Slashing Mona Lisa

by D. M. Barr

  She checked each of the affected clients, and sure enough, quite a few had to do with weight loss and fat reduction. Maybe he’d taken the money, along with all that consumer research, and studied sales and public speaking. With his newfound skills, he’d magically transformed himself into Terry Mangel, champion of the downtrodden, AKA his former advertising prey. Maybe one of the people he’d swindled was the killer? She shrugged. Theories aside, without any formal complaints or death threats against Mangel from disgruntled female consumers, all roads still led back to a photograph of Camarin standing beside a possibly slain evangelist.

  Dinnertime came and went, and as she and Malcolm chomped down on spicy meat patties, she imagined the look on the Invisible Woman’s face when her spies reported the lack of any dinner being enjoyed chez Robinson, not to mention the absence of Camarin from any of her usual haunts. They’d been had. She hoped the realization left them rattled. She tempered her gloating, aware that hers was only a momentary victory. IW still held the trump card. The question now was would she play it? Everyone she loved was at risk.

  She laid her head down that evening, unable to relax, agonizing over what resolution the morning might bring.

  Chapter 37

  Around seven, Cam awoke and peeked into Harvey’s room, surprised to find it empty and the bed already made. She jumped on the computer, bracing herself for disaster. The Invisible Woman was nothing if not true to her word. Saturday’s internet headlines featured the two pictures of her with Mangel, with headlines like Body Acceptance Guru Gored, Trend Reporter Sought for Questioning. And leave it to Buzzerbeat to print Terry Traumatized, Camarin Connected? She winced at the irony. She’d always wanted the headlines. She’d simply assumed she’d write them, not make them. Time for coffee. She’d need more caffeine than usual to make it through this day.

  “Seems like I’ve got a local celebrity in my midst. I went out early and picked these up at the newsstand,” said Harvey, sitting at the kitchen table. He pointed to a stack of papers sitting beside a steaming bowl of cornmeal porridge. “Chow down before it gets cold.”

  She scanned the headlines, shuffled through the pages, shocked at how many personal details they were able to rustle up in such a brief time. Had IW furnished each media outlet with its own press kit? Her full name, her current address, the fact she’d gone to NYU, her position at Trend—what, no mention of height and weight? Shocking. Thank goodness her mother and aunt’s phone numbers were unlisted, making them more difficult to locate.

  Particularly damning were the reports by several revival attendees recounting her speech from a week ago. No one managed to repeat much of the actual content other than one line: I don’t deserve one iota of the support you’re sending my way. I am everything you despise. Then they proceeded to equate her confession of betrayal to one of premeditated murder. Perfect.

  She pulled out her burner from her robe pocket and called DeAndre.

  “You saw?” she asked.

  “Yeah, they even mentioned Drift. I’m now ‘an acquaintance of the accused.’ I knew I’d make it to the top someday.”

  “I didn’t know I’d even been accused. Must have blinked and missed it.”

  “You’re all over the TV too. Looks like Mangel’s team is preparing to make a statement. Turn on channel seven.”

  She looked across the table at Harvey. “Malcolm, do you mind if I turn on the news?”

  He walked into the living room and picked up the remote from the coffee table. She joined him, phone in hand, and they both settled in to watch the destruction of her reputation, better known as ‘breaking news.’

  “And reporting from Charlotte, North Carolina, April Lowery, personal assistant and public relations director for Terry Mangel, is now entering the room. She is about to address the crowd. Let’s listen in.”

  Yes, by all means, let’s.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for all your calls of concern. As you know, we’ve been dealing with this crisis for the past six days, ever since we found Mr. Mangel assaulted in his trailer on Sunday morning. Up to now we’ve handled the situation privately, to spare Terry’s followers any unnecessary grief.”

  “What’s his condition? Is he still alive?” called out a reporter.

  Camarin’s ears perked up. It would be convenient to know if she was going to be charged with first-degree murder or just attempted murder.

  “We still cannot comment on his condition at this time. I can assure you that we are doing everything possible to make sure the Feel Good About Yourself revival opens as planned next Friday night.”

