Slashing Mona Lisa
Page 25
“Thanks to her, this week’s issue is turning out to be our biggest seller ever,” Wynan countered. “Don’t worry about anyone listening to her words or her music. They’re just staring at her ass. This is exactly the kind of sensationalism that should surround all Trend cover stories. When Camarin turns up, we must encourage her to recreate this vibe again and again. Then no one can beat us.”
“The question is less when and more if. What if she saw the actual killer? What if whoever sliced into Mangel went after her as well?” He remembered watching her run from the trailer that Sunday morning. He wondered how many others had also witnessed her exit and could be convinced to testify.
Wynan sat up straight. “Are you sure that it wasn’t her? We sent her to DC. What the hell was she doing in Philadelphia—attending a Terry Mangel revival, no less? She’s a size two at most. What body issues does she have to be concerned with?”
Fletcher crossed his forearms on his desk and laid his forehead on top. “I think it had to do with the story she wanted to pursue that first day,” he said, talking down into his lap. “Maybe she thought Mangel had some connection to the Blubber Be Gone death. It’s all my fault. I should have put my foot down on day one. No big investigations until you get your feet wet. Instead, I filled her full of fanciful ideas, told her she could do anything she wanted, and I’d support her. I did try to distract her with the Evans story, but in the end, this is all on me.”
“You saying fanciful ideas were all you filled her with?”
He looked back up at his executive editor and childhood friend. “Are you insinuating something?”
“Nah, I’m flat-out asking you if you banged her silly. You’ve had a hard-on for Cam since the day you came back from White Plains. She was all you could talk about. If you’re tied to her romantically and she’s involved with any of this Mangel nonsense, you might have put the entire future of Trend in jeopardy. I didn’t leave a perfectly decent job at a top magazine to flush my entire career down the toilet, all thanks to your libidinal renaissance.”
Fletcher lifted an eyebrow. “You done?”
“Pretty much, yeah.”
“Good, because one more word and my fist, which is also enjoying its rebirth, is going to knock you into the next century. I happen to love that girl. I won’t rest until I have her back and know she’s safe.”
The intercom buzzed, startling both men. “Yes, Ms. Thorsen?”
“I think you’ll want to come out here, Mr. Fletcher. There’s someone who claims she must see you.”
“No more reporters, Rachel. I’ve said all I’m going to say.”
“It’s not a reporter, sir. It’s someone whose face is covered in scarves, claiming to be Camarin’s mum.”
He looked up at Wynan. Maybe this would give them a clue as to her whereabouts.
“Show her into the war room, Ms. Thorsen. We’ll be right out.”
The woman waiting for them had removed her scarves, revealing an older, even more elegant version of Camarin. The only differences were a pair of gold-rimmed glasses and a widow’s peak of silver splitting her short, jet-black hair in two. Fletcher estimated that she was only five or six years older than he, with a figure still as shapely as her daughter’s. If Camarin looked this good in twenty-five years, he could count himself a very, very lucky man.
“Excuse me, which one of you gentlemen is the magazine’s owner?” she asked.
Fletcher walked over and shook her hand. “Mrs. Torres? I’m Lyle Fletcher, the owner of Trend. I hope you had a pleasant flight from Los Angeles.”
“Please, call me Ana. Yes, it was okay. A little bumpy, but then again, I don’t fly much. I don’t know good flights from bad.” She managed a weak smile.
“I’m Hans Wynan,” said the executive editor, reaching out to shake hands after Fletcher had stepped to the side. “Please sit down, let’s all have a chat.” He pulled out a chair for their visitor, then he and Fletcher sat across from her at the boardroom table.
“Mr. Fletcher, Mr. Wynan, I am beside myself about my Camarita. She is in all the papers. I have been calling all the numbers I have, but she doesn’t pick up. I have no idea how to reach her. And all these terrible things the papers are saying. My beautiful girl. I had to hide my face to come here today so the reporters wouldn’t figure out who I was and drown me in questions. I don’t know what to do.”
“I’m afraid we haven’t heard from her either, Ana,” Fletcher said, reaching out and gently placing his hand over hers. “Nothing since Thursday last week. But I can tell you that I saw her in Philadelphia, and I know she couldn’t be responsible for any of this.”
Wynan looked at him, askance. “You were there? Why didn’t you mention that before?”
He waved off the editor’s concern. “There was nothing to tell. Rachel told me she was heading down. I went to keep an eye on her, make sure she didn’t get into any trouble.” He turned back to Ana. “I want to say how very sorry I am for your loss.”
“Excuse me? My what?”
“The loss of your other daughter, Monaeka. Camarin spoke about her at the revival. You could see how the memory tore her to pieces.”
Ana turned pale. “This is very bad news, Mr. Fletcher. Very bad.”
“What is it, Ana?” asked Wynan.
