Slashing Mona Lisa

by D. M. Barr

  “Camarita…”

  “There you are! The waitress said you came out here. What the hell is going on?”

  They sprang apart as Wynan and his partner bolted over. These interruptions were becoming an annoying habit.

  “He’s fine…now. Not so much under your watch. I brought him out here to get some air and get some food into him.”

  “That was very thoughtful of you, Cam,” Wynan said, striking a more amicable tone than she’d heard from him before. “Frankly, I’m ashamed I didn’t pick up on it myself. Oh, I’m sorry. I never introduced you to my husband, Austin.”

  “A pleasure,” said Austin.

  Cam attempted a handshake but he surprised her by lifting the back of her hand to his lips for a kiss. Why couldn’t her editor be half as charming as his mate? She mock-curtsied and then returned her attention to Wynan.

  “Don’t blame yourself. As I was telling Mr. Fletcher, it happens here every night. People get so wrapped up in the music, they overindulge without realizing it. Maybe you should get him home and into bed so he can sleep it off.”

  Wynan nodded. “Thank you, Camarin, for both your compassion and, I trust, your discretion. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  “We’ll continue our discussion at the office,” added Fletcher, sending a frisson of excitement coursing through her body. “Enjoy the rest of your evening.”

  She winked and headed back to face the pandemonium inside.

  Chapter 15

  Camarin arrived at the office early the next morning, bearing two espresso macchiatos, one for her and one as an overdue gift for Rachel. She hoped the caffeine would revive her after a sleepless night analyzing another flirtatious encounter with Fletcher. Had she overstepped? Would he even remember now that he was sober? This has to stop, here and now, she decided. He was off-limits from this minute onward. She had more important things on her agenda, such as the research she planned to delve into before Wynan shut her down with some other lame-ass story to edit.

  “You’re a bit Liz, aren’t you?

  “Don’t tell me,” she said, setting one of the coffees down for the receptionist. “Liz…Liz…Liz Hurley…early?”

  Rachel gave her a little clap. “I knew you’d catch on and, look, it’s only Wednesday. You’ll be moving to East End of London before the end of the week! And thanks for the sticky. Sticky toffee, coffee. But I’m sure you’d already figured that out. What’s the occasion?”

  “It’s thanks for the brainstorm you gave me yesterday,” she said as she wrenched open the door to the inner offices. “I’m going to suss it all out now and see where it leads me.”

  “Well, take these with you.” She pulled out a box of business cards from her top drawer. “They arrived yesterday, just after you left. Makes you oh, so official. Should I bow in your presence?”

  One raspberry later, Trend’s newest—and only, she mused—card-carrying investigative reporter sat down at her desk and signed into her computer, skin tingling with anticipation. She immediately googled the San Diego Union-Tribune and then the news for the week of January seventh, the date when Mangel’s traveling body-acceptance circus rolled into town. Not until Thursday’s issue did she uncover anything even slightly nefarious: the disappearance of Morgan McGee, owner of a local lingerie store. Not really what she was looking for. She was about to change course, but on gut instinct, she further researched the owner’s name and uncovered a line of advertisements announcing McGee as San Diego’s ‘girdle queen.’ Huh, I didn’t know they still made girdles.

  Intrigued, she kept reading through the week’s issues. She was rewarded when she reached Saturday’s edition. Splashed on the front page was a gruesome picture of McGee’s squashed and nearly unrecognizable body. Spurred by a combination of horror, anticipation, and triumph, she read the accompanying story.

  Murder’s a Cinch: Girdle Queen Found Squashed on Vista Porno Set

  by Dora Lewis, special to the Times Union

  January 12: The owner of ten San Diego-area lingerie stores was found dead Friday afternoon on a soundstage in Vista. Morgan McGee, 47, of Chula Vista, was reported missing by her husband on Thursday. She was discovered by the production crew of Sunshine Studios, crushed underneath a steamroller being used as a prop on the adult film, “Hardhats and Hardbodies 3.” McGee was pronounced dead at the scene.

