by Lotta Smith
“What a shame,” she sighed, her shoulder slumping. “She is the best babysitter in this district, and she taught me French, Spanish, Italian, Greek, and Mandarin. We talked about everything including our love lives.”
“Love lives as in plural? I’m impressed.” Following her comment, Archangel arched one eyebrow.
“Hello, I’m a high school student, I have my love life. What’s wrong with that?”
“Nothing,” Archangel said. “Now let’s talk about the love life of Alice’s.”
Chapter 13
“It was about a month ago that she met this new guy. The timing was about the same as the finalization of her divorce.”
Karen told us as soon as she led us in to her parents’ kitchen. She preferred to speak in private.
Just like her neighbor’s place, the Andrews kitchen was kept clean and spotless, indicating they have regular housekeeping services. Karen served us each a disposable cup of milk and a chocolate-coated potato crisps from Neiman Marcus.
Karen said. “She was so excited. Initially, I was happy to see her moving on. In this neighborhood it is widely considered Alice to be a happy divorcee with a handsome settlement, but things were not that simple. Not only had Anthony totally deceived her, he ran away to NYC with his new lover who happened to be a man.”
“Ouch,” I winced. “That should have hurt.”
“Indeed. The worst part was she still loved him after everything.” She nodded. “So when she first mentioned that she is seeing this new guy, the first thing I’ve checked with her was his sexual orientation. I wasn’t real sure if that was appropriate to do so, and I’m still unsure. Maybe if I behaved like I wasn’t really interested, she might have gotten more talkative.”
Then she asked me with a serious face. “By the way, Kelly, do you have such experiences like that of Alice’s?”
“Well…” I was a little taken aback with her sudden interest in my personal life, but soon decided to go with the truth. “Not exactly the same, but my ex had run away with a Brazilian dancer and anyway, he deceived me a big time.”
“Oh,” Karen sucked in air. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked it. Sometimes I tend to get too nosy. My bad, I apologize.”
“It’s okay.” I managed to smile. I half expected Archangel to make some remark that rubs salt to injury, but he was busy savoring the snack. “Actually, it was not my first time when a man ran for other woman. When I was little, my biological father ran away to a burlesque dancer in Las Vegas.”
“I have a similar experience, except mine went to Miami to become a burlesque dancer.” Karen nodded sympathetically. “Let’s get back to Alice’s new beau, when I asked her about his sexuality, she said she hasn’t yet checked that out, but felt something very spiritual with him. That’s when I saw the red flag. You know, back in the old era, followers of Manson family thought Charles Manson was spiritual, right?”
“Good point. Besides that quote by Alice, were there any other things that you have found disturbing about this man?” Archangel interjected.
“Her taste in artwork had changed.” Karen fumed. “Did you see the sorry excuse of garbage that insists to be called art in her room? I know sometimes, things bought at weekend arts-and-crafts fairs score very big later, with some of those creators attaining success and some initially regarded as knickknack turns out to be a missing Renoir or some kind of a masterpiece. But come on, those were nothing more than just pieces of crap. And I say they’re crap as in capital C-R-A-P.”
“Okay, so she started buying those knickknacks after meeting that guy.” Archangel raised an eyebrow quizzically.
“Yes.” She nodded. “It’s fine when she buys pieces of cheapo crap just for fun, but seeing very valuable pieces like small but authentic Picasso sketches and Mucha lithographs disappearing one by one whenever she got new worthless thingie, it’s a complete different story. Maybe it was none of my business, but I was disturbed. I can’t help it when I see injustice.”
“Did you ask her what she had done with Picasso pieces?”
“Of course, I did. But she wouldn’t tell me anything. I think she had given them up to that man.”
Then she added, “I know what I’m saying has no credibility on an account that’s based only on my gut instinct, however, a lot had changed since this mystery man had appeared in her life.”
“Do you know anything about her new beau? Any personal information?” Archangel suggested.
