by D. M. Barr
“I have to run an errand, but I should be back around ten to pick up my backpack and be on my way.” She stood to leave.
Nancy walked over and surprised her with an effusive hug. “Well, we loved having you, Camarin, and if there’s anything we can do to make your next trip here as pleasant as this one has been, please don’t hesitate to call.”
It was a bright morning, and it was nice to be able to stroll back to the park without a sweater. She wished she had the time to enjoy the blue jays flittering about or sniff the blooming roses, but she had too much on her mind.
What could she really do to help Mangel? Though he was convinced his staff was not involved, she wasn’t as sure. Why couldn’t the Invisible Woman or her minions be among his cadre of traveling followers? She decided she would insist on examining his employee files, and then urge him to contact the local police. After all, the event in Philadelphia was complete. No need to worry that a random murder or two might stifle ticket sales.
She saw Mangel’s trailer in the distance and hastened her pace, adopting a confident, capable demeanor. Bluff your way through, wasn’t that Lyle’s motto? Better get this meeting over with, while she still had her nerve.
* * * *
The parking lot was deserted, other than the convoy of trailers waiting to invade the next city and fleece a fresh group of hope-starved gullibles. Hucksters and their crew must sleep late on Sunday mornings, Fletcher surmised. Unless they were all off at church. After following Camarin from the Victorian, he tucked behind a white lilac bush and watched from a distance as she knocked on the trailer door, waited a few beats, and then entered Mangel’s lair.
* * * *
After no one answered her knocks, Camarin took a chance and tested the handle. To her surprise, it opened. She pressed the door ajar and heard the whoosh of shower water. Though she knew the right thing to do would be to remain outside and wait, she couldn’t resist this golden opportunity to snoop around undisturbed. She ventured inside, closing the door behind her.
The trailer’s luxurious interior put April’s to shame. The living room greeted guests with overstuffed couches on either side, and coffee tables set between them in the aisle. Behind that, she saw a work area—a mahogany desk covered with papers, across from a wooden lateral filing cabinet. Farther back, she could see a dining table with built-in seating for four opposite a wall of kitchen cabinets and appliances. A queen-sized bed filled the back of the trailer, across from what she assumed was the bathroom.
Shivering with prospect of potential discovery, Camarin headed directly for the desk and perused its mountain of correspondence, careful not to disturb anything. What she really sought was another glimpse of the Facebook printout from the Invisible Woman or that death threat, so she could snap them with her phone camera. But if they were there, they were buried under piles of receipts, schedules, a stack of “Dear Terry” letters proclaiming undying admiration. Not exactly the stuff of breaking headlines.
She pulled on the lateral file drawers, but to no avail. Damn. She needed to see the employee records or whatever else might be locked inside. Scanning the desk for a key, or even a paper clip to pick the lock, she spotted a letter opener with a white marbled handle. The shower water was still spritzing, so she had time. She grabbed the opener and knelt, trying to wedge the tip into the cylinder, but it was too thick to fit. She stood up, replaced the opener on the desk, and started toward the kitchen to find some thinner utensil when she heard the water shut off.
She remained glued to her spot, wondering if she should make herself comfortable or run out of the trailer and knock again. The bathroom handle turned, making the decision for her. With no time to spare, she zipped over to one of the couches and plopped down, trying to look nonchalant.
“Terry, it’s Camarin,” she yelled out, lest he emerge naked, a memory she preferred not to take back to Manhattan. “I let myself in. I hope that’s okay.”
The bathroom door opened and out walked Mangel, damp-headed and clothed in a thick, blue velour robe. “Good morning. I’m so glad you had the forethought to let yourself in. Busy day ahead, and this was the only chance I’d have to shower.” He walked over to the fridge and opened it. “What can I offer you? Orange juice? Or perhaps a mimosa?” He pulled out the juice and a bottle of champagne and set them on the counter, his manner uncharacteristically calm for someone whose life had recently been threatened.