  An autopsy is scheduled, but Mordechai Weiss, the death investigator, told this reporter that the probable cause of death was a combination of suffocation, drowning due to ribs piercing the lungs, and trauma due to broken bones. With McGee’s crushed skull making identification through dental records impossible, authorities said Gill McGee, the deceased’s husband, identified the self-proclaimed Girdle Queen by the color of her hair and the dress and underlying signature girdle they peeled off the corpse. “It was gold lamé with tiny diamonds,” said McGee. “I’d know it anywhere…and would like it back, if at all possible.”

  “We needed to move the vehicle to film an orgy scene but boy, were we surprised with what popped up,” said Dick Pierce, male lead on the film. “She was flatter than a pancake. You couldn’t even make out her face. I guess she found that to become really thin, heavy machinery beats out Spandex any day of the week.”

  Funeral services are scheduled for Tuesday at St. Thomas More Catholic Church.

  A fitting end for someone who spent her life forcing women into stifling garments.

  Though it seemed patently immoral to revel over something as tragic as a lingerie store owner’s death—or any death, for that matter—Camarin wouldn’t allow Monaeka’s cynical voice to squash her excitement over this new discovery. Could this be the beginning of a pattern?

  Pursuing her theory, she virtually tracked Mangel’s trail, and sure enough, death followed the caravan wherever they set up their tents. Two weeks after the McGee story ran, Camarin found the Los Angeles Times’ account of another tragedy befalling someone in the weight loss or self-improvement industry.

  Police Move Ahead in Disappearance of Fat Boys’ Camp Owner

  By Zoe Miller

  January 21: James Masterson, owner of the Twenty Pounds Off Camp for Boys, was found decapitated yesterday on the grounds of his thirty-acre facility in Thousand Oaks. His head, found about thirty feet from his body, had been partially eaten by local wildlife. Authorities made a positive identification using dental records.

  Masterson’s wife, Amy, told the Times that she had no idea of the killer’s identity since her husband had been well-liked throughout his fourteen-year tenure as the camp’s owner. “We’ve helped more than 1,600 chunky boys change their lives for the better since we opened. That’s more than fifteen tons of unwanted pounds. Maybe someone was angry that they gained the weight back, but we’re very clear in our contract, in life there are no guarantees.”

  Want to lose ten pounds of ugly fat? Chop off your head.

  Camarin ignored Monaeka’s irreverent comments and continued her research.

  In Phoenix, the victim was the proprietor of a store that specialized in weight-loss supplements. She was discovered collapsed at her desk, having overdosed on a bottle of her own stimulants. Camarin wasn’t sure if she fit the modus operandi since it could have been your standard drug overdose, but her heart continued to pound with the thrill of the digital chase.

  The Santa Fe New Mexican reported the untimely demise of a high school principal in Pojoaque. He had made recent headlines by denying special services, like a wheelchair, to a student who ultimately dropped out because she was too obese to hike up the hill from the bus drop-off point to the school’s entrance. The principal was found bound, gagged, and half-eaten by maggots in a six-foot ditch on campus—the beginnings of the school’s future outdoor swimming pool. Definitely hard to climb out of that one, thought Cam.

  She started searching the Dallas Morning News when Wynan finally wandered in around nine-thirty AM, holding a venti-sized coffee from Starbucks. She attributed his pallor to one hell of a hangover. He invite
d her into the war room, and she followed, fearing the worst. Had Fletcher confided in him about their near-kiss? Was he going to fire her for fraternizing with the boss? She sucked in a deep breath and braced herself for whatever tongue-lashing awaited.

  “How are you feeling this morning?” he began, sounding upbeat.

  “I’m good, thanks. You?”

  “Camarin, I won’t beat around the bush,” he said, dispensing with formalities. “I was way out of line the last few days, and I’m not above apologizing. Lyle and I had a long talk last night after we left the club, and he filled me in on a few details I was unaware of…that encounter on the railroad platform with the Kit Kat girl for one. I had no idea.”

