Slashing Mona Lisa

by D. M. Barr

He pulled a set of forks and a Limoges porcelain dinner plate and then spooned out some rice, topping it with the delicacy for her to enjoy. Then he dipped a fork into a succulent piece and brought it to her lips. Heaven. And the food was good too.

  “Shit. First DeAndre slacking off and now you!” Benji’s indignant voice crackled with displeasure from across the room. “Are we eating, or are we serving? Because any minute now, I’ll have a room full of thirsty customers, who will be that much thirstier and pissed off because I’ll have one less bartender to serve them.”

  “Cool it, Benji. I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.”

  “Damn right, it won’t. I’m watching you.” He made a V with his fingers, pointing first to his eyes and then to hers.

  “Hey, Benji, 2010 called and they want their hand gesture back.” DeAndre interrupted his make out session long enough to crack wise.

  “Shut up, piano man. You too can be replaced.”

  Fletcher turned in Benji’s direction, and Camarin could see the outraged look burning in his eyes. She stopped him before he could utter a word. “Please, I appreciate the effort, but I really need this job. Thank you for all this. It was so kind of you. How does it taste reheated?”

  “Anything can be delicious when heated up again. Didn’t you know that?”

  “I certainly hope so,” she said, playing into his innuendo.

  “Take it in the back and enjoy it during your break,” he said with a smile. “Just bring the plate back into the office tomorrow. It belongs to Hans. I just wanted to come by, make sure your stomach was full, and wish you a good evening.” He gave her a squeeze, kissed her on the cheek, and took off.

  Pouting, she retreated into the back room to hide her care package until her seven-thirty break. To her surprise, Rachel wandered in right behind her.

  “What are you doing here? No customers allowed. I’m already skating on thin ice as it is.”

  “You’re no fun. How am I supposed to tease you about snogging the boss?”

  “I didn’t realize you noticed. Weren’t you busy at the piano with your tongue halfway down my roommate’s throat?”

  “And I will be again, I assure you. But right now, he’s off resting before his performance.”

  “Seriously, Rachel. You’re my friend, and no one wants you to have Oedipus more than me…” She waited until her friend acknowledged her correct use of the one slang term she’d looked up in a Cockney Rhyming Slang dictionary online. “But I gotta tell you, he’s been through a lot. His ex-girlfriends have put him through the ringer. If you’re only looking for a one-nighter, look somewhere else. What he needs now is space and stability.”

  “Ah, ye of little faith. Trust me. I might flirt a good game, but I’m not looking to break anyone’s heart. I really like him.”

  “Fair enough. Who am I to stand in the path of true…acquaintance? But take it slow. DeAndre is the closest thing I’ve ever had to a brother, and I’m going to rip apart the next person who hurts him.”

  “Hear you loud and clear. How about another Blow Job ’til the music comes back on?”

  Chapter 18

  Less than twelve hours later, Camarin found Rachel sitting across the kitchen table from Annalise, clad only in DeAndre’s Foo Fighters t-shirt. So much for restraint. She didn’t know why she was the least bit surprised.

  “Good morning. I see you’re chatting with the one roommate you didn’t spend all night screwing silly.”

  “Well, look who’s finally up,” answered Rachel, mouth full of their generic version of Cap’n Crunch. “Smashing. We can walk to work together.”

  “Don’t you have to stop home and change? Can’t go into work wearing what you had on yesterday.”

  “No need,” Annalise interjected. “She’s my size. She can borrow whatever and send it back with you on Friday.”

  “Oh, lucky me. Today reporter, tomorrow messenger girl. Afraid you’ll have to come up with a change of plans though. I’m not planning on coming home after work tomorrow.” She grabbed a spoon and a dirty bowl from the sink, gave each a quick wash, and carried them to the table.

  “Ah, do tell. Planning on spending a cozy little weekend with—”

  “Mr. Wonderful?” Annalise finished Rachel’s sentence.

  Just what I need, two nosey parkers instead of one, Cam thought.

