By the time Camarin arrived back at Fairmount Park later that afternoon, she had banished her ghosts, at least temporarily, and was eager for the evening ahead. If she couldn’t rescue Perri Evans, at least she could prevent the future deaths of countless weight-loss advocates if she asked the right questions tonight and trusted her instincts. While it was hard to overlook the irony, since she and the killer were at least philosophically on the same page, there was a right way to defeat fat prejudice, and then there was the murderer’s way. Maybe Mangel was right—maybe the answer really was love.
It was amazing how much prep work went into making the revival look seamless. Behind the scenes, the makeshift arena was a madhouse, people hanging huge banners, stocking the sales counters with t-shirts and other tchotchkes, laying out the beginnings of another massive post-event feast.
She spotted April Lowery by the cashier in the administrative tent, a roll of admission tickets in her hands. “I’ll be with you in a minute,” she called out, “as soon as I finish putting out a fire or two.”
Camarin strolled by the buffet table, already stocked with sustenance for the roadies and the setup crew. She was so tempted to grab a churro, just a quick, late-afternoon pick-me-up. Then she touched her fingers to her tummy and thought better of it.
“I’m so sorry to keep you waiting,” said the public relations director, all smiles after wrapping up her prep work and seemingly eager to claim some of the spotlight for herself. “Let’s go to my trailer where it’s a bit quieter and we can hear ourselves think.”
April led her out of the tent and to the parking lot, where several massive busses housed the team when offstage.
“I share this with some of the other senior staff, but they’re off doing sound checks, so we should have some privacy.”
“How long will we have before any of the others arrive?”
“Others? Oh…oh, no, it’s just me. I asked again and the other ladies…reconsidered. Wanted to keep a low profile, you know?”
“That’s okay. I completely understand,” Camarin said, all the while wondering if April wanted to keep the focus on herself or was worried that some of the others might say something untoward about Mangel.
If any of his followers were naïve enough to believe that Mangel ran a non-profit organization, the inside of April’s trailer would have instantly set them straight. Everything screamed luxury, from the swiveling, black-leather recliners and side tables at the front, to four oversized bunk beds, piled high with decorative pillows to the rear. They settled down opposite each other in a diner-style booth across from the one-wall kitchen.
“Would you like something to eat or drink?” April asked. “We’ve got plenty to spare.”
“No, I’m good. You don’t mind if I record this, do you?” she asked, pulling out her smartphone. “I like to give people my full attention, not just scribble notes onto a pad.”
“No, that’s fine,” said April, but her body language told a different story. She squirmed uneasily in her seat as Camarin hit record and left the phone in the middle of the table.
“Tell me, how was it that you joined up with Terry in the first place?”
The public relations director grew a bit dreamy-eyed as she reflected. “A few years ago, I was living in Tampa, alone, just another divorcee in her mid-thirties, working at this dead-end clerical job. My ex-husband? He nicknamed me Tonsils. ‘She started out small,’ he’d tell his moron friends, ‘but once she swelled up, I had to have her removed.’ Big laughs, all at my expense.”
April nervously scraped the polish from her fingernails as she recounted her past, a clue that despite putting up a brave front, the memory still tore her up inside.
“I weighed about 140 pounds when he left me,” she continued. “After that, my self-esteem hit the floorboards. Before you could say ‘Pass the Cracker Jack’ I was up to 253. I didn’t have the energy to lift my spirits, much less a set of weights. All anyone could talk to me about was diet and exercise. It was like everyone had an opinion, but the only one that didn’t count was mine. At the end of the day, all I wanted to do was put on my size twenty-two swimsuit and drown myself in the Gulf of Mexico.”
Camarin shuddered in commiseration. First Perri, now April, resorting to drastic measures to dampen the hatred the world had thrust upon them and they, in turn, had thrust upon themselves.
“You’re so thin now. And you seem so happy. What was your moment of epiphany? What changed to get you from there to here?”
“Terry, plain and simple. Terry is why I’m alive and here with you today. The thin part? That’s just gravy. I mean, now that I’m happy, I don’t feel compelled to stuff myself all the time, but Terry didn’t tell me to diet. He taught me to love myself.”
“How did you meet him?”
