Fairest Of Them All (02/?)
Copyright 2000
By Bonnie Rutledge

     The fashion house was dimly lit when he arrived, the downstairs shop cleared of any 
clientele or employees. It had been six months since the murder of a reporter in one of the 
changing rooms had brought Nick back into contact with Figaro Newton. Strangely, for 
someone who was always flitting to the next style, Fig had not changed his salon decor 
once in that duration. 

     This stability marked a stark contrast to Nick's own world - he had a different 
homicide partner, a different captain, and Janette had left town without a word. He briefly 
wondered what Figaro might know of the latter upheaval Janette had been a major 
proponent when Fig considered expanding his fashion empire beyond Europe and New 
York. Would she have kept in touch with him after leaving Toronto? He shrugged that 
thought away. Whatever he might know of Janette's new life, Fig would not share the 
news casually. He could be as ruthless in his standards as LaCroix; he simply 
camouflaged his strictness under a more affable and colorful screen. Perhaps that made 
him even more dangerous in a sense. Who could look at LaCroix and not suspect menace 
behind his eagle stare? Figaro, in contrast, was the hummingbird hiding talons.

     Nick allowed himself upstairs, the portion of the house which housed the studio's 
workspace and Figaro's private apartment. The workroom was vacant, littered only with 
mannequins pinned and tucked with subtle draperies of satin and silk. The dresses 
seemed to illuminate the otherwise shadowed area with their bright hues. Pink, teal, 
emerald, azure, gold, the house's signature melon shade...every color was there, every 
color but black.

     Nick fingered the biased edge of one garment, and found that Schanke rushed into his 
thoughts. It was a strange connection to make while looking at a plum-colored cocktail 
dress, but he'd suddenly remembered how Schank had died wearing his good suit.

     The good suit. The one that would have sold in Milan for more than his partner would 
have earned in a month. The one that Figaro had gifted Don pro bono, just because he'd 
found the homicide detective amusing and had appreciated Myra's taste in ties. 

     Sometimes Nick forgot why he avoided Figaro.

     Sounds of life came from Figaro's office - drunken heartbeats, faint music, and low 
voices. He abandoned any musing over the clothing samples and approached quietly. 
Parting the lacquered double doors, Nick found this room was brightly lit. The song 
playing in the background featured samples from a Mozart concerto layered with a trance 
beat. It wasn't quite something that would have been allowed at the Raven. Hypnotic, 
yes, but somewhat livelier and flashier - perhaps a song for club Paparazzi before it had 
closed.

     Sometimes Nick remembered why he had become friends with Figaro in the first 
place.

     Figaro had never let his mortal death cramp his style. In fact, his position was that his 
life had started when he became a vampire. Nick, of course, hadn't been drawn to Fig 
because he killed without conscience. His friendship *had* been tied into Figaro's 
devoted consumption of life. It was simply more than the blood. Figaro drank in art, wit 
and sport with the same passion other vampires reserved only for mortal veins. He 
brandished delight in the world, in his own existence - the kind of enchantment that Nick 
had long ago forgotten. Time spent in Figaro's company created the illusion that he was 
also alive. 

     Their world, however, was inevitably tied to murder and depravity, which crashed into 
any delusions Nick formed that he and Figaro were exceptions to the rule. Ultimately, 
Figaro was a vampire. What's more, Figaro was happy about it. He associated with the 
most vicious examples their kind had to offer, and he adored them. It was a gulf that Nick 
wearied of crossing, and so, after a few decades of close friendship, he began to foster a 
distance.

     Stepping through the gap of the doors, Nick drew closer to the company. The room's 
occupants were divided into two camps. A white leather sofa rested against one wall, next 
to the light boards used for evaluating photo negatives. Two women curled upon this 
furniture, their long, lean limbs and symmetrical features suggesting that they must be 
from the stable of models the house used regularly. Nick wondered briefly just how far 
the use extended.

     Open bottles of champagne rested on the table in front of them, an unhealthy portion 
consumed. Theirs must be the drunken heartbeats.

     Both women were watching the activity on the other side of the office with voyeuristic 
intensity. Nick saw that one licked her lips, then turned hungry eyes toward her glass of 
champagne. She took a hearty gulp, as though to quench the heat in her thoughts, and she 
lifted her gaze to catch Nick staring. She smiled and waved him closer. The other model 
sensed her movement and glanced around, her dark red lips broadened as she joined her 
company in eyeing him appreciatively.

     If he didn't know better, Nick would have thought they were the vampires in the 
room.

     The first model that noticed him spoke with husky welcome. "Hi there."

     He could see both of them calculating their odds, forecasting plans, his future 
gleaming in their slanted eyes. "I'm here to see Figaro," he stated, his voice offering no 
signal that he was open to any change of plans.

     The first model's expression became brittle, and she ruefully glanced at her cohort. "I 
never thought I'd see the day when being a beautiful woman was passe."

     The other woman waved a sharp-fingered hand. "You know Figaro. 
Geese...Ganders...He's game for anything with the right sauce."

