by D. M. Barr
Slashing Mona Lisa
by
D.M. Barr
Slashing Mona Lisa
Copyright © 2018, D.M. Barr
ISBN: 9781949300062
Publisher: Beachwalk Press, Inc.
Electronic Publication: July 2018
Editor: Pamela Tyner
Cover: Fantasia Frog Designs
eBooks are not transferable. No part of this book may be used or reproduced without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations in articles and reviews.
This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. The characters are productions of the author’s imagination and used fictitiously.
Back Cover Copy
Killer body or body killer? When fat shaming backfires…
Most people are dying to lose a few pounds. Not so in Slashing Mona Lisa, where it’s the weight-loss advocates who are losing their lives.
Whenever Terry Mangel’s body acceptance revival meeting rolls into town, local diet execs and “fat shamers” turn up dead, often in grotesque, ironic ways. All single murders in small suburbs, no one’s noticed the pattern...until now.
Rookie journalist Camarin Torres is a crusader against discrimination, partially to assuage the guilt she feels over the suicide of her obese, bullied twin sister. She reluctantly accepts a job offered by handsome publisher Lyle Fletcher, a widower with a vendetta, who sees Torres as salvation for Trend, his fledgling fashion magazine. Torres, however, detests everything the publication stands for, and joins solely to transform its judgmental, objectifying content.
As an unexpected romance blossoms, the overconfident, justice-hungry reporter defies orders and infiltrates Mangel’s world—only to find herself in the crosshairs of a vigilante group targeting the sixty-billion-dollar diet industry. Unmasking the killer may save her life but shatter her heart: every clue seems to implicate Fletcher, her mercurial mentor and lover, as the group’s mastermind.
With a sassy, snarky voice and multi-cultural overtones, Slashing Mona Lisa explores body shaming and its victims: the disenfranchised who don’t conform to society’s arbitrary norms, and the lengths they will go to for love and acceptance.
Content Warning: contains some strong language, violence, and explicit sexual scenes
Dedication
To Josh, for a lifetime of backrubs, back scratches, and the occasional kick in the butt or talk off the ledge when needed. Your support has made all this possible and you have my everlasting love and thanks.
Acknowledgements
They say your first novel is your favorite because it’s your first. But the second one is important because it proves that the first one wasn’t just a fluke. And for that reason, this book will always have a special place in my heart.
Thanks to NaNoWriMo, National Novel Writing Month, and the NJRWA Put Your Heart into a Book conference for giving me the incentive to polish Slashing Mona Lisa off in a month. I’d sat with the first 9,000+ words for over a year, but those two events combined got me off the fence and onto the computer for a one-month marathon session.
And thanks to Calum T. (I won’t put you through the embarrassment of stating your full name) who, many years back, told me that if I gained weight, it would be like slashing the Mona Lisa. That comment constituted a great break-up rationale, and in the end, provided me with a kick-ass book title.
As always, thanks to the long-suffering Mr. Barr, the little Barrs, and my one remaining hairy, four-legged, rescue Barr, all of whom tolerated my abject neglect so I could concentrate on something so important to me. To my father, and to my brother, who never fails to make me laugh, even (especially?) at myself. To everyone who purchased Expired Listings, reviewed it online, and told me I had a sick sense of humor and was a naughty girl, I thank you all…and no comment.
To Pamela Tyner and everyone at Beachwalk Press—cover artists, editors, formatters—thanks for believing in me and making my work the best it can be. And to my pre-submission team: John Paine, developmental editor extraordinaire, working with you was one of the highlights of my writing life and I look forward to doing so again. Thank you for being a sounding board as well as a great visionary. To Ginny Glass of Book Helpline, thank you for your line edit and proofreading efforts. To the dulcet-toned Hollie Jackson, so happy you will again be narrating my audio book! To Carl Graves of ExtendedImagery.com and Joshua Jedwab, thanks for the art! Finally, to Michael Lujan Bevacqua, professor at the University of Guam, thank you so much for verifying my Chamorro, and to Kenneth Gofigan Kuper for perfecting the pronunciation for the audio book.