  Ah yes, no matter what, the show must go on.

  “Why haven’t the police commented on any of this?” asked another reporter.

  “As I said, Terry’s organization is very close-knit, and we prefer to handle issues like this on our own. We would have continued to do so if those awful photos hadn’t been anonymously released to the press,” answered April, a bit sharply.

  “If Terry Mangel isn’t well enough, who will run the revival?”

  “Many of Terry’s followers and administrative staff, myself included, have been trained for just such an occasion. What’s foremost in our minds right now is preparing for the enormous responsibility of saving thousands of fat-shamed sufferers from the limitations they’ve constructed in their own minds.”

  “Hey, is this a press conference or an ad for Mangelmania?” asked DeAndre, watching with them from four miles away.

  “Apparently both.”

  “While I can’t assure you that Terry Mangel will lead the charge against the shamers, I know he will be there in spirit,” April continued onscreen.

  “Yup,” Camarin said to the television. “Your money is still as valuable whether he’s alive or dead. Though probably more valuable if he’s dead, which is why we aren’t offering anything but ambiguities at this time.”

  Harvey threw a look her way. “Spot on. You should do impressions.”

  “Thanks. Something to entertain my fellow prisoners at the Sing Sing talent night.” She turned her attention back to the screen.

  “Ms. Lowery, do you believe what the photos suggest, that Camarin Torres is the assailant?”

  “I can only tell you what I know. She was supposed to show up for an eleven o’clock interview with Mr. Mangel. I came to his trailer at ten-fifteen to prep him, and I found him just the way he looked in the photos. She never showed, which seems…odd, at best.”

  “Who took the photos?” screamed another reporter over the din.

  “We have hidden cameras in all of the trailers, mostly to protect against theft. They take photos every five minutes or so. We couldn’t find the camera from Terry’s trailer after the incident, so whoever released these photos obviously procured it without our knowledge or our consent.”

  April pasted on her patented public relations smile.

  “There is one last thing I need to share with all the loyal current and future followers of the Feel Good About Yourself movement. Just as Terry would have wanted it, we forgive his assailant. Mr. Mangel has taught us that when we come face-to-face with those who would destroy us, we respond with love. Whoever perpetrated this appalling act, please know that God loves you and salvation is waiting.” April dropped the dreamy-eyed diatribe and faced the reporters again. “Thank you for your concern. We’ll release more information when it becomes available.” She waved to the crowd and stepped down from the podium. The cameras switched back to the anchorman.

  “Well, that was fun. And only the tiniest bit self-serving,” Camarin said into the phone.

  Harvey returned to the kitchen, mumbling about reporters leaping to conclusions and having to get the dishes done.

  “There’s more,” said DeAndre. She lowered the television’s volume so she could hear him more clearly. “You must have given your company our home number. Your boss has been calling here since dawn, trying to track you down.”

  “He has?” Her heart leaped.

  “He
said the reporters have been hounding him since the story broke, around three AM. He sounded frantic with worry. He said that if I spoke to you I should tell you he believes in your innocence one hundred percent.”

  “Wow. At least there’s someone out there who isn’t gunning for me.”

  “It’s not surprising. Rachel said he was just as concerned when she told him you were heading to Philadelphia last weekend. You’d think he’d tell the press you were innocent, clear your name.”

  “Wait, what? He knew I went to Philly?”

  “Yeah. Rachel got drunk last Friday, as per usual, and couldn’t stop blathering on about how worried she was about you. How you were getting in over your loaf. She called Fletcher. I guess she figured he’d charge down on his white stallion and rescue you.”

  Camarin threw her head back against the couch cushions. He knew. He frigging knew all along, and he never said anything. Why not? That face in the crowd, that person staring at her as she jumped into the cab—it was him. And he’d slept with her without saying anything. Knowing what she had gone through. What the fucking fuck?

  “Camarin, you still there?”