     Nick's eyes narrowed as her words made him wonder just how well these models 
*did* know Figaro. Delving into their pouty expressions, he realized they were speaking 
from jealousy, not knowledge. Apparently, neither woman was accustomed to being 
relegated to the background in favor of anyone, be it male or female. He finally followed 
their mulish glares across the room, where he found Figaro and Domino standing in front 
of the three-way mirror.

     In one sense, it was very innocuous. Domino had tried on a suit nearing completion, 
and Figaro was doing the fitting. He had pins clamped between his teeth, chalk in his 
hand. Figaro would mark the fine wool, shift Dom slightly in front of the mirror, tuck the 
fabric mildly somewhere else then secure his measurements with a precise stab. 

     It was the way the two men interacted that spoke of more than a business-related task. 
There was an intimacy in the way their eyes would meet through their likenesses in the 
mirror, in how Figaro would smooth the material over Domino's shoulders with a caress, 
and in the manner in which they seemed utterly and completely at ease with each other 
physically. They reflected a portrait of any two people who adored each other. 

     No wonder the models were irate. There was nothing the shallow detested so much as 
those beyond their depth.

     As Domino's head tilted slightly at the mirror's reflection, noticing his arrival in the 
background of the office, Nick momentarily felt like an intruder, a jealous trespasser. 
Closeness with LaCroix brought with it a degree of control Nick could never accept. 
Even with Janette, he hadn't shared such comfort because his self-doubt never 
completely subsided. He would give in to the darkness for a time, but there would always 
be a surge of conscience, and it had preyed on their intimacy. Both Figaro and Domino 
held no such doubts. Neither had any qualms about being vampires, and Nick wondered 
if that foundation made them more capable of accepting each other. Nick thought of his 
own precarious balance between two worlds, and considered how the limbo often brought 
him loneliness, more so than the vampire itself.

     Domino whispered words of Nick's appearance into Figaro's dark ear. The older 
vampire glanced over his shoulder, his features broadening in welcome. Fig looked 
primed to voice a greeting, but the pins gripped between his teeth stymied his diction. 
Dom gallantly raised long fingers to his sire's mouth and slipped the fasteners free of 
Fig's coffee-colored lips. The two shared another private glance before the designer 
offered a predictably jubilant hello.

     "Well, Nicholas! What brings us the pleasure of your company? Could it have 
something to do with that dastardly black duster you have on? Lighten up, man! If you 
must deal in neutrals, give silver a chance. Better yet, fawn."

     Even more than Fig approved of fawn in terms of color, he liked fawning in terms of 
people. Nick decided that this was a subtle suggestion, one he chose to ignore. "I'm here 
on business." When Figaro made a haughty face - 'That's what *I* was talking about!' - 
Nick amended, "Police business."

     Figaro made a disgusted sound. "Ugh. And you do it on purpose. I feel three shades of 
depression just thinking about police business - the institutional gray walls, the ebony 
uniforms for the unchoosy, and the lighting - oh, that horrible fluorescent lighting that 
casts everyone with the complexion of a pigeon's ass. No wonder you look like a walking 
Kafka novel, Nicholas."

     "Last time I checked," Nick countered, "I only had two legs."

     "Ever sink your teeth into a metaphor, chum? I was speaking of your figurative 
metamorphosis into someone that spawns the desire to throw a shoe every time you creep 
into the room. Unfortunately, there is no such thing as 'Dull Repellant.'"

     Domino could not resist chuckling at that comment. Figaro sent him a fond look, then 
raised one hand to brush away a small streak of chalk that had ended up on the man's 
cheek. "Dom, I have the feeling that Nicholas wishes to speak to me alone. The 
opportunity to know more than other people makes him feel important." Fig 
acknowledged the models' presence for the first time since Nick had entered the office. 
"Why don't you escort the ladies out?" Another brush of the other man's cheek, followed 
by a farewell kiss. "I'm sure you can think up *something* to do with them."

     "I'll do my best," Dom promised with a wink. He moved across the office, extending 
an arm to either model. "Ladies, you may start by assisting me out of this suit. Be 
gentle," he instructed as the trio left the room, "and watch the pins. We wouldn't want 
anyone to bleed, now, would we?"

     Both Nick and Figaro observed their departure, Fig with pride, Nick with an unease 
that another crime lingered on the horizon. 

     Figaro sighed out his self-flattery, drawing Nick's attention back from thoughts of 
interference. "It amazes me how well he turned out. At the time of his conversion, all I 
had on my mind was that I was sick of women, he was a lovely boy, and I wanted Cecilia 
out of my hair." His chocolaty brow wrinkled with sudden consternation. "Gads! That's 
still all I'm thinking nowadays."

     "When did Cecilia's extradition end?" Nick asked. "I thought you'd banished her to 
New York indefinitely after her mistake." He glanced pointedly at a Japanese sword 
mounted on the office wall to the right of the faux fireplace.

     "That was only for the season," Figaro corrected. "And a good thing it was, too. My 
moonbeam returned desolate. Terribly needy - and only three months without my care! I 
shudder to imagine would become of her or Domino if anything happened to me. Quite 
dependent, they are."