To some very, very special people in my life who are part of the Hudson Valley Romance Writers of America (especially those in my critique group, all amazing writers, including Elf Ahearn, Gianna Simone, Elizabeth Shore, Liz Matis, Janet Lane Walters, Debbi Cracovia, Kelly Janicello, Yolanda Kozuha, and Tara Andrews, plus private critiquer Jamie Sterling), as well as fellow members of the New York and Guppy chapters of Sisters in Crime, thank you for your ongoing support and friendship. You are the best!
To my favorite dueling pianists in the entire world, ultra-talented all: James Byrom (and Annie Ster!), Rhonda Hughes, James Sakal, Whitney Maxwell, Rob Steidel, and the ever-generous Orin Sands, thank you for welcoming Josh and I into your world. I can’t tell you how much your friendship has meant to us, but I’m delighted to have had a chance to commemorate it here.
Finally, to Colin Randolph Purser, who in my late teens introduced me to the wonders of Cockney rhyming slang, along with “Dying Flies” and the moors of England: here is proof that I was paying attention and I will always remember those days fondly.
Prologue
Leticia Regan, the shapely and dark-haired owner of Illinois’ original Blubber Be Gone weight loss clinic, hugged the last of her clients and wished them a pleasant and ‘on target’ week as they wandered back onto the calorie-laden, Chicago streets. The enemies all beckoned: deep dish pizza, Garrett Mix popcorn, Maxwell Street Polish kielbasa, not to mention the béchamel-heavy pastitsio in Greek Town. The majority of her minions didn’t stand a chance against the city’s delicacies, she acknowledged with a twinge of regret, but that was the secret sauce that kept her coffers filled.
As she straightened the cartons of BBG boxed meals that lined the shelves, and picked up diet candy wrappers left behind by clients too hungry to wait until they got home, Leticia reflected upon the evening’s meeting. Attendance had been light, only about thirty out of her usual fifty, but that was to be expected, what with all the commotion. She wasn’t too concerned. Weight loss fads were transient and therefore not real competition. Those who had strayed tonight would likely be back next week, contrite and perhaps a few pounds heavier than before. And she would greet them as she always did, with a hug and a smile, reassuring them that if they stayed the course—her course—one day, they’d be as thin and beautiful as they’d always dreamed.
She wasn’t in the weight loss business, she’d known that from the start. She marketed the world’s most desirable commodity: hope. She’d quickly learned that hope had no price ceiling, a realization that had catapulted her to the top. In the last two years, her franchise had become the hallmark of the chain, winning awards for both attendance and profit. Not bad for a waitress from Honduras who’d taken her cue from the dining gluttony she’d studied daily, saved her tips, and risked them on one life-altering gamble that had paid off big time.
Just as she noticed the BBG signature pink-and-green tote bag on one of the chairs—Mrs. Pascucci must have left her welcome materials and introductory recipes behind—she heard the doorbell’s chime. Had she returned to retrieve them? Scooping up the tote, she headed into the fr
ont room. Rather than the 250-pound, curly-haired woman in the Bulls jacket she’d expected, a large figure in a black fedora and raincoat stood on the ‘BBG Moment of Truth’ scale, back turned toward Leticia.
Normally, she would have been concerned. While the South Side was rapidly gentrifying, gangs occasionally did roam the streets, remnants of the neighborhood’s past. However, few of them took time to check their weight, so she approached less cautiously than she might have otherwise, eager to add another client to her roster.
“Hello, I’m Ms. Regan, the owner of Blubber Be Gone. I’m sorry, tonight’s meeting is over, but we’d love to have you come back tomorrow morning and learn about our program. We open at nine AM.”
To her surprise, the figure neither stirred nor spoke. She felt her pulse rate increase, anger at being ignored mixed with unease over a stranger in her midst. Territoriality superseded caution and she approached, putting a hand on the intruder’s shoulder.
