Chick Wit

• Column Classic: The Mothership April 14, 2024

  By Lisa Scottoline

  

  I’m a terrible negotiator. I’m too emotional, and I can’t pretend I don’t want something I really want.

  Like George Clooney.

  But today we’re talking cars, and this is the tale of my first attempt at negotiating.

  To begin, I have an older car that I take great care of, and it’s aged better than I have, sailing past 100,000 miles without estrogen replacement.

  But around 102,000 miles, things started to go wrong, and flaxseed wasn’t helping. I knew I’d be driving long distances on book tour, and I started to worry. I called up my genius assistant Laura to ask her advice, as I do before I make any important decision, like what to eat for lunch.

  I asked her, “Laura, do you think I need a new car?”

  “Yes. Absolutely.”

  “But it’s paid off, and I love it.” And I do. It’s a big white sedan called The Mothership.

  “I know, but you have to be safe. What if it breaks down on tour?”

  “That won’t happen.”

  “Except it has. Twice.”

  An excellent point. One time, The Mothership died on the way to a bookstore in Connecticut, requiring the bookseller to pick me up at a truck-stop on 1-95. I bet that never happened to James Patterson.

  So, I needed a new car, and since I love my dealership, I went there. I thought they loved me, too, which they did, except when it came to the bottom line. They gave me a good deal on a new SUV, but a rock-bottom price on trading in The Mothership.

  I asked, “How can you do that to her? I mean, me?”

  I told you I get too emotional.

  And I added, “Plus you’re supposed to love me.”

  But they don’t. They run a business, and it’s not the love business. However, it’s my secret philosophy that all business is the love business, so I got angry. They had taken care of The Mothership for the past ten years, at top dollar, and it was worth so much more.

  Guess what I did.

  I walked out.

  I took my business elsewhere. That very day, I called up another dealership, who said, come on over, we love you, too. In fact, we love you so much that we’ll give you a better deal on your trade-in. And they did, after inspecting The Mothership and calling her “the cleanest 100,000-mile car they had ever seen,” which we are.

  I mean, it is.

  But just when I was about to say yes, my old dealership called and told me that they still loved me. I told them I was already rebounding with my new dealership, but they said they’d top the offer on The Mothership, and after much back-and-forth, I went back to my old dealership, like ex sex.

  But long story short, the day came when I was supposed to pick up my new SUV, and I felt unaccountably sad. I took final pictures of The Mothership. I stalled leaving the house. On the drive to the dealer, I called daughter Francesca and asked her, “Wanna say good-bye to the car?”

  “Mom? You don’t sound happy.”

  “I’m not. I love this car.”

  “Aww, it’s okay. It’s probably not the car, anyway. It’s that you have such great memories in the car.”

  I considered this for a minute. “No, it’s the car.”

  By the time I reached the dealership, I was crying full-bore, snot included.

  My sales guy came over, and when he saw me, his smile faded. “What’s the matter?”

  “I love my car. I don’t want to give it up.”

  “So, keep it,” he said, which was the first time it even occurred to me. I know it sounds dumb, but it simply never entered my mind. I’d never bought a car without trading one in.

  “But what about the money?”

  “We’re only offering you a fraction of what the car’s worth. If I were you, I’d keep it.”

  “But I’m only one person. Why do I need two cars?”

  “They’re two different cars. The old one’s a sedan, and the new one’s an SUV.”

  I wiped my eyes. “You mean, like shoes? This is the dressy pair?”

  He looked nonplussed. “Uh, right.”

  “Really?” My heart leapt with happiness. I decided to keep The Mothership. It’s strappy sandals on wheels, if you follow.

  Thus ended my first attempt at hardball negotiations, which backfired. Having bargained for the best price on a trade-in, I couldn’t bring myself to trade anything in.

  Because I love it.

  It sits in my garage, aging happily.

  Soon we’ll both be antique.

  Priceless.

  Copyright © Lisa Scottoline

• Column Classic: Unreal Estate April 7, 2024

  By Lisa Scottoline

  

  I have an old house, which I love. 

  And hate. 

  I’m one of those people who says, “I love old houses.” 

  But I lie. 

  I’m beginning to accept the truth, which is: 

  Old houses are a pain in the back porch. 