“I’ve already had breakfast, thanks. I’d prefer if we got right down to work.” She sat forward, trying to project a confident, no-nonsense stance. “I’ve been thinking…there really is no downside to going to the police. Act before anything bad happens. I know how the Invisible Woman and her operatives work. They’d probably tie you to your podium with a mic stuffed down your throat.”
Mangel reached for two champagne flutes and hummed as he poured them each a mimosa. Camarin watched, annoyed that he didn’t seem to grasp the import of her words or the gravity of the situation. Was this the same man who had desperately begged for her help the night before?
He brought the drinks over and set them on the coffee table, then positioned himself on the couch across from hers. His robe opened slightly, and she could see Little Terry peeking out. She tried to ignore the intrusion, focusing above the chest.
“So, what precautions are you taking?” she asked, again trying to direct the conversation to the issue at hand.
“I’ve spoken to our security team, and they’re monitoring the grounds. Other than that, I plan to stay put, have all my meetings in the trailer until we pull out later for Charlotte. Speaking of pulling out, are you on the pill?”
The world stood still for a moment as Camarin tried to determine if she’d heard him correctly. “Excuse me?”
“The pill. Are you on birth control?”
“What the fuck business is that of yours?”
He reached down and untied his robe, showing his bare body in all its questionable glory. “Well, I could get a condom, but I won’t enjoy things as much. We could go bareback. You’ve been checked recently, I assume?”
Everything in her line of vision turned an angry shade of crimson. She was livid—both at him for making light of the situation, but even more intensely, at her own naivety, stupidly walking into a compromising situation with a serial philanderer. Without thinking, she picked up her mimosa and threw at him, but the liquid missed his face and splattered on his chest. His stunned expression slowly broke into a crooked, little smile.
“We can play rough too, if you’d like. I’d actually enjoy that more.”
She stood up and started for the door, praying her knees wouldn’t fail her before she made it outside. He arose to block her path. Her survival sense kicking in, she took three steps backward and reached behind her, foraging for the letter opener she’d left on the desk moments before. He took two steps forward, his erect cock leading the way. She rummaged faster, pushing papers onto the floor, certain she only had seconds to spare.
“Smart girl. A desk is hotter than a bed any day of the week.”
He was almost upon her when she finally found the letter opener and wielded it menacingly. He backed off, a shocked look on his face as if no one had ever denied him before.
“One more step and you’re a dead man,” she said, thrusting the knife forward to shield her as she made her way around him. He held his hands out in a ‘back off, we’re cool’ fashion and stood as still as a statue as she walked backward toward the trailer’s entrance.
“Can’t we still be friends?” he asked, meekly.
“I hope the Invisible Woman gets you and gets you good,” Camarin hissed, drenched in sweat.
She reached for the door handle, simultaneously tossing the letter opener onto the carpet in front of the coffee table. She turned to exit and, in her haste, almost fell down the three steps between the door and the sidewalk. Then she ran from the trailer as fast as she could, grateful that no one was around to see her unceremonious exodus from Mangel World.<
br />
* * * *
Twenty minutes after assuming guard, Fletcher watched Camarin burst out the trailer, visibly shaken and looking frenetically in all directions. He was torn: did she need his assistance? Should he reveal himself and risk her scorn? Before he could decide, she bustled away, looking back terrified, as if running from a ghost.
There was no way to catch up to her without being noticed, and there was certainly no point going into the trailer to confront Mangel without first knowing what had transpired between them.
He hurried back over to the Victorian, his only clue to her possible whereabouts. From a distance, he saw her wearing her backpack and hailing a cab. She looked in his direction and hesitated before getting inside. Then the taxi sped off, presumably toward 30th Street Station, leaving him to pray that he’d been too far away to be recognized.
Despite his concerns over her agitated state, he decided to linger a bit. Why risk an unfortunate encounter onboard and confirm any suspicions that her brief glance might have provoked? Perhaps he could stroll back to the park, have a word or two with Terry, and take the next train home.