“Excuse me, perhaps you didn’t hear. I said we’re closed.”
“Maybe it’s time you were opened.” The figure turned quickly, pulling a machete from underneath the raincoat and plunging it into the diet clinic owner’s stomach.
“Arghhhh—” The tote bag and its contents plummeted to the floor as Leticia staggered backward, torn between shock and searing pain, her eyes staring into the coldest expression she’d ever seen.
She fell to her knees, hand on her abdomen, unsuccessfully trying to stymie the torrents of blood pouring through her dress onto the cold, white tile floor. The stranger used a foot to push her onto her back, and she collapsed, feeling the life force slip from her body, the room growing dark. Too weak to move, through the haze she watched in horror as the interloper raised the knife again and brought it down with a vengeance, slicing off half of her right thigh.
“Thin enough now?” was the last thing she heard before unconsciousness sucked her into the abyss.
Chapter 1
Camarin Torres peered down the tracks again, as if repeated checking would cause her delayed train to magically appear. It was a warm April afternoon, but the unexpected heat did little to lift her spirits. She was heading back to her apartment after yet another unsuccessful interview. If this kept up, she’d be the only one of her NYU friends graduating next month without a job lined up. How ironic not to be able to afford the food she wouldn’t allow herself to eat anyway. She checked her watch a third time. The 5:03 from White Plains to Grand Central was already ten minutes late.
Camarin heard a voice a few feet behind her softly exclaim, “Dammit!” Curiosity aroused, she spied a girl in her late teens standing by the vending machine, fervently searching through her handbag.
Camarin stared, mesmerized by what could have been a mirror image of her late twin sister Monaeka. Long, dark hair partially obscured her tanned, pretty face, and despite the temperature, she’d draped her two-hundred-plus pound body in an oversized raincoat. But as Camarin well knew, yards of fabric didn’t really fool anyone. The girl hunched over slightly, a stance her sister Monaeka had perfected, a sign of deference to a world demanding an apology for violating their arbitrary standards.
Camarin felt a familiar tug of compassion as the girl plunked a few coins into the machine and then searched for more. Looking on, she debated the merits of acquiescing to her own desire for a late-afternoon sweet. What’s really the harm? Cam reached into the pocket of her dress and pulled out three quarters, which she held out toward the stranger as she walked toward her.
“Want to share something?”
The girl tensed and gave her a quizzical look, but after a moment her shoulders relaxed. “That’s so nice of you. Thanks.”
Camarin winked and pushed the quarters into the machine. One click and clunk later, she retrieved their prize—a Kit Kat bar. One of Monaeka’s favorites. As she held it out to the girl, a slim, stylish woman clad in black came out of nowhere and snatched the chocolate bar right out of her hand.
“You don’t need it,” she said. “You’ll thank me later.”
The girl’s face turned bright red, but she said nothing, just watched in shock as the thief continued down the platform.
Camarin felt the blood rush to her temples. No matter how many years and miles she’d put between herself and her past, the critical voices kept seeking her out, today in the form of this interloper. Enough, she decided. She set down the briefcase containing her resume and clips and tore after the woman, grabbing her arm and pulling her around so they stood face-to-face.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Camarin yelled.
Heads turned. Conversations ceased.
“What’s it to you?” the offender shot back.
Camarin pointed at the girl, whose eyes were wide in disbelief. “That girl happens to be a friend of mine, so I’m asking a second time...what are you doing?”
“Saving her from herself, that’s what. Your friend is huge, and it’s unhealthy. If she can’t control herself, she needs others to do it for her.”
“Well, Miss High-and-Mighty, since you know everything about everyone, did you ever consider that my friend…Sabrina’s…size might have nothing to do with self-control? Could it be the result of…the lithium she takes to control her bipolar disorder? Are you a psychiatrist who has a better suggestion for more appropriate meds that don’t put on weight?”
“Well, no...no,” the woman stammered, as if the rush of passion suddenly drained from her, leaving her feeling exposed.