  Camarin felt herself blush but said nothing.

  “That showed a lot of character. It showed…a level of compassion for the disenfranchised that’s frankly missing from most people’s playbooks. Kudos for that. There’s something you must know. About me…” He took a gulp of his coffee. A long pause followed.

  “What’s that?” Her curiosity piqued, she didn’t want him to change his mind about opening up to her.

  He set down his cup and looked her straight in the eye. “When I was younger…in boarding school in Connecticut…I came out early. I knew who I was and what I was around the time I turned fourteen. What I didn’t realize was how other boys would react, how threatened they’d be by that. I…I never dated. I never spoke about being gay to other students. I kept to myself. But still…”

  Wynan paused again and took another sip of his Starbucks. Camarin noticed his hands were shaking. “It’s okay. You don’t have to tell me,” she said, but he waved her off.

  “One Saturday night, a pack of drunken, rowdy seniors broke into my dorm room, looking for a fight. They beat the living shit out of me. After they’d had their fun, they warned me to pack my bags and drag my faggot ass off campus by morning, or they’d finish the job.”

  “Oh my God, how awful.” Her heart went out to Wynan, whom she started to see in a totally different light.

  “I sat in my room, shivering and bloody, trying to figure out if I had enough money to buy a plane ticket back to Amsterdam, when this skinny kid from down the hall peeked in. I’d never spoken to him before. He asked if I was okay. I said I didn’t really know. Then he came in and sat on the bed beside me. We just stayed like that for about twenty minutes, silent, thinking. Finally, he looked over at me and asked, ‘Do you know the names of the kids who did this to you?’ I nodded, and he told me to write them down on a piece of paper.”

  “And then what happened?” Camarin’s could barely hear herself over the throbbing in her temples. It was as if she was in the dorm room alongside them.

  “I don’t really know. I never saw those ruffians again. I assume they were expelled. That boy—as you might have already gathered—was Lyle. He and I roomed together until graduation, and he guarded over me like a Doberman Pinscher. No one even threw another sexual epithet my way, much less laid a finger on me.”

  Camarin nodded, wiping a tear from her eye. She was torn between her sympathy for Wynan and admiration for Fletcher.

  “I tell you this for two reasons, especially since Lyle is far too modest to tell you the story himself. One is that, like you, I have a deep appreciation for those who deviate from the mainstream, primarily because I count myself among their ranks. As well as a soft spot for anyone who grasps the extent of the challenges we go through each day. And second, I wanted you to understand why I’m so overprotective of Lyle. Why I gave up a senior position at Business Day to help him run this piece of dreck. He stuck his neck way out for a kid he’d never met. I will always be there to pay back the favor.”

  “I do understand, better than you know. Mr. Fletcher also extended himself for a stranger when he offered me this job, and I don’t take kindness like that for granted. I have no intention of letting him—or you—down. I just need you to trust that my intentions are good and what I don’t know, I’ll learn. Or die trying.”

  “Well, work ethic is all well and good, but please, no dying,” Wynan said with a laugh. “I’m hoping we can start over. Lyle says you want to research stories dealing with body acceptance. I have an assignment that might interest you. Have you heard of Perri Evans?”

  Her heart jumped. “The country singer? The one who won American Dynamo?”

  “The very one. Ridiculed for competing at over three hundred pounds and still beat the odds. She’s got a new album coming out next month, and she’s starting a publicity tour. I’d like you to go to DC and interview her Saturday afternoon. Take the Acela down early in the morning, return home in the late afternoon. I know it’s over the weekend, and I can’t pay you overtime, but I’ll try to make it up to you some other way. Sound good?”

  “It…it sounds great,” she stammered.

  “I’ll leave the background material on your desk later. And I’d be open to hearing any other story ideas you might have. Speaking of which, Lyle mentioned you’re also pursuing some research concerning the Blubber Be Gone murder. Have you come up with anything so far?”