  “If you must know,” she said, carefully meting out a 110-calorie ounce of cereal and dousing it with the remaining drizzle of skim milk, “I’m taking the train down to Philadelphia. There’s a weight-loss revival coming to town, and it might be the perfect place to catch the person responsible for the murder I’m writing about.”

  Rachel fidgeted uneasily. “Does the aforementioned Mr. Wonderful know what you’re up to?”

  “No, and I prefer that it stay that way. If I’m wrong, I really don’t want to end my first week on the job with egg on my face.”

  “Of course not,” said Annalise. “I’m sure Lyle could think of some other viscous protein that he’d prefer there instead.”

  Both girls broke into giggles, prompting Camarin to stick out her tongue. “Eww. That’s just gross.”

  “Seriously, though, Cam, this can’t be Wynan’s idea of a first assignment. Have you ever investigated a murder before?” Rachel asked.

  “Not a one,” she said, oozing false confidence.

  “Do you really think you should go alone? I mean, it could be dangerous,” added Annalise.

  Tag team nagging. Happy Thursday!

  “It’s a fucking Feel Good About Yourself celebration. The worst thing that’s likely to happen is that they convince me I’m okay the way I am, and then, supremely secure in my ‘okayness,’ I dive into a box of Godiva chocolates on the train ride home.”

  Both ladies stared at her open-jawed, apparently unconvinced.

  “It’s your funeral,” said Annalise, “but I am not going in black, I’ll tell you that. Not when I have a chartreuse minidress I have been jonesing for any excuse to wear.” She stood up, dumped her dishes in the sink, and squeezed Rachel’s shoulder. “Come on, future roomie. Let’s leave Nancy Drew here to figure out The Secret of the Unwanted Weight. I’ve got a lavender pantsuit with your name on it.”

  Rachel followed along and then looked back at Cam. “How are you going to do it?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, go to Philly when you have to be in Washington on Saturday? Wynan told me to ask you about your preferred schedule and then book the train tickets.”

  Camarin flinched from a bolt of shock as the memory of the Perri Evans interview resurfaced.

  “Oh my God, I completely forgot. Fuck. Well, I bet I can do them both. Do you mind if I handle my own train tickets and you just give me the credit card to charge them to?”

  “Hey, no problem. You can take over any chores of mine you like. I’ll bring over the card when we’re at the office. But really, you should think twice about going to Philadelphia at all. It’s not safe. You’re a recent college grad, not Wonder Woman.”

  Camarin’s head started to pound as she watched Rachel leave the room, and her nerves began to tingle with anticipation, or was it dread? Did her travel plans reveal more bravado than brains? What was really the worst thing that could happen? Chat up some rich but depressed overweight people desperate for hope? Meet Mangel? Jot down some notes and come home perhaps better prepared to write the story than before?

  She did acknowledge there was the tiniest chance she could incense the killer with her presence. After all, a writer for a fashion magazine probably represented the objectification he or she hated most. She’d have to be very clear that she was on their side, that she understood their issues and was slanting the story their way.

  The most she had to lose was the cost of the train ride between Philly and Washington and two nights’ stay at an Airbnb. And, of course, her pride if she was wrong about it all. One big excuse for Rachel and Annalise to taunt her from now until December. Oh well. She sighed. Felis
Påsguan Nochebuena! Merry Christmas! Maybe Santa Claus could join in the joke as well.

  Chapter 19

  Camarin slipped out the door early, leaving an unsuspecting Rachel tittering and gossiping with Annalise. She had no desire to eavesdrop on a detailed account of anyone else’s sexual exploits, especially when Benji had cut her own prospects short the night before.

  If she hurts DeAndre, I’ll kill her. And if I don’t get any soon, I’ll kill myself.

  Apparently, she wasn’t the only one who had been left wanting. As soon as she entered the bullpen, she noticed the note on her keyboard. Without stopping to hang up her jacket, she unfolded the missive, fingers trembling.

  Camarita,

  I must head out of town to meet with some investors, whom I plan to lure to Trend with your bold plans for our new direction. I greatly anticipate reading your interview with Perri Evans. I’m sure it will be spectacular.

  I am sorry last night didn’t work out, but I look forward to dining with you again in the near future.