“You know what I think?”
The fat shamer glared back but remained silent, so Camarin summoned her courage and repeated herself, a few decibels louder. “I said, do you know what I think?”
“No. What?” The woman sneered.
“I think you should go over to Sabrina and apologize.”
“Apologize for helping her get thin?” Her voice dripped with indignation.
“No, apologize for sticking your big nose where it doesn’t belong,” interjected a young, beer-bellied man in overalls a few feet away. A Joe’s Plumbing patch was embroidered on his chest pocket.
“What exactly do we have to do to be accepted by you people? Why can’t you just leave us alone?” screamed a plump, older woman with perfectly coiffed hair and a fitted suit.
“Give her back the Kit Kat bar,” hollered a man clad in military garb, who then started chanting, “Kit Kat, Kit Kat, Kit Kat…” Others joined in, and the cacophony grew stronger.
“You may have grabbed a Kit Kat, but you ended up with Snickers,” said Cam with a smirk. “Maybe you want to just hand over the candy, so we can forget this whole ugly incident?”
The woman spat at the ground in front of Camarin and defiantly threw the chocolate bar on the tracks, eliciting loud boos from the small but agitated crowd. Then she ran down the platform, heading for the stairs that led to the parking lot.
“Good riddance,” the plumber called after her.
Camarin stood for a moment, shaking from the encounter. Then she returned to the now teary-eyed girl. “Sorry I made you bipolar,” she whispered. “I needed to make a point, and it was all I could come up with on the spur of the moment. Hi, I’m Camarin.”
“I’m Lexie,” the girl said. “No one has ever stood up for me before. Thank you.”
“Hey, I know what it’s like. I used to deal with jerks like that all the time.”
The plumber pushed a run of quarters into the vending machine and took out two Kit Kat bars, handing one to each of the women. Others on the platform clapped and cheered. The sound was slowly drowned out by the roar of the oncoming 5:03 PM train.
As the doors opened, Camarin noticed Lexie and the plumber now chatting animatedly. Not wishing to intrude, she entered the next car over. It was practically empty, not unusual considering most people were traveling in the opposite direction at this hour. A perfect opportunity to relax after an upsetting confrontation. Perhaps savor that chocolate bar. She could always purge later.
Given the pl
ethora of unoccupied seats, she was surprised when a handsome man in an expensive-looking suit asked if the spot beside her was taken. She guessed he was in his early forties, since his face was too young for the silver in his hair and beard. He spoke with a confidence so lacking in her gawky college-boy contemporaries. She felt a shiver as the silk of his sleeve touched her bare arm as he settled in.
She wondered what clever icebreaker she could use to engage her attractive new neighbor in conversation. Nice weather, huh? would be too lame. Seconds passed. Other passengers shuffled by. Soon, the moment would be lost.
Then, to her delight, he leaned in covertly, as if sharing a private confidence. “Nice going. You’d never seen that girl before in your life, had you?”
She pulled back and studied his expression. Affable or accusatory? His smile assured her of his friendly intentions.
“What gave me away?”
“Nothing. Just a hunch. One you just confirmed.”
Camarin twisted her mouth, irked at having been so easily played.
“Do you always go around tricking strangers into confessing their secrets?” she asked.
“Probably as often as you go around defending the underdog.” The man winked. “Nothing to be ashamed of though. Quite the opposite. As I think you’ve already figured out, life is just a series of bluffs.”
Camarin considered the comment as the train rumbled along the tracks toward Scarsdale.
“And do you bluff much?”
“Funny you should ask. These days, it’s all I do.”
Grateful for such a provocative opening, she pressed forward. “That sounds intriguing. Care to elaborate?”
“Thought you’d never ask,” he said with a smile. “Up until a few years ago, I’d spent my entire career practicing law. Then my circumstances and interests changed, and I decided to become a redeemer of lost causes. I just purchased a failing magazine, which I intend to make profitable again. If that’s not the bluff of the century, I don’t know what is.”