  “Um, yeah, sorry,” she said, trying to hide her agitation. “I’m here. I’m just a little dazed is all. Your parents, are they okay? The kids?”

  “I checked in with everyone this morning. Everything is fine. We did good. Annalise is worried to death though, and I haven’t said anything. Do you want to talk to her, let her know you’re okay?”

  She watched in horror as Perri Evans’s concerned face filled the television screen. What now?

  “Not now. Please tell her I’m fine, and I’ll make it up to her some other time.”

  She disconnected the call and turned up the volume. The makeup people must have been magicians, because on camera Evans looked a far cry from the gaunt, little waif she’d met a week earlier.

  “. . . and the hack job she did on me in her article? None of it true, none of it. Guess she hates anyone who’s as thin as she is. Anyway, she told me she was going back to see Mangel. Called him…what were her exact words…a greedy manipulator…wanted me to go too. Maybe she wanted a bigger audience when she let him have it.”

  A dollop of bile-laced porridge worked its way up her esophagus and burned the back of her throat. She ran to the refrigerator, took a big swill of ice water, rolled it around in her mouth, and spit it into the now-empty sink.

  “I’ve got some Rolaids in the bathroom if you need them,” said Harvey. “I’ll go get them.”

  She nodded gratefully. From the living room, she heard the television’s focus switch from Perri Evans back to the news anchor.

  “Thank you, Todd, for that eye-opening interview. After these announcements, we’ll welcome Atticus and Levi Lehming into the studio, co-chairmen of the board at Lehming Brothers. They will discuss the impact of Terry Mangel’s possible death on the company’s profits.”

  Lehming Brothers? Where had she just heard that name? She walked back into Harvey’s bedroom and typed the conglomerate’s name into the search bar. Then she clicked on News and then Holdings. Pulse racing, she read and reread the results, just to be certain. They were all there—Mangel Enterprises, Blubber Be Gone, the overweight teen camp where James Masterson had lost his head. Also owned by Lehming Brothers: the store in Phoenix that specialized in weight-loss supplements, the low-calorie food line based outside Dallas, and Rez-de-Chaussée, the restaurant outside St. Louis that had fired its overweight serving staff. Even Drift, the Robinsons’ pride and joy, was now a subsidiary. It wasn’t a plot against Mangel. The Collective was targeting the conglomerate itself!

  Eager for more dirt, she strayed from the main site and clicked on various Lehming–related news links. The usual issues—union problems, salary cuts, layoffs. Exactly what you’d expect from any multinational corporation with thousands of employees. Jazzed, she reached for her phone, desperate to share her possible theory with Dee, when a separate set of headlines caught her eye. And in an instant, her entire world came toppling down.

  Lehming Brothers Wins Lawsuit Waged by Former Anchorwoman and Reporter, Margaret Waldman followed six months later by Lehming Brothers’ Oldie but Fattie Falls into Deep Depression. After another year, the tone became much more respectful. Lehming Brothers Mourns Death of Former Colleague, Esteemed Journalist Margaret Waldman.

  Camarin squeezed her eyes closed, as if the action could force the realization from her brain. Her lover, the one happy outcome of this horrific debacle, was tied up in all of this somehow. She forced herself to focus, parse out all the facts. But when her imagination pitted her worst fears against solid logic, paranoia—accompanied by cold sweats, headaches, and tremors—always emerged victorious.

  Everything made sense now: Margaret’s suicide was caused by Lehming Brothers’ greed and insensitivity. A few years later, the corporation’s holdings came under siege. Fletcher, the ex-lawyer, unable to win the case for his wife, started wreaking his own brand of revenge to make the company pay for her mistreatment. Why else would the Invisible Woman ask her to destroy Drift and not Trend, where she already worked? Why else had Lyle told her, in a drunken stupor, that perhaps he was not the man she thought him to be?

  Camarin felt the wooziness set in, the disconnection, the separation from her physical self. As her consciousness begin to float up and above her body as it had during the revival, her perspective grew clearer, no longer influenced by attraction or affection. Monaeka’s point of view. And from that vantage point, it was all so obvious.