  This realization strikes me every year when the weather turns cold. My house has stone walls that are incredibly thick, which means that come October, it’s freezing inside. Today it was seventy degrees outside, and fifty in my house. 

  So, you say, turn on the heat, right? 

  I can’t. 

  Because my house has radiators, which hiss, clang, and bang. I can’t hear myself think when the heat is on. If you talk to me on the phone when I have the heat on, you’d think someone is breaking and entering. 

  So, I heat my house by hot flashes. 

  That’s the only way you can live in an old house. If you are an old house. 

  By the way, it’s no more habitable in summer, when the weather turns warm. I can’t open any windows, because their sashes are broken. 

  Yes, my windows have sashes. 

  Don’t ask me why or even what that is. My windows are from an era when dresses had sashes, and I guess they went sash-crazy. 

  Luckily, my door doesn’t have a corset. 

  But it’s hung at an angle, like all the doors in the house. Either the doors have shifted or the floors have, but there isn’t a right angle to be found in the house. When you walk around my house, you feel drunk. And if you’re drunk when you walk around my house, you’re in deep trouble. 

  After a margarita, I need a designated driver to get to my bedroom. 

  How did I get myself into this mess, er…I mean, old house? 

  Let’s talk turkey. 

  I always thought that the world divided into two groups; people who like New Construction and people who like Old Houses. It’s like Democrats and Republicans, except the disagreement is over something that really matters. 

  Like an attached garage. 

  Furthermore, to be perfectly honest, I always sensed hostility between the New Construction people and the Old House people. 

  Each thinks the other is a snob. 

  The Old House people look down on the New Construction people as not being classy, as if it’s more high rent to have heating you can hear. 

  And the New Construction people look down on the Old House people as being dirty, because they prefer what’s essentially a Used House. 

  It’s like New Construction people think that Old House people are filthy, and Old House people revel in their colonial filth. 

  To be fair, all of this could simply be PTSD from my second marriage. Thing Two was an Old House person, and I was a New Construction person, albeit secretly. I kept my preference to myself, as I sensed it wasn’t as ritzy, so when we looked at old houses, I fawned over the deep windowsills that would look so great with a window seat, which I would never use, as I’m not a cat. 

  All I really wanted was a family room. 

  Because in an Old House, there’s no place for the family to be, except around the hearth. 

  Where’s the hearth? Take a right at the butter churn. Don’t trip over the spinning wheel. 

  So of course, my second marriage being the picnic that it was, we ended up with an Old House and no family room. I lived in my Old House for years until I subtracted a husband and added a family room. 

  Yay! 

  My solution since then has been to take my Old House and constantly remodel it, thus changing it into New Construction. 

  Or Old Construction. 

  Like me.

  Copyright Lisa Scottoline

• Chick Wit: Big Week March 31, 2024

  by Lisa Scottoline

  This is a big week for me because THE TRUTH ABOUT THE DEVLINS is out in the world! When I was traveling on tour, it was so nice to see this review come in.

  “One of the things that makes Scottoline a favorite author is that she plunges right into a story and piles the twists on along the way…Scottoline gives us a conclusion that is not only surprising but much more satisfying.”  – St. Louis Post Dispatch

  Here are chapters 1-3 to get you started reading. And if you prefer to listen to an audio excerpt, you can go here. I hope that you’ll then pick up a copy to read more. Thank you so much for your support!

  

  Chapter One

  At first I thought I heard him wrong. It was impossible coming from John, my older brother, the firstborn son, the Most Valuable Devlin. Me, I’m the black sheep, the baby of the family, the charming disappointment. John was Class President, and I was Class Clown. He was Most Likely to Succeed, I was Most Likely to Get a Speeding Ticket. That’s why I never expected him to confess to murder.

  “What?” My mouth dropped open. “Did you just say you killed somebody?”

  “Yes.” My brother nodded, jittery. His blue eyes looked unfocused, which never happened. Lasers have nothing on John Devlin.

  “That can’t be. Not you. You’re, like, the best-“

  “I did it,” John said, panicky. “I killed a man. TJ, what should I do?”