“I’m sorry, I thought we were past this. I normally don’t share family secrets, but in this case, it’s probably best.” Her eyes pleaded for forgiveness, acceptance. “Hagå-hu, my beautiful daughter, she isn’t right in the head sometimes. When she was younger, there was an incident. I was working nights when, behind my back, my sister, Sirena, brought in a suruhånu, a traditional healer, and a priest. Camarin was overweight, you see, the pills for the epilepsy affecting her metabolism. I tried to put her on diets, but Sirena claimed it was the devil making her fat. She believed that if they could only exorcise his possession from her soul, she could be normal, fit in. Anyway, after that she was never the same. It’s like the stress of the ceremony broke her in two.”
Fletcher was shaking with anger at the thought of his darling being traumatized. An exorcism? What were they thinking? What does that do to a young girl, probably already stressed with body issues? “Go on,” he said, trying to keep his voice steady.
“What I’m trying to say is that there is no Monaeka. There never was. After the exorcism, my daughter took her middle name and somehow turned it into the person she didn’t want to be anymore. Dissociative Identity Disorder, that’s how the psychiatrist explained it. Camarin became the dominant one, constantly trying to take control, keep Monaeka down. Her weight still yo-yoed, and when she was skinny, Camarin became herself again. Hopeful. Self-confident. But when she got depressed and ate herself into a stupor, that was Monaeka, taking over. It was a constant struggle between them. The doctor says it’s not all that uncommon, people taking on one personality when they’re fat and another when they’re thin. This is just that phenomenon taken to an extreme.”
“She seemed completely normal until a few days ago,” Wynan said, wincing. “But once the Mangel story hit, she started seizing, acting oddly…we should have suspected something. And yet she never seemed to deviate between two personalities, at least not around the office.”
“That’s true,” added Fletcher. “At times, she seemed more impulsive or agitated than others, but nothing so atypical that it made me think twice.”
“When she went to college, Camarin came more into her own,” Ana explained. “I think she drove Monaeka further and further away. The longer she kept thin, the more ‘Camarin’ she stayed. I call every week or so, trying to gauge her mental state. Lately, she’s sounded stable, and I had hoped Monaeka had died off completely, but now, based what you’re telling me, it was all just wishful thinking.”
Fletcher thought back to the bulimia Cam described at the revival. Fighting off Monaeka must be why she never ate, or when she did, she ensured the calories never stayed around very long.
“What about the college essay?
” he asked.
Ana shrugged. “What about it? She took one picture when she was at her heaviest and another at her thinnest, and wrote a story about it. They liked it. They accepted her application.”
“But…she tells this story of how she was responsible for Monaeka’s suicide. A diet pill overdose. She’s consumed with guilt over it,” said Fletcher.
“She told me her sister died from an epileptic seizure,” said Wynan.
Ana hung her head. “Yes, this is what I was most worried about. It’s all part of the psychosis, this hallucination of hers. It’s always fuzzy, changing. The psychiatrist told us that the ‘Monaeka’ part of her brain was very fragile, very unstable. Paranoid that the stronger twin is out to get her, starve her to death. There’s no telling what could happen if Camarin lets down her guard and Monaeka takes over. She could rebel, lash out. When the newscasters reported that she spoke in front of all those people and got booed…and then that poor man was hurt in his trailer, maybe killed…”
“You think that Camarin might actually be responsible for Mangel’s attack?” Fletcher sat back in disbelief, as if never having considered such a possibility before.
“Anything is possible. That’s why I must see her, get her to the doctor. I need you to help me. Otherwise, who knows…” Her eyes glistened. Wynan reached over and pulled a tissue from a box to his left and handed it to the grieving mother. She thanked him, lifted her glasses, and gingerly patted her tears dry.
“Mrs. Torres, please promise us you won’t share this information with anyone else. Camarin needs our help, not a cadre of police officers questioning her and driving her into some kind of frenzy,” Fletcher said.
“You have my word, but first we have to find her.”
“Don’t worry. I have six men already on it, and I’ll hire another six if I have to. Where are you staying? How can we get back in touch with you?”
“I have a room at the hotel above where Camarita works at the piano bar.”
“The Laidlaw?”
“Yes, it’s the only hotel in town I’d heard of. It’s expensive though. I was thinking of moving to the Holiday Inn if I have to stay much longer.”
“Please don’t bother. The Laidlaw is a decent hotel and well-situated. You should stay wherever you feel most comfortable. I’ll call the manager and have him bill the magazine directly for your visit. Help yourself to room service, whatever you need to feel at ease.”
“Oh, Mr. Fletcher, that isn’t necessary.”
“Ana, it truly is. I hope that one day I will be more than just your daughter’s employer. I hope to be more to you than just an acquaintance.”
Both Wynan and Ana opened their eyes wide at Fletcher’s proclamation.
“Can I have a piece of paper?” asked Ana. “I’ll write down my cell number and my room number. If you find out anything about my Camarita, you’ll know where to find me.”
Wynan grabbed a sheet of stationery and a pen from atop the lateral file behind him. Ana scribbled down the necessary information. She traded it with Fletcher, who in turn handed her one of his business cards, which she placed in her purse.
“Please, Mr. Lyle Fletcher, please find our girl. Bring her back to us safe.”
“I will, Ana, even if it’s the last thing I ever do. But if she contacts you, you must let us know so we can help her, without the press and the police getting involved. The last thing we need is for her to show herself, get spooked, and then run away again. Do you promise as well?”