  Lyle

  In spite of herself and her better judgment, she felt the warmth spread from her face, past her heart, right down to her bebe’, which throbbed with desire. How she craved this witty, smart, supportive man who looked past spilt coffee and airborne pens, and nevertheless accepted her, encouraged her to explore her true self.

  Perhaps she could take off an evening from Benji’s next week and, instead, spend it sitting on his lap in some private space. Between their hungry kisses, he could spoon-feed her tiny dollops of caviar, and she could regale him with tales of her adventure with Mangel, assuming she made some progress this weekend and could justify having defied his order not to investigate in person.

  She turned on her computer and typed Amtrak into the search bar. Despite her initial excitement, this Evans assignment certainly presented a major kink in her plans to cover the revival. She searched through train schedules and prices, as crazed as a college senior studying for midterms. Her main concern: making it from Philly to DC and back Saturday without missing any of the second evening’s revival meeting.

  It turned out she’d worried for nothing. The cost of a roundtrip Acela ticket between New York to DC more than covered the cost of the cheaper, slower Northeast Regional local she was planning to take to Philly and back, plus the side trip between Philly and Washington. The surplus was even enough to cover her two nights at the Airbnb. Score! Even the schedules worked in her favor, with trains between DC and Philadelphia departing frequently enough to ensure she’d make the revival’s seven PM start, even if her interview with the singer ran overtime.

  She relaxed into editing the newest feature Wynan had sent to her in-box, a thought piece analyzing how the growth speed of the average female’s fingernails equated to her life span. All hail the mystical powers of alpha-keratin. Almost as a joke, she shot off a sarcastic email to Wynan.

  Any chance of including a sidebar on the dangers of biting your nails? Not only will it prevent you from predicting how long you’ll live, it can lead to several illnesses, according to Google.

  A few minutes later, she received a return message.

  Not a bad thought. Put something together with a few original quotes, and I’ll see if we have room to include it. Way to go. That kind of thinking is exactly how you transition a fluff magazine into something with a little more weight!

  Apparently, nothing was too inconsequential for Trend to cover. No matter. Camarin sat back and grinned. Fletcher’s unannounced departure aside, this flurry of love notes, new assignments, and unexpected pocket change had transformed what had started as a questionable morning into a terrific afternoon.

  Chapter 20

  The next day, over lunch at ToFusion, Camarin tried to concentrate on Rachel’s blathering on about DeAndre this and DeAndre that, but she could think of little else aside from her own upcoming adventure.

  “So, has he said anything? Do you think he’s appropriately besotten?” Rachel asked.

  “I really haven’t spoken to him about you. I’ve been preparing for this trip.” Camarin pushed her chunks of Tofu a la King back and forth on her plate. Rearranging them seemed preferable to eating them. Why had she let Rachel talk her into a vegan restaurant?

  “You’re holding back. You are, I can tell. You do that little thing with your mouth whenever you’re lying.”

  Camarin flinched. “What thing with my mouth?”

  “You open it.”

  “That’s ridiculous. Take that back!” She skewered a piece of tofu and then started mashing it to pieces with her fork.

  “You know I’m only joking, luv. But you can be a bit of a holy friar at times. Take this trip. You’re saying you’re not nervous?”

  “I’m excited. I’ll admit that. Especially now, with meeting Perri Evans. She’s the closest thing I’ve ever had to an idol.”

  “I’m not concerned about the warbler, worst she’ll do is sit on you, all three hundred pounds of her. No, I’m worried about the bloke with the knife, carving fat off your thighs and Khyber.”

  Camarin blinked. “I’m sorry, I can usually follow your Cockney rhyming whatever, and I know what you’re saying, but Khyber?”

  Rachel bowed her head, feigning disapproval. “I really thought you were catching on. I’ll take pity on you, just this one time. Khyber Pass, ass. Should have said Aris, short for Aristotle. Aristotle rhymes with bottle. Bottle and glass equals ass. Therefore, Aris is also slang for ass.”

  “Ah, fascinating. Well, I promise if I sense any trouble, I’ll hike both my Khyber and my Aris right out of there. Happy?”