  “How do I know? You’re the lawyer.” I didn’t get it. John and everyone else in my family were lawyers in our family firm, Devlin & Devlin. I’m a convicted criminal. On second thought, maybe I would’ve asked me, too.

  “God, no, I can’t believe this.” Tears filmed John’s eyes, which surprised me. I didn’t know he had any emotions except disapproval. We stood on the large flagstone patio overlooking the pool and pool house. When he’d taken me outside tonight, I thought he wanted the two grand I owed him.

  “John, who did you . . . kill?”

  “A client.”

  Yikes. I’m an investigator at the law firm. My family keeps me behind the scenes, but I don’t need applause, just a paycheck. Being an ex-con doesn’t pay as well as it should. “Tell me what happened.”

  “I don’t know where to start. Oh God, this is awful.” John grimaced, stricken. He ran his tongue over his lips. “Okay, well, we were at the corporate center, Knickerbocker Quarry. I hit him with a rock-“

  “A rock?” What is this, summer camp? “Why? When?”

  “Less than an hour ago. I came directly here.”

  Meanwhile there was no blood on him. Only my brother could kill somebody with a rock and not get dirty. His silk tie was spotless and his Brioni suit fit him like Batman. “How did you beat him with a rock and-“

  “I didn’t beat him. I threw the rock and it hit him in the head. I heard a crack . . .” John’s upper lip curled with disgust. “Then he dropped.”

  I figured it was his fastball. John pitched for Villanova, where every Devlin but me went to college. “Then what happened?”

  “I came here. I knew Nancy and everybody would be waiting. I panicked.” John raked a hand through thinning brown hair. He was forty years old but looked fifty and usually acted eighty, but not tonight.

  “Okay, let’s go. We have to do something with the body.”

  John recoiled. “Like what?”

  “Bury it?” Isn’t that why you’re telling me?

  “TJ, no, we can’t. I don’t know what to do.” John rubbed his face. “We can’t leave now. You know how Dad is about his birthday.”

  I glanced through the window to the dining room, where dinner was just getting underway. My mother was setting an antipasto platter on the table, and my father stood talking with my sister, Gabby, and her husband, Martin. John’s wife, Nancy, sat with my little nephew, Connor, who was playing with a Matchbox Jaguar I’d brought him. My father’s birthday was a national holiday in our house. Christmas never had it so good.

  John straightened, blinking. “TJ, I can’t live with this. I’m coming clean. I’m going to tell-“

  “No, stop.” I grabbed him by his hand-stitched lapel. “You’ll go to prison.”

  “I deserve to.”

  “You can’t handle it.”

  “You did.”

  “That’s how I know you can’t.”

  “I can if you can.”

  My brother is crazy competitive. If he’d been in the Donner party, he would’ve pigged out. “John, let’s go-“

  “Here’s Mom now.” John turned, and my mother opened the French doors to the patio, making a chic silhouette in a dark Chanel pantsuit, backlit by the chandelier. Marie Spano Devlin had the only brown eyes and strong nose in our family, and her olive skin was spared our regulation-Irish freckles. Silvery strands gleamed in her onyx-black chignon and lines bracketed her mouth, but to me, she’d only gotten lovelier with age. I adore my mother, and she always has my back. She calls me her little devil, which fits.

  “Boys, time for dinner.”

  “Mom, sorry, we have to go.” I detected Lambrusco on her breath, sipped out of sight because of my sobriety. The scent wasn’t strong, but I’m McGruff for booze.

  “Go where?” My mother blinked, puzzled. “We’re about to eat.”

  “I know, sorry.” I tugged John into the dining room, and my mother stepped aside, her lips parting in dismay.

  “TJ, what’s going on? You can’t miss dinner.”

  “Please, eat without us.” I hustled past the table as everyone looked at us in surprise, especially my father. Paul Francis Devlin had graying light brown hair, and we looked a lot alike. We had the same blue eyes, round and set far apart with thick eyebrows, a longish nose, and a mouth that was on the big side. Every time I looked at my father, I saw a successful version of myself. I can only guess what he saw when he looked at me.

  “TJ, where do you think you’re going? You’ll miss dinner.”

