A Little Trouble with the Facts: A Novel by Nina Siegal

By Nina Siegal

Valerie Vane used to be an up-and-coming way of life reporter at a famous long island urban day-by-day. Then she stumbled, particularly 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 loss of life notices, and it sounds like a useless finish.

However, while she writes a couple of lately deceased once-famous graffiti artist, the telephone calls commence. A mysterious voice at the different finish of the road tells her the artist's loss of life 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 resources for A Little Trouble with the Facts: A Novel

Sample text

As a result, my stories were dull as dust, but, at least, I was off the Corrections page. Not a single complaining call, not a single private conference. I even got buddy-buddy with the staff factcheckers, who didn’t brush their hair. As a reward for my vigilance I was appointed to a new Style beat: Society. It was what I’d always wanted, and I’d never imagined I could do it at The Paper. The opportunities before me seemed vast; maybe I’d finally find some of my father’s childhood chums or my great-grandmother’s other great-granddaughters.

The titles dropped me deeper and deeper into the darkness. Tonight I had Sweet Smell of Success. I needed only a Vanitini. I gazed out the window at my drunken neighbors on the median. Oh, hell. Just one wouldn’t kill me. I went to the cupboard and pulled down a tumbler. I lifted the ice tray out of the freezer, cracking it hard. The Russian landlord had left me a bottle of Vladimir, as some kind of welcome gift. I’d saved it for a moment like this, when I wanted to leap headlong off the wagon.

From there, maybe they’d consider putting me back on Style. ” Style pens, she said, trafficked in functional froufrou, pugs as the new pocket pet, fearless facials, while the rest of The Paper nabbed the apple out of the roast and stuck their forks in the meat. Maybe Battinger was right. But that wasn’t the reason she didn’t want me on Rewrite. Obits was penance, plain and simple. And I didn’t miss the gist. Maybe it was my longing glance at Rewrite that caught Randy Antillo’s attention. “Hey Val,” he said, and waved me over.

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