The Catcher in the Eye (America's Next Top Assistant Mystery Book 1) (11 page)

“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 father-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.

“By the way…”

Karen’s voice took
me back to the present. She was squinting, as if to see something far away. She
was silent for a moment. “Mr. Archangel, you want to be extra careful with your
footings, okay?” she was looking at Archangel’s feet with a concerned frown. “You
don’t wanna end up with a broken leg. So watch your step.”

“What’s that
supposed to mean? One moment you’re talking about the ways to get away from the
camping then the next thing you’re talking about my leg.”

“Never mind, it’s
nothing,” Karen shrugged. “Sometimes my mind wonders off topic.”

“Don’t worry, I’ve
been injury-free for years, not to mention I’ve never broken a bone in my life.”
Archangel’s mouth quirked up into a half smile.

“Anyway, Karen,
don’t wonder yourself into the investigation. Leave it to the feds. Is that
clear?”

“Of course.” She flashed
a cocky smile.

I had seen a smile
like that.

Diva—one of my stepsisters
in my early teenage days—had a smile like that when she promised her dad (the head
of orthopedics department at a prestigious medical school) that she wouldn’t
have a sex until she gets sixty. Later, she confessed that she was three-months
pregnant after two-and-a-half-months following the conversation.

“Darling, you need a new man!”

Mom exclaimed on
the other end of the phone. A little castle in the outskirts of Edinburgh, Scotland,
to be specific. She said that I needed a new man mainly because it was the
mantra she had been telling me since the moment I had had my first divorce. I
think she has the longest—approximately 6669.1miles—umbilical cord in the
world.

That night
following the encounter with Karen, I made a phone call to her, just in case
Karen changed her mind and actually decided to visit Scotland in summer. As a
former kid who totally loathed going to a summer camp, I wanted to do something
to help her avoid going to this dreaded camp.

She was more than
happy about the prospect of having a brilliant little girl visit her, and she
had assured me that she and Count Geoffrey Featheringhead (a.k.a. husband #9
and my faux-dad #8) were so looking forward to having a young and bright
company from the
new world.
Yes, she actually said the word
“new
world.”

I thanked her for their
generosity, and that was the exact timing she had blurted out the above comment
about yours truly needed a new man.

So far, I’ve had a
mother, a biological father, and eight faux-dads. I have no lucid memory of the
biological father except for the long blonde hair beautifully blowing in the
wind. Presumably, the owner of the blonde hair was the woman with whom he had bolted
to Las Vegas. According to Mom, my biological father, a struggling actor whom
she had met in Hollywood, had run away with a show girl. I would describe her
attitude towards the husband#1 as pretty much laidback. Despite having been
left with a baby, she still called my biological father as “the Winning Ticket,”
mainly because she had won this trip to California at a local gas station
lottery in Japan. I grew up in the U.S. suburbs until graduating from high
school. Thanks to having an exotic and tricky surname, I got picked on a lot
while in school.

“You truly,
absolutely need a new man,” she emphasized.

“Excuse me Mom, but
rescuing a young girl from a summer camp she hates to go has nothing to do with
my love life, you know.” And I added, “I don’t need a new man. Thank you very
much.” Just like every time.

“Yes, you do,
Kelly. What if your child wants to go camping? You can’t possibly ruin your
kid’s summer just because of your lifetime banning from camping. That’s exactly
where a new surname with a new man comes very handy. Not to mention a surname
like Kinki is hard to forget.”

“Remember? I
didn’t want to go to that camp in the first place?” I pointed out. “I’ve never
been an athlete-type. So that stupid tennis camp was totally out of question.”

It was the second
faux-dad’s fault. He was a former pro-athlete turned an executive of a sports related
company and the worst faux-dad for me. That SOB had tried to remake me into a
mini-athlete. Good thing Mom divorced that man as soon as I came back from the
broken summer camp. Anyway, he’d paid the price by paying for the damage to the
dormitory of the camp.

“I know,” she
agreed. “Then again, you’d never know if your offspring turns out to be
sporty-kind.”

“Did you know I’ve
never produced an offspring?”

“Of course, but it’s
a free country and everyone’s entitled to express a fantasy or two.” 