“Unfortunately, not much.” Karen shook her head sadly. “She didn’t tell me much about this man. All the information I’ve managed to obtain from her is that she mentioned him as Sam. I wish I had asked her at least his full name, but she was pretty much cryptic about him.”
“Even if you asked, she might have preferred not to discuss Sam-topics with anyone.” I said to her. “When a woman decides to hide something about her significant other from her friends and family, she clams up whatever you do or don’t. Don’t beat yourself for that, please.”
“Thanks for kind words, Kelly.” Karen nodded. “So I might be overreacting. But I knew something was very fishy with that Sam. Alice used to have a good taste in art, but now her collection was so ruined. Though some of her good ones had survived on the account that pieces were colored red or featured some kind of round objects, she gave away some of her masterpieces only a short while after meeting Sam.”
“You think her change in art taste and her behavior with her collection are the result of the involvement with Sam, is that correct?”
“Yes, it is more like an understanding than a thought.”
“And you believe this Sam had killed Alice in a very brutal manner.”
“That’s correct. I suppose my theory fits very well with the killer’s modus operandi. I’ve read that psychopaths tend to be skilled mind readers and manipulators, completely lacking humane feelings such as remorse, sympathy, or compassion, making them a herd of monsters dangerous to society. In addition, in many cases of psycho-killings, the methods of killing have great visual impacts, just like the series of Eyeball Snatcher murders. Besides that, red color can be symbolized as the color of blood and the round things are capable of standing for eyeballs. If we take the possibility of Sam manipulating Alice into collecting artworks that did not match her previous preference, he would be an ace suspect.”
Listening to Karen’s explanation, I was truly amazed. Her argument was not only coherent but convincing. And from physical standpoints, she was only a child.
“You know what,” Archangel said. “There are two other victims aside from Alice and so far, there’s no evidence that the three of them had known each other. How do you explain the involvement of Sam with those two other women?”
“Well,” Karen fidgeted with words for a moment. “So right now, I have no strong evidence to support my theory that Sam is the person who is responsible for the series of gruesome killing of three innocent women. However, that doesn’t prove my theory wrong. And I’m positive you’ll thank me later for giving you this info. I can almost see you thanking me.”
“Tell me what supports your confidence of your theory?” probed Archangel.
“A woman’s intuition.”
Following Karen’s bold statement, Archangel opened his mouth, as if to throw in an opposition, but words failed to come out.
I applauded to Karen, who showed me her appreciation with a curtsey and a wide grin.
“Excuse me? As an assistant you’re supposed to be on my side, aren’t you?” My employer grunted.
“Sorry, but it’s nice to see you, instead of me, coming up wordless for a change.”
Arms crossed, he humphed. “A woman’s institution? You insist that you know the Eyeball Snatcher is this mysterious Sam whose identity is completely under the veil, not to mention we don’t even know if he really exists, just because of your woman’s intuition?”
He uncrossed his arms and did a palms-up. With a pause for the emphasis, he said. “Get real, for crying out l
oud.”
“Just because you don’t know the details about Sam right now does not necessarily mean he doesn’t exist. Just like the quote that says, ‘And yet it moves,’ by Galileo Galilei.” Karen said defiantly. “In addition, I have a woman’s intuition meanwhile you don’t.”
“I know.” Archangel spat. “Thank you very much for your reminding.”
I rolled my eyes. Michael Archangel often drove people around him crazy but it never occurred the other way round, not less by an eight-year-old. I was amused.
Archangel stood up. “Thanks for the snack. Forget Sam and do your school homework, okay?”
“I’ve already finished my homework at school. It was too easy. Actually, I’ve even helped my friends’ homework.” Karen snorted. “It’s fine even if you don’t take my information seriously. I can look for Sam myself. I will somehow find a way to conduct my own investigation.”
“No, you are not.” Archangel retorted. “As we know, whoever killed Alice is a blood-thirsty murderer. Even in the rarest case that your theory turns out to be right, the last thing you want to experience is bumping with him on the account that kind of event is most likely to cause serious consequences such as your death.”