Tomorrow at work, he’d call her into his office, they’d talk about her weekend, and surely, she would confide in him about whatever events that had transpired inside Mangel’s trailer and upset her so.
Chapter 27
A despondent Camarin returned to a thankfully empty apartment and sequestered herself in her bedroom. To her surprise, she was less shaken up about the attack—most of what happened between Terry propositioning her and her running from the trailer was just an unpleasant blur—and more annoyed about how she’d handled the entire incident.
How could she have been so stupid? Perhaps she wasn’t meant to be an investigative reporter after all. And what if the Invisible Woman did follow through? Had Cam been wrong to leave Philadelphia without at least telling the police something about the death threats against Mangel? Or the murders that preceded them? Could her decision result in yet another homicide?
Who could she confide in? Lyle came to mind first, perhaps because she’d kept spotting his doppelgängers all over Philadelphia. But did she really want to admit she’d defied his orders and, on top of that, was such an amateur reporter that she’d endangered herself unnecessarily? There was always Wynan. He’d seemed compassionate as of late. But he’d also warned her against the investigation. Plus, he’d go running to Lyle, what with the reputation of the magazine at stake. With DeAndre, her exploits could end up as pillow talk, and blabbermouth Rachel might feel compelled to report back to management. So, he was a no as well.
There was always her mother. Ha! Perfect if she wanted to be lectured on what the best-dressed women at the rape crisis center were wearing and how to more effectively befriend them. It looked like Annalise might be her one and only choice as confidante. Once she got back home anyway.
Cam pulled the laptop from her backpack and started scanning news portals for any mention of a Mangel assault. Nothing, which was reassuring. Still, if she’d only snuck a look at those employee files or had snapped a picture of the Invisible Woman’s Facebook post and death threat. At least then she would have some additional fodder for her story. Now, with neither evidence nor witnesses, she was no further ahead than before she’d left for Philly.
The slam of the front door signaled the arrival of the troops. The lilt of Rachel’s rhyming slang accompanied DeAndre’s raucous laughter. Then some muffled banter that she couldn’t make out.
I can’t stay locked in my bedroom forever, Cam decided, mentally juggling various explanations of the past weekend’s events. She settled on the easiest—plausible deniability.
“Hey, look who’s pope!” DeAndre sat beside Rachel on the couch, grinning sheepishly. “She’s teaching me. Pope in Rome. Home.”
“Terrific. Now I have the two of you spouting nonsense. Who wants a cuppa tea?” Camarin donned her best fake English accent.
“I’ll have one,” Rachel volunteered. “So, how did the adventure go, Miss Marple?”
Cam reached for a mug. “How about you, Dee? You want some oolong? Or maybe something herbal to soothe your throat before tonight’s show? I can stir in some honey.”
“Would the jury please note how the defendant is avoiding the question?”
She shot Rachel a sneer. “I can do both, you know. Discuss my disappointing weekend and serve tea. I’m talented that way. Dee? Last chance.”
He briefly halted his tongue’s exploration of the back of Rachel’s neck. “Oolong’s fine, thanks.”
“Great. Hope you like Tetley’s, Ms. Thorsen, because that’s what you’re getting.”
“No need to be bonnie, just because I was curious.”
She didn’t want to ask, but her curiosity got the best of her. “Bonnie?”
Rachel took the win in stride. “Bonnie and Clyde. Snide.”
“Ah, should have known.”
Camarin placed two tea bags into oversized mugs and poured water into the kettle. It was old school, but sometimes the simpler ways were best. She joined them in the living room, plonking herself down on the love seat opposite her inquisitors.
“If you must know—”
“Yes, I absolutely must.” Rachel batted her eyelashes annoyingly.