  “I know, I’m really sorry but it can’t be helped.” I kept moving but my father was already out of his chair. He’d taken off his tie, and his white oxford shirt was wrinkled from the workday. He was a big guy, six three and in decent shape. He’d played basketball at Villanova before they were Final Four good, a former power forward who still exuded power.

  John added, “I’m sorry, too. We’ll be back as soon as we can.”

  “John, what did TJ do now?” my father snapped, assuming that I was in trouble and John was helping me, which even I had to admit made sense. I was the Bad Son and John was the Good Son. Our roles in our family are like our seats at the kitchen table. Forever.

  I dragged John out of the house and down the flagstone steps to the circular driveway. My parents lived in a McMansion that reeked of curb appeal, on six acres of perfect landscaping in Philly’s exclusive Main Line. Automatic sprinklers whirred in the garden, and the air smelled like ChemLawn. I never felt at home here because we grew up in the Devlin starter house, and our problems started after we got rich. Not that I have anything against money. Money has something against me.

  We walked to my car, which was parked behind John’s and my sister’s black Range Rovers. My father and mother both have black Range Rovers, too. Sometimes I’m surprised they didn’t name the firm Devlin & Devlin & Devlin & Devlin.

  “I’ll drive, let’s go.” I opened the door and jumped in my car, and John followed suit, frowning.

  “New car? You’ve owed me two grand since forever.”

  “You’ll get it back, I needed new calipers.” I’m a car guy. I buy cars at seized-asset auctions, fix them up, and flip them. This one was a 2020 Maserati Quattroporte, formerly owned by a drug kingpin. Basically, I put the car in cartel.

  “Don’t drive crazy.”

  “Have we met?” I pressed a button, igniting one of the most distinctive engines on the planet.

  We took off.

  Chapter Two

  We whizzed past big stone houses, townhome developments, and strip malls. John let his anxiety show now that we were alone, raking his hand through his hair again. I gave him time to calm down, but I had questions.
  
  “So, John, tell me what happened.”
  
  “It’s horrible, it all happened so fast, I just reacted.”
  
  “What happened? Break it down.”
  
  “I don’t know where to start.” John rubbed his face. “There was so much blood. I didn’t mean to kill him. I wasn’t aiming for his head. I was aiming for the gun.”
  
  “Who’s the client? Do I know him?”
  
  “No. His name’s Neil Lemaire. He’s the accountant at Runstan Electronics.”
  
  “Why were you meeting with him?”
  
  “Okay, well.” John tried to rally. “The company’s being acquired, and I was doing due diligence. I found irregularities in the accounting.”
  
  “Like money missing?” My brother has an accounting degree and a law degree, but I can juggle.
  
  “Yes.”
  
  “How much?”
  
  “About a hundred grand.”
  
  Wow. “So he was embezzling?”
  
  “Ya think? It had to be him because he’s the only accountant at the company. I told him we needed to talk and he asked me to meet him, so I agreed.”
  
  “Alone?”
  
  “Yes.”
  
  I realized my brother was a dumb smart person. I myself am a smart dumb person. If I were accusing somebody of embezzling a hundred grand, I’d bring an army. “So then what happened?”
  
  “I confronted him, and he denied it. Then he offered to pay me to cover it up.”
  
  I brightened. “How much?”
  
  John shot me a disapproving look. “I didn’t ask, TJ. I’m in a fiduciary relationship to Runstan. I can’t countenance criminal acts by its employees.”
  
  “Weren’t you curious?”
  
  “Of course not.”
  
  “Me, neither,” I said, but I wasn’t kidding anybody. “Then what happened?”
  
  “I said no, and Lemaire started pacing back and forth. Then all of a sudden, he pulled a gun on me and told me to get on my knees.”
  
  Holy shit. “So that’s self-defense. He threatened your life.”
  
  “Right, I know, but still . . . I killed him.”
  
  “It’s not murder, though.”
  
  “Technically, self-defense is a defense to murder. Don’t play lawyer, TJ.”
  
  “Don’t play criminal, John.”
  
  “Anyway, I knelt down and saw a rock on the ground, so I grabbed it and winged it at him. I hit him in the forehead. He dropped and fell on his back. He didn’t move. It was awful. There was blood all over his face, and his legs were bent under him. He was dead.”
  