One of my eyelids
started to twitch but I tried to smile by thinking about fried chickens. Sometimes
mothers can get very nosy, but I could live with that. In fact, if it was not
for her support during hate-Kelly campaign back in the UK, I wasn’t sure if I was
able to carry on living. She had once crashed a live TV show in which they were
running a skit about Kelly the Vicious Bitch. In that episode, she graciously
walked into the studio, saying
“Good afternoon,”
and punched that very
rude talk show host in the nose. She shouted
“Don’t call my baby bitch!”
and left. The next day, every front page of morning papers were featuring photos
of Mom, me, and the potty-mouthed talk show host now sporting a big, bruised,
bloody nose which resembled a rotten, purple zucchini about to explode. The
captions went like
“Watch out! She’s a Countess, a Mum, and a Boxer ready to
hit your big nose!”
 

I said. “You know,
Mom. Right now, I’m completely focused on my career and I don’t need a new man
anytime soon, okay?”

“A career? Excuse
me?” she uttered the word “career” like some kind of a profanity or something. “So
you make your employer’s breakfast each morning, chauffer him around, hang
around him like an orbit, and you’re even living in his property. You call that
a career? It sounds more like a part-time wife minus the divorce settlement and
death benefits.”

“At least that
pays the bills.” I pointed out. 

“So, how’s
Michael?” Ignoring my point, she said nonchalantly. My mother, of all people, called
my employer by his first name. The problem was, Archangel was talking her very well.
One of my current worst fear was my boss becoming my ninth faux-dad. That
wouldn’t sound right, would it?

“Other than being unkind
to kids, he’s well.” I told her about his attitude toward Karen, emphasizing
the part he doesn’t make a good faux-dad for me.

“I suppose it
shows that he cares very much about the girl on his own way.”

Sometimes she
talks like a Pollyanna. 

“How can you tell
that?”

“You know what? I
was born and raised in Japan, which makes me an expert at interpreting other
people’s thought processes through subtle things. I have a knack for that.”

“Oh really?” I
rolled my eyes. I didn’t tell her Grandma Kinki was often complaining that her
daughter was totally lacking the skills to reasonably interpret other people’s
feelings.

“As for my boss, having
a low tolerance to the idea of the possibility that there’s someone practically
smarter than him seems more like the case.”

“Rubbish.” Mom
dismissed my opinion. “Michael is not such a petty person. On the very
contrary, he’s a good natured alpha male and that’s one reason I like him so
much.”

“An alpha male? Excuse
me? He wears skirts for God’s sake!”  

“So does Count
Geoffrey.” Her voice was full of pride. “Did I mention he really rocks in
kilts? What’s wrong with men in skirts?”

“Not that there’s
anything wrong with that.” I replied, silently uttering
eew…
I love her and
I hoped they’d embrace their happy marriage for a long while but I wasn’t all
that keen on looking at Count Geoffrey’s bare legs. If I recall right, he’s
about to hit his eighties. “Speaking of Count Geoffrey, are you aware that you’re
still officially and happily married to him? So maybe you don’t want to fancy
over another guy who happens to wear skirts, you know?”

“Oh, Kelly!” She
gave out her signature throaty laughter that had captured numerous hearts
belonging to rich men. “Don’t get me wrong! I like Michael but not in a
romantic way.”

“That’s good.” I nodded.
Quietly releasing a sigh of relief for the fact at least for a while, he’s not
likely to be my ninth faux-dad. Actually, Michael Archangel seemed to like my
mother a lot, but she didn’t need to know that. Aside from my first faux-dad
Dr. Huey Harrison, her marriage to Count Geoffrey seemed like the happiest
marriage. Mom’s man-hopping habit often seemed like a journey to find someone
like Dr. Harrison—a renowned ophthalmologist, beloved educator and a
humanitarian. If it was not for his premature death due to a plane wreck, I
supposed Mom would have stayed Mrs. Harrison up to now.

“Besides that, I’m
not his type, you know.” She said as if she knew what kind of a women were
Archangel’s type.

“By the way, Mom, please
don’t be disappointed in case Karen does not visit Scotland. When she’s able to
work on her own to avoid that dreadful camping, she may not need to visit Europe.”
I said. Partly to change the subject from Archangel to something, anything
else.

“Don’t worry
honey,” she shook off my warning. “In that case, I can always invite Karen over
a trip in Europe with an excursion to Euro Disney.”

“I’m not real sure
if her mother likes your plan.”