  “Not really,” she hedged, not wanting to divulge anything until she was sure—sure that Wynan was on the level with this generous offer, and positive that the pattern of destruction continued through Mangel’s tour stops to Dallas and St. Louis.

  “Well, let’s leave that investigation to the police, shall we? There are plenty of more interesting—and safer—stories out there to keep you busy. In the meantime, I do have some more pieces that need your editing assistance.”

  “No problem,” she lied. She knew it had all sounded too good to be true.

  While she appreciated Wynan handing her more editorial freedom, she wasn’t about to just set aside what she’d learned up to now. She’d find a way to continue to research the connection between Mangel and all these murders without the editorial director becoming any the wiser.

  “Just one other thing…” he said.

  What now? Camarin bit the inside of her lip and waited.

  “If you come up with a story idea that I feel diverges too far from our focus and would be better suited for a more serious magazine than Trend, say one of the wire services or Business Day, I reserve the right to help you get it placed over there instead. Under your byline, of course. Sound good to you?”

  Her heart skipped a beat. This almost made up for them passing on the BBG story. Her name on a story for Reuters? Or the AP? Or Business Day? What a coup that would be! But more importantly, she would have a larger audience to crusade for the rights of the oppressed. People who had been ignored and overlooked. People like Monaeka.

  “Absolutely!”

  “Great. Let’s get to work,” said Wynan. “We have a magazine to turn around.”

  Chapter 16

  Back at her desk, Camarin tried to put off her fact-finding mission surrounding Terry Mangel’s recent tour long enough to edit an article on the wonders of CoolSculpting. But as soon as Wynan headed off to the printers, she took advantage of the opportunity to research without reproach.

  Sure enough, his last two stops before Chicago did not disappoint. About a week after the caravan pulled out of Dallas, a realtor stumbled upon the lifeless body of Ramona Bernstein, the manufacturer of a line of low-calorie, low-carb frozen meals in nearby Trophy Club. Alleged cause of death: starvation and dehydration. She’d been tied to a chair in the pantry of an overpriced, and therefore rarely toured, home listed for sale, surrounded by packages of foods she couldn’t reach.

  And in Creve Coeur, just outside St. Louis, the victim was Claude Chapelle. He was the owner of Rez-de-Chaussée, a French restaurant that had been repeatedly sued for firing waitresses because of weight gain. Since weight was not a protected class, none of the plaintiffs won their suits, but the murderer got the last laugh. Chapelle turned up at a local rifle range, tied to a target, his limp, bloodied body riddled with bullets. Guess you were fired too. Whoever this killer was, he or she had an ironic and macabre s
ense of humor.

  Cam leaned back in her seat, closed her eyes, and contemplated what she had stumbled onto. Her first story—a serial killing spree. All one-off local killings in small suburbs of big cities, which was probably why no one had recognized the connection on a national level. Or if anyone had, they had yet to go public with the information.

  What next? She couldn’t go to Fletcher or Wynan, not after they’d made her promise to lay off the story. Who could she call? The police? The FBI? Were they really going to pay attention to a cub reporter from Trend magazine? Probably not. More likely they would advise her to restrict her concerns to how Björk and Whoopi Goldberg were murdering fashion on a daily basis.

  Maybe she could share her suspicions anonymously on the internet. But she had no street cred. She’d just add one more conspiracy theory to the millions already out there in the blogosphere.

  And if she leaked her suspicions to CNN or one of the wire services, what would that get her? Nary a thank-you, much less any credit for uncovering the crime. And certainly no one would report the deaths in context, drawing attention to the real motivation behind them—the plight of those who wasted every precious minute of their lives hating themselves because of their weight.

  No, she had to investigate this herself, figure out which of Mangel’s followers was so incensed by his rhetoric, he or she was singlehandedly eliminating the entities he railed against in his ‘sermons.’