  “Then what did you do?”
  
  “Like I said, I got scared, I panicked, I ran.” John shook his head, and I could see he was getting nervous again, a sight I would have otherwise enjoyed.
  
  “Okay, don’t worry, just calm down.”
  
  “How can I?” John threw up his hands. “I killed the guy!”
  
  “Deep breath. Relax.”
  
  “Oh, shut up.” John fell silent, looking out the window.
  
  I gripped the wheel, driving fast. We’d be there in no time, and my emotions were catching up with me. I’ve done terrible things, but I’d never kill anybody. My destruction is aimed at myself, where it belongs.
  
  I realized that once we got there, we’d have to decide what to do. I knew what I’d do, but I didn’t know what John would do.
  
  I focused on the road, and we hurtled ahead.

  Chapter Three

  It was dusk by the time we reached a deserted stretch near an underpass to the Pennsylvania Turnpike. There was nothing around, no lights or security cameras, only a rusted cyclone fence collapsed in sections around a grassy area, accessed by a service road of gravel, dirt, and stones that were bad for my undercarriage. I drove the Maserati only on dry asphalt and never to a murder scene.
  
  “John, this is the place? You said it was a corporate center.”
  
  “This is Phase Two of Knickerbocker Quarry Center. They start construction next month. Phase One is on the other side of the quarry.”
  
  “So how’d you end up here?”
  
  “We met at the corporate center, and Lemaire told me to follow him, so I did. I didn’t know it was like this until I got here. Park ahead, near the opening in the fence.”
  
  I drove up, cut the ignition, and we got out of the car. John bolted ahead through the fence opening, and I hurried after him on a deer path of weeds and overgrown grass. I was almost through when I heard John’s shocked voice.
  
  “TJ!”
  
  I reached him, standing in a clearing. There was no dead body, only dirt, grass, and brush. “Where is he?”
  
  “I don’t know,” John answered, astonished. “He was right here. He was on his back. He was dead, I know it. Blood poured onto the ground.”
  
  We both looked down. Blackness glimmered underneath the grass, rubble, and stones. I crouched and swiped the spot with my fingers, which came away gritty with blood. “Okay, so he was here. I don’t see the gun or the rock, do you?”
  
  “No. He must’ve taken them.”
  
  “Hmm. Odd. That would be thinking straight, for somebody who had his clock cleaned.”
  
  “What do you mean?”
  
  “You know, he’d be woozy, like you feel after a brawl.”
  
  John snorted. “I’ve never been in one.”
  
  “You’re Irish, bro. You should be ashamed.”
  
  “That’s a stereotype.”
  
  “It’s a virtue.”
  
  “Whatever, clearly he’s alive.” John threw up his arms. “Which means I didn’t kill him! Thank God!”
  
  “Wait.” I realized something. “Where’s his car? There was no car out front.”
  
  “My God, yes!” John shot back, elated. “His car’s gone! He really is alive!”
  
  “It’s the likeliest explanation.”
  
  “It’s the only explanation.” John broke into a grin. “He’s alive, he drove away. What else could have happened?”
  
  “I’m thinking.”
  
  “Of what?”
  
  “What else could have happened. I’m trying to analyze-“
  
  “You? Analyze?”
  
  That stung, but I stuffed it. I’m good at stuffing my feelings, though apparently it’s a bad thing to be good at. “How do you know he was alone?”
  
  “There were no other cars.”
  
  “He could have had somebody already in place, hiding.”
  
  John’s smile faded. “Why would he?”
  
  “In case something went sideways, which it did. Someone could be watching us, even now.” I scanned the scene but saw nothing suspicious. The corporate center and apartment complex were on the far side of the quarry. Beyond that was the Pennsylvania Turnpike, and the whooshing of traffic was background noise.
  
  John grimaced. “You really think someone’s watching?”
  
  “It’s possible. What kind of car did he drive?”
  
  “I don’t know, a Volvo?”
  
  “A sedan?”
  
  “Yes.”
  
  “What color?”
  
  “Maroon. TJ, is everything about cars?”
  