  Fletcher had unlimited access to her computer, her voice mails, her whereabouts. He’d handpicked her off that train platform, someone who might be willing to confront the shamers, perhaps kill on his behalf. And what else did she know about him? One last damning fact: years ago, in boarding school, when his newfound friend, Wynan, was beaten to a pulp, in one fell swoop he managed to make all those bullies magically disappear.

  Where had he been all this time when the Invisible Woman started contacting her? Hidden away in his office, perhaps calling from a burner phone of his own? Or out of town, ‘raising funds.’ Using his new magazine as a front to get close to his targets, no doubt. Getting to know the main players. Taking their advertising money. Uncovering their vulnerabilities and destroying them. And then Philadelphia. Rachel might have called him, but he’d probably been there all along, planning the attack on Mangel. Cam saw him in the audience during her confession. And as she hailed the cab to take her to the train station. He’d killed Mangel himself after she ran from the trailer and was letting her take the fall.

  Fuck the Invisible Woman rubbish. It had been Fletcher behind this from the beginning, disguising his voice over the phone with that distortion contraption. What other explanation could there be, with all the damning evidence pointing his way? The question was how could she alert the police about everything she had discovered without them taking her into custody?

  It was suddenly all too much to bear. Forced into hiding, her life out of her control, all orchestrated by the man she thought she loved. But how could she be certain she was seeing any of this clearly? Or was this like back in her youth when she believed one thing and her mother told her another, leaving her unsure of her own conclusions?

  Overwhelmed, trapped like a young girl tied to a bed, having her demons exorcised from her, she felt the tremors starting again. The oncoming seizure caused her to bang her head against the keyboard, as if she was attempting to force the confusion from her brain.

  She heard Monaeka’s laughing voice return for the first time since the revival. That’ll teach you. You left me. You betrayed me. And now I will take everything you love away from you. Now I will make you pay.

  Chapter 38

  When Monday morning arrived, Fletcher had said “No Comment” to more reporters than he’d ever dreamt existed. Between the non-stop calls for interviews and the police visits, he had no voice left for anyone but the army of private detectives he’d hired to find Camar
in. Money was beside the point. Right now, there was only one thing standing between him and his deepest desire, and that was the absence of his cherished Chamorro reporter.

  Since returning from San Francisco, he’d spent the last two nights at Benji’s, unable to think of anywhere else to go. Neither DeAndre nor Annalise, who’d introduced herself as Cam’s other roommate, claimed to have any idea of her whereabouts. Annalise seemed far more worried and panicky, leaving Fletcher to wonder if DeAndre, who he now recognized as heir apparent to his rival, Drift, might be holding back.

  At one point, he tried to corner the pianist backstage, but two large, burly thugs pulled him away and threw him into the hotel lobby. He couldn’t remember feeling more defiled and enraged, but he swallowed his indignation and hobbled home. DeAndre Robinson would get his comeuppance when his family’s magazine folded, and the sooner the better.

  He’d canceled all investor meetings and spent the morning watching nonstop coverage of the Mangel Affair, as his favorite channel had dubbed it, but all they reported was regurgitated information from the day before. Reporters must not have been able to locate her family but attempted to interview each of Cam’s coworkers. Luckily for their future employment, no one said anything beyond “No comment.” Some former classmates from NYU claimed she was headstrong but determined, and very pro-body acceptance. The reporters were relentless, interviewing her landlord, her dry cleaner, anyone who had ever met her and had something to share.

  Perri Evans received the most press coverage because she had the biggest ax to grind, incensed over the cover story Trend had dared to run. But social media ignored most of her comments, instead commenting on her spectacular weight loss and debating whether ‘lite’ heroin use might be the next big fat reduction fad.

  “That is our biggest problem, her and her big mouth,” Fletcher told Wynan as the two stared at the television in the publisher’s office. Evans was wailing out her newest single, Make Me, which in two days had shot up to number one on the country charts. Her interview with Camarin had revived her career more robustly than any publicity stunt her team could have concocted.