“Of course. When I hear, you will hear from me.”
Chapter 39
It was one of the last warm days of October and Camarin was enjoying herself on the swings, sharing some gossip with one of the more popular girls in school. Could this be her chance to fit in with the cool kids? Apparently not. Through the sun’s glare, she spied her sister across the playground, surrounded by a gang of fourth-grade bullies.
She leapt off the swing and raced over in time to witness Alex, their leader, push Monaeka to the ground, calling her Fatso. Threaten to pellet her with stones. Which was unfortunate since Alex was the cutest guy in the class, the one Camarin had been secretly crushing on for months. Despite the attraction, she positioned herself between the boys and her dazed sister, impervious to the five-against-one threat, her expression a silent dare to just try and toss even one rock in their direction and risk her legendary wrath. Channeling the strength of her strong Chamorro ancestors, even if it meant remaining an outcast from the ‘in’ crowd for yet another semester. She’d made a vow to protect her sister, and no matter what the cost, she had to see it through.
She noticed, with regret, how her insurrection resonated in Alex’s eyes, his fury at having his playground preeminence challenged. He drew back his stone, aiming to both wound Monaeka and reassert his authority…
Camarin felt a tug on her shoulder and forced her eyes open. The light streaming in from the window hurt her retinas, and she put a hand out to block the beams. “Please,” she said in a hoarse voice, “please close the shades.”
Harvey walked over and shut the blinds and then picked up a glass of water from the end table and held it out to her.
“Do you want help sitting up? You need to drink something.”
She boosted herself up on her elbows, and he pressed the glass to her mouth. She managed a few sips through parched lips. They hurt going down.
“What happened?”
“You did quite a number on yourself. Knocked yourself unconscious. You’ve been out for two days. I had a friend of mine come to check on you—”
“You what? You know everyone is looking for me.”
“Calm yourself. This man is also a friend of Xavier’s father. No way he is talking to anyone. Anyway, he assured me that you were fine, that maybe it was better that you were missing out on all the excitement.”
“Excitement?”
“The press coverage. You know. But there is one thing you need to be aware of.”
“What’s that? Have they already convicted and sentenced me?”
“No, nothing as dire as all that.”
“Did they report Mangel’s dead?”
“No, not that either. DeAndre called your phone, and when he couldn’t get you, he tried me. Turns out his girlfriend told him your mother is in town and went looking for you at your office.”
Camarin’s arms began to judder, and she fought to regain her composure.
“My mother. Just when I thought things couldn’t get any worse…”
“She told Dee your mom seemed pretty distraught. Maybe you want to call her?”
“Not yet. I need my strength for that call. Do you have any protein? Maybe some chicken or fish?
“Ah, my girl, I was hoping your appetite would come back. While you were asleep, I’ve been cooking, trying my hand at some of your native recipes. How does a little chicken kelaguen sound? Or maybe a little eskabeche?”
Her mouth watered at the mention of cold chicken salad and fresh fish cooked in vinegar sauce. Certainly, the best parts of growing up in a family from Guam. “Bring it on, Malcolm. You’ll soon have me eating out of the palm of your hand.”
“Just as long as you eat, I don’t much care how you do it.”
He slowly helped her get out of bed and into the living room, where he sat her in front of the television before heading into the kitchen. The news stations were covering an earthquake in Greece and another controversial presidential twitter storm. The Mangel affair was apparently yesterday’s news. None of the reporters had stumbled onto the connection between Mangel’s attack and the other diet-related murders. And without any verification that Mangel had actually died, it seemed that the attention span of the average American news consumer was mercifully short.
“Maybe you want to turn off the news, skip all that stress,” said Harvey as he walked in with a plate piled high with Chamorro delicacies.
“For you, anything,” she said, sitting up as he set the dish on the coffee table.
The anger caused her to gag on her mouthful of fish. Harvey pulled away her fork and started patting her forcefully on the back until she spat the food onto the carpet. She stared at the spew, mortified.
“Don’t worry about it,” he said, taking a napkin and wiping up the vomit. “Just have to chew more carefully next time, girl.”
“It’s not that, Malcolm. I think I’ve figured out the identity of the Invisible Woman. The person who hurt Terry Mangel. I need to tell DeAndre. Do you know where my phone is?”
“Yes, yes, but calm down. You don’t want to lose any more nutrition.” He walked into the kitchen and came back with her burner. “Sorry, I left it there when I was speaking to young Mr. Robinson. Now, about your suspicions, before you start throwing anyone under the bus, are you positive?”
“No way to be certain,” she said, shaking her head. “But it’s a very strong theory, and I have reasons that support it.”
“Well, be sure you phrase it that way when you repeat it to anyone else. There’s an old Jamaican saying...talk and taste your tongue. It means think before you speak.”
“It’s good advice. I’ll be sure to keep it in mind.”
She mulled over Harvey’s admonition as she clutched the phone in her palm. It was true—she wasn’t a hundred percent sure. It could be Monaeka again, filling her mind with crazy thoughts, unwilling to let her find happiness with her Prince Charming.