  * * * *

  At five PM, Camarin stuffed her research notes into her backpack, ran out of the office, and would have made the 6:25 PM to Philadelphia an hour early had the subways been running. Turned out the entire system was in disarray, thanks to a noon derailment outside Canal Street. She ended up half-walking, half-jogging the entire three miles to Penn Station.

  Sweaty and out of breath, with no time to even grab a diet soda, she found her track with a minute to spare. The car was packed, but she collapsed into an empty seat close to the restroom, closed her eyes, and willed herself to use the eighty-seven-minute train ride to calm her nerves.

  Normally, the gentle rocking of the train would have lulled her to sleep, but her racing thoughts quickly put an end to any hopes on that score. Besides her concerns over tonight’s mini-revival—the prelude to Saturday’s spectacular—she wondered how she was going to get through tomorrow’s interview with Perri Evans without fawning all over her like some star-struck idiot.

  She reached into her backpack and pulled out her research notes, including a three-year-old story from Bible Belter magazine, the self-proclaimed official journal of the Christian-country music scene. It was the most in-depth portrait of Evans to date. It detailed the singer’s dire adolescence, including a string of foster homes and a heroin addiction she overcame by substituting Jesus and food as her drugs of choice. Over the course of a year, she got clean but corpulent. She joined the church chorus, where everyone urged her to take her singing to the next level. However, because of her weight, she was laughed off the stage at most auditions. Nevertheless, she auditioned for, and subsequently won American Dynamo.

  With that triumph. Evans had metaphorically stuck up her middle finger at every naysayer and fat hater out there who’d peppered their compliments about her singing with one or two obligatory digs about her size. Afterward, she disappeared from public view—and scrutiny—and no one had seen her on stage since. But why? That was the question on every fan’s mind. This assignment from Wynan was quite the coup. Camarin hoped to return to Trend with the answers to not just one mystery but two.

  She arrived exhausted in Philadelphia, eager to find a cab and begin her quest. Her Airbnb was only a few blocks from Fairmount Park, the site of the revival, and during the short trip, they drove past the enormous tents Mangel’s roadies must have mounted only hours earlier. She awed at the hord
es already storming the grounds, a full hour prior to the start of the event. A line at least four-deep extended from the tent’s main entrance through the park and several blocks down the sidewalk.

  She tried to do the math: thousands of ticketholders at five hundred dollars a pop. The calculations made her heart ache. What people would endure for even a soupçon of hope and acknowledgment. Everyone deserved acceptance, and it was her mission to make that widely understood. What wasn’t necessary: people paying a fortune for it.

  Just like you accepted me, Cam? Ditching me as soon as you could fly out east to college?

  The cab pulled up outside a large, purple Victorian about two blocks from the Mangel masses. Mrs. Hawkins, one of the owners, led her to a clean room with two twin beds on the second floor. “You were lucky we had a cancellation. Every room in town is occupied by Feel Gooders. I bet the McDonald’s in town is going to have a field day.”

  Camarin knew it was meant as an innocent comment, just a host trying to strike up rapport with a customer. But it took some self-restraint not to tear into this woman and remind her that everyone needed to eat, no matter what their size.

  She changed out of her work clothes into a pair of comfortable jeans and a t-shirt, topped by a hoodie in case the late May evening turned chilly. Casual and a little baggy. Nothing form-fitting that might attract the attention or ire of other, heavier attendees.

  Once she reached the park, she made her way past the hundreds of overflow spectators seated outside the main tent. Jumbotrons, accompanied by huge auxiliary speakers, were scattered throughout this secondary audience, lest even one person miss the ubiquitous commercials for Mangel-related products. Meanwhile, the line leading into the main arena slowly snaked forward. To its left, a unit of five employees manned a smaller pop-up canopy labeled CUSTOMER SERVICE. Cam headed their way.

  She introduced herself to a chubby, raven-haired woman wearing a Terry’s Tubbies t-shirt and pulled out her business card to exchange for a press pass. The worker, whose nametag identified her as Grace, asked her to wait and ran into the main tent. She reemerged with an attractive but anorexic, thirty-something brunette in a herringbone suit, carrying a clipboard.