  I let it go. “Let’s look around, just in case. You go right and I’ll go left.” I took off, searching for a body. There was none, only more weeds, underbrush, and thornbushes. The wind picked up, and brownish reeds rustled with a dry sound. Shards of beer bottles glinted in the grass, and I expected to find a used condom, but didn’t. Kids today disappoint me. Always on TikTok.
  
  I walked through a section of cyclone fence that had been torn down, then stepped on a metal sign. danger-cliff edge, it read in big red letters. no trespassing beyond this point. Below that was a stick figure in cartoon waves. deep cold water. do not swim. I got the gist.
  
  I reached the quarry, a massive chasm of about eighty acres excavated into the earth. Its drop was steep and lethal, and its stone walls striated with gray, black, and dark brown veins and ledges of vegetation. There was water at the bottom, its greenish chop glimmering in the waning light. I squinted for a floating body but didn’t see one.

  Excerpted from The Truth About The Devlins by Lisa Scottoline. Copyright © 2024 by Lisa Scottoline. All rights reserved.
  No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.

• Column Classic: Miles To Go March 24, 2024

  By Lisa Scottoline

  

  I know I’m supposed to become my mother, but I’m actually becoming my father.

  At least I thought of him recently, when I checked the mileage on my car. I’m at 94,272, and I’ve watched it inch up from 94,109 and before that, 93,820. I check my mileage more often than I check my weight, and that’s saying something. On a long trip, I actually watch my mileage like it’s a movie with George Clooney.

  I can’t get enough.

  Bottom line, I’m way too involved with my car mileage.  The more miles I have, the happier I get.  I dream about hitting 100,000 miles like some people dream about hitting the lottery.

  Why?

  It makes me feel as if I’ve accomplished something, though I haven’t. It’s my car that’s done all the work. I’m just along for the ride. Still, every time I hit a new 10,000 mile mark, I feel like celebrating.

  Growing up, I remember The Flying Scottolines driving around in our ‘64 Corvair Monza, and my father pointing to the mileage counter as the little white numbers turned slowly to something. He was so excited that we all clapped, but I didn’t understand why.

  Now I’m excited, and I still don’t understand why.

  I used to think it was because if I accumulated enough miles, I could justify getting a new car. But that’s not it. I love my car and want to be buried in it, with a Diet Coke in the cupholder.

  At around 17,328,000,000 miles.

  But I’m wondering if my mileage thing is related to my Things To Do List thing. I love having a Things To Do list, and over the years, I perfected a template for my Things To Do list. I write the list of Things To Do on the right, and on the left, next to each Thing, I draw a big circle. I get to check the circle only after each Thing is Done.

  Oh boy, I love checking those circles.  I make a big check, like a schoolteacher at the top of your homework. Then I stand before my list and survey with satisfaction all the checked circles.

  And oddly, I admit that I’ve added to the list a Thing I’ve already Done, just so I can check the circle.

  I know, right?

  It’s kind of kooky.

  So I told this to a friend of mine, and she told me she does things this kooky, and she also added another kooky thing. She has a Kindle, which is an electronic reader, and at the bottom of each page, it tells you what percentage of the book that you’ve read. As you read the book, the percentage increases, and she has found herself watching the percentage increase as she reads. She’s gotten used to the fact that she read 57% of a book, as opposed to 45 chapters, and she’s even figured out how many pages it takes to increase the percentage a point. The other night, she couldn’t go to sleep because she had read 96% of the book and she had to get to 100%.

  Okay, the friend is me.

  Now you know.

  I’m sensing that these three things – mileage counters, Things To Do, and reading percentages – are related.

  Am I taking too task-oriented an approach to life?

  Or am I celebrating the small things?

  Or both?

  There’s a great quote by E.L. Doctorow, which says that “Writing is like driving at night in the fog. You can only see as far as your headlights, but you can make the whole trip that way.”

  I sense this quote is related, too, and that it applies not only to writing, but to everything, at least for me. Because writing a novel is like driving to Toronto or cleaning your house or starting War and Peace. Any large task is intimidating at the beginning, but it’s doable if it’s broken down, mile by mile, Thing by Thing, percentage point by percentage point. And when you finally finish that task, you can check the circle.

  Have a Diet Coke, for me.

  And my father.
  
  Copyright © Lisa Scottoline