Nice Girls Don't Live Forever by Molly Harper

pastel gel pens. But none of the other ladies was wearing one, because, of course, they already knew one another. I snagged a copy of the meeting agenda from the refreshment table. It was printed on pink paper with brown polka dots, the kind you might buy from an extremely perky stationery store.
    That’s when I realized. There were no men. Anywhere. Not a single whiff of testosterone in the place. Had I accidentally stumbled into a man-eating coven? Was I going to be sacrificed as the ugly brunette?
    I decided that my three-minute limit was up and made a dash toward the door, bumping into a willowy blonde as she poured another chardonnay. She dropped the bottle, which I quickly snagged before it hit the carpet.
    “Fast hands,” she said, tinkling out a laugh. “I’m lucky you caught that, or Courtney Ahern would have torn out my eyes for ruining the Persian rug. I’m Courtney Barrow. I own the Unique Boutique, the sterling-silver shop over on Dogwood.”
    Courtney Barrow was just as cute as a button. She was tiny, curvy, and had an intricately braided silver necklace looped around her neck. Though my proximity to a substance I was highly allergic to made me somewhat nervous, Courtney Barrow was the only genuinely friendly face I’d seen that night, so I was sticking close to her.
    “Jane Jameson, Specialty Books.”
    Her slick, coral lips quirked. “Isn’t that an adult store?”
    “No, no, there used to be an adult store next door. But we bought them out and expanded into their space. We pretty much gutted the store and started all over. You couldn’t have used that space for anything else, anyway. There was a lot of steam-cleaning involved. I don’t know when to stop talking sometimes.”
    Courtney was unfazed by my babbling. “A bookstore. That’s so interesting. What made you go into the book business, Jane?
    “I was too tall to be a ballerina?” I offered.
    Courtney giggled. “You’re a hoot! Oh, you just have to meet Courtney Harris. She’d love you.”
    “All right, then,” I said as she wound her arm through mine. “Wait, she’s named Courtney, too? How many Courtneys are there here?”
    “Twelve.” Courtney sighed as she led me deeper into the crowd of shimmering Courtneys. I was introduced to Courtney Gordon, who had started an event-planning company for children’s birthday parties, and Courtney Stephenson, who ran a specialty shop for baby bed linens. None of them seemed even remotely interested in my bookshop, and, to be honest, I couldn’t figure out how I would cross-promote occult items with luxury crib sheets. I was starting to think I’d made a huge mistake joining the chamber. I wondered if Courtney Barrow would release me voluntarily or if I would have to gnaw off my arm like a coyote stuck in a trap.
    “It was so confusing when we all joined at once. We didn’t want to call each other ‘Courtney H,’ ‘Courtney B,’ ‘Courtney G.’ This isn’t second grade, you know?” I smiled and nodded, because there was no derailing this chick’s train of thought. “So, we tried nicknames, ‘Short Courtney,’ ‘Blond Courtney,’ ‘Cankles Courtney.’ But some of the girls’ feelings were hurt, so we ended up having to use Courtney H, Courtney B, Courtney G anyway. We still use Cankles Courtney, but only behind her back.”
    “Hmm.”
    “Oh, I know that sounds mean,” Courtney conceded. “But trust me, you’ll know her when you see her.”
    OK, it was mean, but I did recognize Cankles Courtney right away. Sadly lacking in lower-quadrant definition, she was cowering before the formidable Courtney Herndon and receiving a stern talking-to regarding the chamber newsletter’s font style. Apparently, Cankles’ version of Curlz wasn’t curly enough.
    “Courtney Herndon is the head Courtney,” Courtney Barrow whispered. “She’s been the chamber president for the last four years.”
    Did she just say “head Courtney”? There was a Courtney