The Catcher in the Eye (America's Next Top Assistant Mystery Book 1) by Lotta Smith

was
engraved as Kelly the Bitch in all Britons’ memory. This hate-Kelly campaign
got really popular. Magazines, newspaper featuring photos of me taken from
unflattering angles totally sold out. And on TV, they got killer ratings when
they did shows caricaturizing a potty-mouthed woman breathing fire. Not only
did the big boys in media industry had managed to cover their losses by hating
me, they ended up with even bigger profits. Talk about an irony. The marginally
good part about this fiasco was that I got the first post-divorce gig. During
this fiasco, this American comic heavy metal band called Iron Dragon was
visiting London, watched the video featuring yours truly breathing fire. They
recruited me as Lady Dragon the fire breather to accompany Feel the Heat world tour.
    “—Bloody hell! I
said I was right!”
    Before I could
recover from the shock, Baz shrieked happily. “It’s Kelly the Bitch. The
poisonous, vicious, kinky, fire-breathing bitch. Hey Dickie, I told ya I knew
it! We ain’t over with the Bitch!”
    Hooting and
pumping the fists, they did a high-five.
    I was still
standing there frozen, stunned, and motionless. In my mind, I was shooting at those
British paparazzi with an automatic firearm until those SOBs resembled the
Swiss cheese from Tom & Jerry cartoons. Albeit I didn’t even own a
handgun, I could have purchased something at a Walmart on the way. I knew it
was not ladylike, nice, or even legal to shoot at people just because you
loathed them, but I hated them. I hated them so bad. They were the ones who
started that huge hate-Kelly campaign! Sometimes you’ve got to do what you’ve
got to do. Especially, when they were the root of all evil.
    Not knowing my
contemplation, Baz flashed his chipped, yellowy teeth. “So how have you been,
Kelly? What are ya doing here? Swindling out of the people as you used to do with
Warren, now in the U.S.? Should we warn the Americans about you?” He peppered
me with a series of mean questions—just like he did on that day in Gibraltar. “Or
better yet, now you’ve switched to taking eyeballs out of innocent people?”
    “We’re goddamn
lucky!” Dick howled while shooting photos of me without giving a second’s rest.
“Not only do we get to see a new Eyeball Snatcher case, but also we got
to take pics of Kelly the Bitch! Think about the headline – ‘Kelly the Bitch spotted
on at a crime scene! Does she kill too?!’ Now it’s even better than confirming
PM’s affair with a twenty-something model turned actress. God bless our PM for
comin’ to the US!”
    I bit my lip. I
didn’t bother to cover my face with my hands. I was aware that’d only enhance
the photo in the worst possible way, giving an impression that I was actually humiliated.
It was like a total déjà vu. The worst part of my personal history was recurring
and revisiting me. It was like seeing a really bad movie that’s scored six
Razzies coming back with an even worse sequel.
    But deep in my
heart, I knew this day was coming, and there really was nothing I could do. Michael
Archangel was right. I was a socialite dropout. It was only a mere luck that I’d
never had an encounter with British paparazzi in the U.S. so far. I was so used
to be my current mediocre, invisible status as an assistant to a private
detective. Michael Archangel was famous for his brilliance, crime-solving
skills and wackiness, but he was the one who gets all the attention. Not me. I
was just a person in the background, who would be photoshopped out by editorial
people. Here in the U.S., I was practically no one. And I really loved my anonymity.
 
    In my current
world, the fiasco back in the UK was just a bad dream, but now it seemed like I
was whooping wrong. They hadn’t forgotten about me, or forgiven me. Still yet, meeting
those paparazzi from hell wasn’t something I had expected. Ever again. Not to
mention being reminded that Bitch-who-used-to-be-married-to-the-Big-Swindler-Warren
catch copy got