroat” As a Metaphor
Sadly, Not Your Usual Royalty Party Report
Posted by Page Proof
Acclaimed and adorable chick lit author Mimi McKee, 31, was found mysteriously murdered at her own party, a celebration of the publication of her novel Gay Best Friend at the ultratrendy Bowery watering hole, Cabin 9. Coquettish and comely even in death, she lay in a rarely used basement storage closet, her stylish wrap dress revealing just hints of ivory thigh and décolletage. Ms. McKee’s throat had been viciously slashed with a broken cocktail glass.
Could the weapon of choice be a nod to the beverage of choice of the typical chick in McKee’s genre of lit? Police declined to say, noting that the killer was still at large. “I assure you, we’ll get the guy. And by ‘get’ I mean ‘nab,’ not marry,” said police detective Bradley Bobbsey, who admitted to being an aficionado of the promising young writer’s work.
Reached at home late at night in Mexico, Maine, Ms. McKee’s distraught parents declined to be interviewed. A relative said only that the burial would be private.
Others who knew McKee were shocked to hear that she fell victim to a violent crime. “She’s was just such a sweet all-American girl,” said McKee’s third-grade teacher, Priscilla Wren, roused from slumber by the shocking news. “I still have the note she wrote me about how much she loved the hot dog stands everywhere in New York, because they made it so easy to buy food for homeless people.”
McKee’s seemingly unthreatening boyfriend, Quentin Frye, was questioned and later released.
The body of Ms. McKee was discovered—too late—by partygoer Lila Summerville, who appeared to have been wandering, confused, in the basement. Ms. Summerville claimed to be a fellow “writer,” but her “books” did not appear on a search of Amazon.com .
What the—?
Told
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