“Compared to that dreadful summer camp where my father in law is making a little scheme to send me off this coming summer, getting myself killed sounds like a very good alternative.” Karen pouted.
“Alright, I got your point.” Archangel gave out a resigned sigh. “I will communicate with the FBI about Sam, the influence he had over Alice’s changing taste in artworks. For crying out loud, leave the investigation to the professionals, okay?”
“You need to check out the artists of her new collections. Did you see the painting of what remotely appears to be a sunset? That’s the first piece she acquired after meeting Sam, that’s her favorite.” Karen added. “Sam might have painted it.”
Archangel stood up. “Let’s go and talk to Henderson.” He told me.
Then to Karen, “Can you come with us?”
“Absolutely.” She grinned.
“By the way, why did you say you have a woman’s intuition when you had much more compelling explanation?” Archangel asked, walking.
Karen shrugged. “I was having a woman’s intuition moment.”
Archangel didn’t seem to be convinced but he didn’t press it further.
We caught Henderson who was just coming out of the room #1313. He went back into the room with us. Listening to Archangel’s explanation about the particular painting (and lots of Karen’s footnote), he made sure to process with further analysis in order to learn more about them and the creators.
When things were settled, Henderson promised Karen that he was going to catch whoever killed her BFF.
After seeing Henderson and forensic guys leaving, Karen sighed deeply.
“I can’t believe she’s not coming back.”
“I know.” I hugged her. She certainly needed a big hug.
“No way, you don’t know. It’s impossible to know other people’s feelings.” She said in a muffled voice.
“At least, I can imagine. Because I believe I’ve had a similar experience.” I said.
“Can you tell me what happened?”
“I couldn’t believe when my former husband was imprisoned for the sentence of three hundred and five years. I know he’s not dead but at the same time, I’m positive that he’s not coming back.”
“The one who ran away with a Brazilian dancer? What has he done?” Karen widened her eyes.
“A fraud. A big one which could be described as a massive fraud in a manner of a Ponzi-scheme. He swindled a total of hundreds of billion in GBP and Euro.”
“Gosh,” she furrowed her eyebrows. “Your dad ran away from you and your mom to another woman and your ex-husband has done the same thing and is a fraud and…”
She looked up Archangel standing tall by our side and glanced at me. “No offense Kelly, but you have a rotten luck with men. No, rotten is an understatement, doomed sounds like a more appropriate term.”
“Thanks for your acknowledgement.” I shrugged.
“Speaking of doomed, my life is as doomed as it can be.” She sighed again. “Now that Alice is not able to take me to a journey in the Mediterranean, my summer’s screwed.”
“Mingling with the kids of your age might give you good insights for pediatric behaviors.” Archangel chimed in.
“No way!” spat Karen. “I wouldn’t be this miserable if I’m to attend a normal camp. I agree with you in that mingling kids from suburb, town, and out of nowhere might be fun. Then again, trust me, spending over ten grand for a stupid six-week summer camp where yours truly has to deal with superficially well-behaving but oh-so-mean-inside snobby kids is sacrilege! I can come up with better ways to spend that much money, like donating to the research fund of some rare and deadly disease, running a soup kitchen for the homeless, or visiting Disney World. At the camp, they make us play tennis daily for six-freaking-weeks for Pete’s sake!”
I made a sympathetic noise. I’m not a sporty person. I loathe to sweat. To the point that I don’t even wear a sweatshirt. Or sweatpants. I’ve never quite grasped a humor, or meaning, in jumping around like a meth-crazed baboon without no good reason. Besides that, this camp she was likely to be sent to sounded like the one I had spent a day of summer when I was nine. Instead of building tents, kids stayed at a fancy yet boring lodge, and the counselors forced us to learn tennis.
“Tennis is fun. I played tennis while in college.” Archangel told Karen. “I had once considered becoming a pro until I heard that I’d have to pee in front of anti-doping agency people on a regular basis, sometimes more than once a month.”
