By Nina Siegal
Valerie Vane was once an up-and-coming way of life reporter at a popular long island urban day-by-day. Then she stumbled, relatively publicly, and misplaced it all—her column, her fiancé, her entry at the back of the city's velvet ropes. Now she's at the obituary table writing demise notices, and it sounds like a useless finish.
However, while she writes a couple of lately deceased once-famous graffiti artist, the telephone calls begin. A mysterious voice at the different finish of the road tells her the artist's dying used to be a murder—and if she have been a true reporter, she'd examine.
But can Valerie alternate her stilettos for gumshoes?
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Extra info for A Little Trouble with the Facts: A Novel
There aren’t any jobs here at the moment, but we should get to know each other in case something opens up. ” he said. “I love that. If it makes you feel more at home, you can call me Buzz. Some of the reporters here do already. ” I was pretty sure this Phipps just wanted to eyeball me so he’d know how to spot me in a room. But I realized at my interview that he’d be my future boss, if I’d have him. ” Buzz Phipps had a face like a new BMW sports car: sleek aerodynamic curves and a buffed, hot-waxed patina, tested for maximum performance on scenic mountain roads, seen idling in French hamlets before quaint patisseries.
I took my seat at Table 13, still clutching my blank notepad. About halfway through supper, the gold-dipped septuagenarian at my elbow asked me to pass her a roll. I picked through the assortment and said, “Ooh, they have cinnamon raisin. Those are my favorite. My mother showed me how to make cinnamon raisin rolls and . ” The septuagenarian smiled at me with her penciled-in lips, said, “That’s very nice dear,” and turned back to the Rolex at her right. After a couple of hours listening to silverware tap ﬁne china, I heard crunching crinoline as the gents led their ladies away.
I rarely ate anything but canapés. I drank only promo specials. And soon enough, I found my crowd: a klatch of ﬂacks named Tammi, Jenni, and Nikki. They were all twenty-ﬁve, all blond, and they were all pretti and perki. As children, they ate vine-ripened tomatoes from their mothers’ rooftop gardens and smeared their morning baguettes with goose liver pâté. One rainy night when cabs were scarce, the girls invited me back to Tammi’s. As we downed RémyRed and ginger ale, they shared with me their master plan.