“When I was at my lowest point, my friends and family hosted an intervention for me, but they didn’t call it that. They called it a shower. I know, weird, right? There are baby showers and bridal showers, but this was an ‘April Shower,’ a party where they ‘showered’ me with suggestions and assistance. Not just lip service this time but real action. Everyone brought something to pull me out of my slump—a Fat Stoppers membership, a year’s pass to Silver’s Gym, workout clothes, a collection of exercise DVDs. But my oldest sister bought me the gift that made the difference—a plane ticket to Cleveland and a week at Terry’s Haven for the Hated.”
“Wow, that’s one expensive gift!” Camarin recalled the price listed on Mangel’s website at close to two thousand dollars, not to mention the cost of April’s soul, selling out to Mangel and promoting his costly message to the masses.
“I know, but in the end, it was priceless. I could never repay her enough. I got my life back. Terry taught me everything about respecting myself for who I was, not how I looked.”
“Well, for what it’s worth, you look great.”
April blushed.
“So how long ago did you join the organization? And how did you come to head up his public relations department?”
“I’ve been on the road with Terry for about a year.”
Damn, that’s after the murders started. Cross another name off the list, thought Camarin.
“And I’ve always been good with people and…wow, this is so amazing. No one ever asks about my story, and you seem so easy to talk to. Could I share something with you, off the record?”
Camarin nodded, slipping the phone off the table and into her jacket pocket.
“Don’t tell anyone—this can’t go anywhere beyond this room—but during that week? We fell in love. Terry said he never wanted to travel anywhere without me again…and look!”
She reached into the side pocket of her handbag and pulled out a three-carat sparkler. “We’re engaged! We don’t talk about it because, well, you know how tongues wag in confined spaces. Terry doesn’t want to put people’s noses out of joint or have them think I get preferential treatment.”
Or let Maria catch on. It’s no wonder he sends her back to Atlanta between speaking gigs. Can’t have these two comparing notes.
“It’s beautiful. When’s the big day?”
“We haven’t set an exact date yet. I just hope it’s soon. Sometimes, I’m so scared the weight might come back on and…well, I have my heart set on a size-four wedding gown.”
“Would it make a difference? Gaining the weight back? I mean, if you’re happy and love yourself no matter what…”
April’s face darkened, and she grew quiet and stared out the window.
“April?”
“I don’t think…I don’t think he’d still marry me.”
“Why not?”
“It’s this thing he said. We were in San Francisco, shopping for dresses. I found this gorgeous Vera Wang and modeled it for him—I couldn’t believe how stunning it looked on me—and I joked to the salesgirl, ‘I’d better buy it now, before I gain back any weight’—and he said…” Her voice trailed off.
“Don’t leave me hanging. What did he say?” Camarin couldn’t stand the suspense.
April’s face contorted as if in great pain, but she forced herself to spit out the words. “He said, ‘Don’t do that. It would be like slashing the Mona Lisa.’”
That hypocritical fucker!
“Maybe he wasn’t thinking when he said that. Maybe it just slipped out,” Camarin suggested.
“No, I don’t think so. Sometimes…I catch him staring at some of the other girls when he doesn’t know I’m looking—Grace, Maria, Evelyn, the heavier ones, you know. And he’s got this expression on his face. It’s almost…disgust. But I must be reading into that, don’t you think, Camarin? I mean, maybe it’s my own jealousy and insecurity. There’s no way Terry Mangel is a fat hater. Am I right?”
April’s pleading expression pierced her heart. Here was yet another woman teetering on the edge of hope and self-assurance, looking to Camarin to make her whole. And all she could do was either lie to her and leave her languishing in false hope, or tell her the truth and watch her crumble, along with her dreams. She had to say something—but what? Conflicted, a sudden wave of nausea overcame her.
“Where’s your ladies’ room?”
April pointed with surprise to the back of the trailer, and Camarin half-ran past the bed, into the tiny bathroom, and kneeled over the commode. The distress that had been brewing since her encounter with Perri Evans assaulted her with a fury, but because she hadn’t eaten since the night before, nothing was coming back up. After five minutes of dry heaving, she heard April knock at the door.
“I’ve poured you a glass of diet ginger ale. Drink it. It might help.”
She pushed the door open and accepted the offering, chugging the sparkling elixir until the glass was empty.
April offered her a hand and helped Camarin to her feet. “Come on back to the commissary. What you need is some plain toast to sop up that upset stomach. You’ve got to be on your game tonight. The second night is always an amazing show.”
Grateful that the moment of reckoning had past and her opinion was no longer of interest, Camarin followed along, more determined than ever to get to the bottom of this thing and, in the process, bury the mendacious Mangel along with the murderer.