“Of course, she
loves my plan.” She said. “Most American will
kill
to let her daughter
travel with a British count and countess.”

I thought about reminding
that she was an American herself, but thought better of it. In fact, the status
being naturalized from Japanese to the U.S. citizenship sort of ruled her out
of ‘most American’ section. Anyway, I often feel that my mother is more
American than an average American.

“So, darling, why
don’t you introduce me to Karen? Perhaps this Saturday? I’ll be flying to New
York City. Geoffrey and I have to attend the gala on Friday but I suppose I can
sneak out on Saturday.”

“Sorry Mom, but I’m
afraid I cannot make it to see you on that particular day.” I shook my head. “Actually,
I’m flying to England on the exact day when you come to NYC.”

“You’re kidding.” She
said in the form of a statement.

After all, I was
still scared of visiting any part of the United Kingdom and she knew it.

“I wish I was. But
I’m accompanying Archangel to London where he gives a lecture at some kind of
conference.”

“Oh my goodness,” she
sucked in air. “You are returning to London? What a funny twist of life!”

“More like an
extreme sarcasm provided by universe.” I gave out a sigh. “Can you believe it? I’ve
been avoiding London for all those years, never visiting there once. And all of
a sudden, I’m required to go there. No way out, no questions. Just like that.”

“You went back
there with the band Iron Dragon as Lady Dragon less than a year after leaving the
Britain as Dragon Lady.” Mom pointed out.

“But that wasn’t
really me!” I said defensively. “I was channeling into this alter ego Lady
Dragon invented by the band. It was the mascot performing in London, not me. No,
that was so not me. It doesn’t count as visiting London when your alter ego’s
visiting there, does it?”

“Unlike in New
York and L.A., you don’t channel into an imaginary creature in London.” She
told me. “Anyway, if you’d let me know earlier, I could have arranged my
itinerary to adjust to your plan.”

“No, I couldn’t.
The trip to England sort of jumped in this very afternoon. Who do you think
called us to arrange this travel?”

“Well, that you’re
asking me this question should make it someone we know. Oh my God, Detective Superintendent
Mickelson! Did he call?”

“Yes, now he’s a
professor of criminal justice at King’s College after retiring from Scotland
Yard.” I flinched, recalling the moment I heard his London accent over the
phone. Former Detective Superintendent Evan Mickelson was in charge of
investigating Warren’s massive frauds case. He was one of the toughest
detectives to deal with, who didn’t take “I have no idea” very kindly as an
answer. In the end, I was almost convinced that I would be prosecuted and end
up with a long imprisonment. So it came as a true surprise when it later turned
out that no charges were filed against me.

“Talk about a
surprise.” She chuckled. “And the next thing, you tried to convince Mr.
Mickelson that he has called a wrong number, right?”

“Oh no, Mom. I was
so freaked out and I started apologizing to Mickelson for being such a bad
person as to spend millions of Great Britain Pounds defrauded by Warren from
greedy yet innocent people, never giving much thought about where the money
came from.”

It was not a smart
move. But somehow, apologizing like a fool felt good, just like I’d
accomplished something I had been missing to do for a long while.

Archangel
literally had to rip the receiver off my hands. Mickelson said that I’d done
what I should and could have done. He even promised me of no prosecution while
visiting London (on one condition I abide to the local law.)

After the
conversation with Mickelson, I begged Archangel for a vacation so that I don’t
need to visit England, but he insisted that I follow him to England as an
assistant to… say, carry his suitcases. So I had no choice but to return to
London for the first time in almost three years.  

“Darling, I’m
impressed.” She burst out laughing. “So, Michael and Mr. Mickelson had known
each other for a long time, right?”

“Yes, so they say.”
I shrugged. “Couldn’t he, I mean Archangel mention it earlier? I had made a
total idiot of myself and I cannot quite wipe out the feeling of being
betrayed.”

“On the contrary—”
With a throaty chuckle, Mom continued in Japanese, leaving me clueless.

“Pardon me? What did
you say?” I asked in a louder voice.

“Nothing,” she
grinned. Okay, I couldn’t see her expressions but I could hear her grinning
from ear to ear. Sometimes I believe she taught me very little Japanese just to
drive me crazy. “Anyway, have a lovely trip and send my love to Karen, and of
course, to Michael.”

Then she said
ciao
and hang up.