“Icky. One more reason that they should display tennis rackets at the Museum of Medieval Tortures.” She muttered. “By the way, Mr. Archangel, I can’t believe you still manage to wear heels, after twisting your ankle probably a million times.”
“Okay, so I’ve had my share of sprains and strains but luckily, my body comes with a quick repair system.” Archangel snorted. “Anyway, tennis is a good method to observe physics in real life manner.”
“So is riding Splash Mountain. Not to mention Epcot has great rides that let us not only observe but experience physics as well.” Karen made her point. “In addition, at this particular camp of horror, they make us ride horses, kayak, play basketball, hike eighty miles, and every kind of stupid stuffs in that particular camp my folks are sending. In three days, I’m gonna be a living dead.”
Now it sounded more and more like the same camping program where I was sent to when I was nine. Except I didn’t suffer all that bad. Good thing I got kicked out real fast.
“Did you talk to your mom that you don’t want to go to the camp?” I asked her.
“Absolutely.” She nodded multiple times. “But she wouldn’t listen. Despite my thorough research about this particular program on the web, she smiles and keeps on telling me Darling, you can’t judge a book by the cover. You know, I’m not a very sporty kind of a girl. Besides that, what’s wrong with being a little chubby? According to research, people with some body fat outlive oh-so-thin people in case of critical situation such going through a surgery to remove cancer.”
“There’s nothing wrong with your body shape.” I hugged her again. “I know some lady in Scotland who loves smart little girls like you. What do you say about making an arrangement with her?”
Escaping from my hug, she smiled. “Thanks for your offer, but I’m an independent girl. In addition, I will have another summer until I’m off to college. I need to learn to cope with difficulties on my own.”
“Okay.” Handing out my card to her, I nodded. “Call me anytime if you change your plan, or you need help for your summer.”
“Thank you,” she cocked her head scribbling her cell phone number on a piece of paper. “But I suppose the most crucial part is planting a horrible memory of sending me to the torture camping to Mom and the current fat
her-in-law. You know, I’d better prepare for the worst in case Mom stays with him some more while. Hopefully I can come up with creative ways to be kicked out of the camp, if not, I’ll do some research about Campers from Hell on the web to help my imagination kick in.”
“Campers from Hell?” I parroted.
“It’s a website dedicated to kids kicked out of camps. You can read lots of interesting episodes.”
“Oh, really…”
I wondered if an episode starring myself was featured in that website.
Before I had been sent off to my first and last ever camp, I went to the mall and brought hundreds of silkworm cocoons out of a mall cart. Those shiny, white cocoons looked somewhat cute, and the guy manning that cart told me that I could use the cocoons for skin care. I figured that they would do as nice-to-meet-you gifts. I couldn’t come up with a good way to skip this camp, so making it least miserable as possibly possible was my best interest. I thought handing out gifts to all the girls in the dorm would help. So I handed a dozen of them to everyone (girls aged between seven and ten).
On the second morning, hundreds of white, hideous, giant moths flew out of bags including but not limited to mine. The result was a total apocalypse. The girls cried, shrieked, screamed, and ran amok in the corridor trying to avoid touching the hideous moths. Some of them started throwing whatever objects that were near them in an attempt to stop the menacing moths. Within a minute, everyone was throwing everything into the air, knocking out the counselors who were trying to calm us down by screaming “CALM DOWN!” on top of their lungs. Someone started on the fire alarm. Others started on fire extinguishers, and other girls screamed things like “Bomb!” and “It’s a terror attack!” I’m talking about pre-9/11 terror attack era.
Pretty soon, the whole dorm had gone totally white-out. As in, literally. Girls of that age can get pretty much uncontrollable. Anyway, who could have guessed those little innocent-looking ovals would produce those scary, huge moths the size of orangutan’s hands? And if I recall it right, the guy of the mall cart said that they were dehydrated and non-living. It was the first time that I saw people from local fire department, police department, the FBI, the CIA, and Homeland Security gathering at one place at a time. In addition, helicopters from TV stations were swirling all over.