“It was a disaster from start to finish. The revival was so crowded and chaotic, I couldn’t even reach the PR person who okayed the meeting, much less the leader himself.” No point in reminding them of his name, especially if it popped up in today’s papers. “And then the interview with Perri Evans…”
“You met Perri Evans?” DeAndre perked up, diverting his attention from his tongue’s focus, which had graduated to the top of Rachel’s shoulders. “That woman can sing.”
“No doubt better than she can interview. She was downright rude, then threw me out of her hotel room.”
The whistling teapot called Camarin back into the kitchen.
“I’m confused. Why would she toss you out? Are you that bad a reporter?” Rachel said with a giggle.
“Apparently so. I had the audacity to suggest that instead of shooting up heroin, perhaps there were other, less addictive means to maintain a two-hundred-pound weight loss.”
“Oh, Lord, help me, I’m drowning in the sarcasm. She lost that much weight?” DeAndre asked.
Camarin couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen her roommate so engaged in a conversation. Maybe Evans had been right—no matter what she’d achieved, people were more concerned with the size of her ass than her vocal range.
“She did. Even more notably, she says her new album’s going to suck, and she hates her life. Trouble is, I don’t know if I can use any of that stuff.”
She suddenly halted her rhythmic tea bag dunking. Had Evans said any of that was off the record? Maybe she could pull off an exclusive for Trend after all. Something to redeem herself, get Fletcher’s attention. At least it would take her mind off the Mangel debacle.
“Tea’s on the counter. Help yourself to milk and sweetener. I’ve got an article to write.”
Two hours later, her first original piece for Trend was ready to email to Wynan and Fletcher. It was a no-holds-barred account of her interaction with Evans—sans any coddling or pussyfooting around—meshed with background details about the album from the publicist.
Uninspired Lyrics, Tone-Deaf Delivery:
The Skinny on American Dynamo Winner’s New Album Release
A Trend Exclusive by Camarin Torres
Looking languid and surprisingly anorexic in a size-four, silky wrap dress, Perri Evans sucked deeply on her Marlboro cigarette in the presidential suite of the Hay Adams Hotel, recounting the shocking details behind the recording of her sophomore effort, Carnal Collage.
Referring to this reporter as one of the gang of journalists and critics who’d ruined her career, Evans confessed that Avaricious Records wouldn’t produce or release the album unless she carved off two hundred pounds from her formerly curvaceous physique. But the enti
re episode filled her with misgivings: “I should have…just released the songs over the internet like everyone else… Plenty of people do just fine selling direct on iTunes, Spotify andYouTube.”
Evans also expressed ambivalence over the ways fans have reacted to her obligatory pound shaving.
“I sang my heart out on national television in front of millions of viewers. And now, all that anyone can talk about is the weight loss. How did I do it? Doesn’t everything seem better thin? People who didn’t give me the time of day before, even with the TV show, are all nice to me now.”
This reporter doesn’t want to speculate about the methods behind the loss, though unexplained marks on the singer’s arms seemed to lend clues. What’s just as disconcerting is the singer’s own appraisal of her latest recording effort: “The album sucks. I suck. But at least I’ll be skinny when I read the one-star reviews [saying] ‘Uninspired lyrics, tone-deaf delivery, but what an ass she’s got on her now.’”
Here’s hoping this was all a momentary case of pre-release jitters and Evan’s second album is as fabulous as her first.
Camarin congratulated herself on a solid effort. While uncompromising, she’d spared Evans some embarrassment by omitting her swear words, along with the snipe at her agent, and presented the track marks in a factual way that she hoped would provide an epiphany to the singer about her drug use. Plus, she’d incorporated a thought or two about the hypocrisy behind the appreciation for weight loss over talent. True, the article was a bit harsher than what she’d originally intended to write. But Evans had known she was speaking to the press from the moment she opened the hotel room door.
All in all, an article that would fit perfectly into Trend’s current sensationalistic focus, Cam rationalized, and after the Philly failure, give her reason to believe she deserved a spot on the magazine’s editorial masthead. She took a deep breath and hit the send button.