     "Be careful, Fig," Nick warned. "That just sounded suspiciously like a morbid 
thought."

     Figaro appeared properly horrified. "Vicious, terrible man! You're contagious! If you 
stay much longer, I'll start wearing sweaters and beg to join the Morrissey fan club! We 
must overcome!" He raised an indignant fist skyward and declared, "I am deliciously 
immortal! I shall last longer than the Chanel suit, the empire waist, or -"

     "The codpiece?" Nick suggested irreverently.

     Figaro sent him a huffy glare. "Yes, thank you, Nicholas, for suggesting that I am the 
eternal codpiece." He strolled to his desk and hunted up a clove cigarette. "Not that I'm a 
snob in that area, but if you were right, that would make Gaultier the vampire, not me. 
This only illustrates why I became the fashion designer, and you are the public servant." 
He sprawled casually in his desk chair as he puffed his cigarette aflame. "Please, take a 
seat. Tell me what you wanted to chat about, and make it quick. I don't want to catch 
your flu of gloom and wake up clutching a volume of Emily Dickinson poetry."

     "All right." Nick sat in one of the well-padded chairs opposite Figaro's desk. "Quickly 
- Cecilia's a contestant in the Miss Metro Toronto beauty pageant, and you're one of the 
judges. How fair is that?"

     "I thought I said it before - Cecilia's experiencing a needy phase. Apparently she 
needs a paste crown to make herself feel special. I'd have just bought her one, but, no, 
she wants to *win* it. Maybe that would have worked if she was aiming for Miss 
Universe, but Miss Metro Toronto is a 'scholarship pageant.'" Figaro drawled the 
description dismissively. "It's not good enough that she's beautiful, she has to pass off 
the illusion of a personality, as well as talent and a soul. Not all of these are Cecilia's 
strong suits, Nicholas. I had to get involved."

     "Involved enough to kill the competition?" Nick challenged somberly.

     Figaro took a long, derisive drag off his cigarette. "Oh, Nicholas. Do they actually pay 
you wages for asking such stupid questions? All I have to do is *tell* the other judges 
who I want to win. LaCroix doesn't care - he's only there to stock his cellar - and the 
mortals all sway easily."

     "So you're innocent," Nick said in a dubious tone. "Can you guarantee that Cecilia 
hasn't acted out of jealousy? She's killed unwisely before, and the car that ran down 
Angie Hunter was driven by a blond."

     "I guarantee you that it wasn't Cecilia driving that car. I dodged it myself."

     This was news. "You weren't on the list of witnesses," Nick countered.

     Fig's eyes flashed incredulously, and he hooted. "As if I have time to loiter on 
sidewalks! I was street side, Nicholas, because I was in transit. I scuffed one of my shoes 
avoiding a collision with that automobile. I was quite traumatized enough by that event, 
certainly too much to endure rabbling with average people, much less to speak to them. 
Therefore, being a man of action, I enacted my exit. I don't see why you're frowning - 
not that I ever do. You said you have a list of witnesses. What is the necessity of my 
joining the herd?"

     "For one, none of them could tell me with certainty that Cecilia wasn't behind the 
wheel," Nick began his argument. "Two, none of them claimed that they were almost 
struck by the car."

     Figaro tilted his nose in the air as he stubbed his clove. "How nice for them."

     "Describe what you saw to me, Fig," Nick told him. "It could be useful."

     "Honestly, Nicholas, at the risk of sounding deliberately unhelpful, I saw very little. I 
was crossing the street around the corner from the pageant's headquarters, heading for a 
spot discreet enough so that I could..." He made a motion, his hand taking off into the air. 
"...pop off like a proper vampire, when I heard the screech of tires. There it was - a 
completely unremarkable car going remarkably fast in my direction. I removed myself 
from its path with remarkable skill. The vehicle veered around the corner, and there was a 
remarkably solid sound of metal colliding with flesh. Eternal codpiece or not, Nicholas, I 
was momentarily thankful that that noise had not involved my favorite olive suit, or 
myself, then I skipped along my busy, merry way."

     There was something in his description that triggered an alarm in Nick's head, but he 
couldn't quite pinpoint it. "What did you see of the driver?"

     Figaro appeared bored enough to cry. "Blond like you said. Last season's sunglasses, 
too big for her face. Definitely a mortal heart. Pumpa-thumpa...I heard it accelerate in 
pace with the car."

     "That's it?"

     Figaro let out a groan. "Nicholas, enough! I could be having more fun draining a 
worker in a fish factory!"

     "Just one more question," Nick relented.

     "Pop it, chap. I'm getting peckish."

     "Is Cecilia here? I want to talk to her."

     "No, no. She should be at the Raven, celebrating her last night of freedom before she 
has to move into the theatre. The final pageant rehearsals last day and night, you know. 
She can't afford the sunny commute, so Cecilia will be shacking up in Wardrobe." Figaro 
gave a puckish grin and drawled dramatically, "How we suffer in the name of vanity."

     Nick gave a short nod and thanked him. He was headed for the Raven next anyway, to 
investigate the other side of the coin.

*******************************************************************
End of Part Two