Fairest Of Them All (05/?)
Copyright 2000
By Bonnie Rutledge

     Vachon fidgeted in his position on the floor for the twentieth time in as many minutes. 
He'd kill for a drink.

     His eyes drifted unconsciously to Tracy's throat, elegantly set off by the low, low - 
hell, make it subterranean - neckline of the red, sequined, satin dress she'd put on for her 
second fireball demonstration. 

     It had been an impressive demonstration.
     As he'd predicted, it'd been hot, too. When they returned to her apartment, Tracy'd 
helped herself to an orange soda out of the fridge (stored directly between the milk and 
pepperoni) to cool off her taste buds. She hadn't offered him anything to drink.
     <Like you thought she would?> Mental scoff. <Yeah, right. She'd probably have to 
think you were dying first. If then.>
     No, Tracy had progressed directly to formulating her 'pageant platform,' an 
overwhelming euphemism for 'bullshit' if he ever heard one, and Vachon had heard 
many a pile of crap in his five centuries on the planet. Exhibit A: Screed. Exhibit B: The 
Inka. Exhibit C: Bourbon. Exhibit D: Tipper Gore on the evils of rock n' roll. Hell, he 
could go through the entire alphabet, but he'd still be thirsty.
     Tracy leaned over as she flipped through the pages of her notebook, temporarily 
diverting his gaze from her pulse to her cleavage. She hadn't taken off the red dress after 
fire eating. She really should take off that red dress. He would kill for a -

     <Hold it. Scratch that. You're not drinking. Somehow you were pegged the designated 
driver while you weren't paying attention.>

     Vachon fidgeted for the twenty-first time. He forced his eyes away from Tracy's neck, 
toward her ceiling. It was time to count grit in the spackle. If he could come up with an 
acceptable idea for Tracy's platform, he could bail on a positive note. Vachon was well 
aware the time for bailing was imminent.

     It wasn't exactly his fault. It wasn't even Tracy's fault.

     On second thought, it was Tracy's fault. She'd called him over here on an emergency. 
Vachon's idea of an emergency passed a lot more quickly than this. Refreshments 
weren't an issue. Emergencies did not involve all-night brainstorming sessions and red 
dresses.

     Well, now he knew better. File that under 'You Learn Something New Every Night.' 
Next time she had an emergency, he'd bring a few bottles.

     It was also Tracy's fault because she was being so picky about her 'pageant platform.' 
Vachon found it hard to believe that the judges would spend a minute listening to any 
uplifting or positive message she bothered to devise when they could occupy that time 
mentally undressing her. As Tracy's official sexist male opinion, he attempted to explain 
this concept, but she was being stubborn. 

     "There are still two female judges to consider, Vachon! Be serious and help!"

     So he was serious. He suggested she push the rights of the Mississauga tribe, since 
she'd had recent exposure to the issue. Tracy decided that idea was too political. He 
suggested that she promote literacy through advocating extended night hours at the metro 
libraries. Some people just couldn't circulate in the daylight. Tracy decided that idea 
wasn't political enough.

     Vachon had seriously tried, and now he was losing his serious edge. He was seriously 
thirsty, and Tracy kept shuffling her paperwork and seriously testing the resilience of her 
cleavage versus the force of gravity. 

     Serious inspiration came in a blink.

     "Paperwork."

     Tracy sat up straight at the word, and her neckline followed - thank someone for small 
favors. She looked at him inquisitively. "What'd you say?"

     "Paperwork. Your pageant platform could prevent pointless paperwork." Vachon 
hoped she got it. He wasn't sure he could repeat it. "You know," he insisted when she 
continued to appear confused. He waved at the forms she had strategically piled on the 
floor. She knew. Come on. "The Americans. They had those reforms a few years ago. 
Paperwork reduction acts. Why not here?"

     Tracy inhaled a breath full of wonderment. "Ohh." She began to nod enthusiastically. 
"That's what I need. I need less paperwork. It's about time someone was civil to the civil 
servants."

     "And the trees," Vachon added. "Don't forget to pop in the environmentalism angle 
there."

     "Yes!" Tracy really liked this concept. She shook a finger at the litter on the floor as if 
to announce that the jig was up. "Everyone likes environmentalism!"

     Vachon cocked his chin. "Except the capitalists with the chainsaws and bulldozers."

     "I can just see it! I can focus on the tree-hugging with the judges who are trendy save-
the-planet types. Some of them aren't going to be into trees, though. Like the allergist - 
he probably hates trees. Pollinating trees, at least. With him, I can focus on improving 
office efficiency. This is a great platform, Vachon. Thanks."

     He got to his feet. Emergency over. Time to go.

     Tracy continued to muse enthusiastically over the possibilities and didn't notice that 
Vachon was halfway out the door. "Hmm. I wonder if the fashion designer would be pro 
or con tree? Silkworms eat leaves from mulberry trees. That's pro-tree. Hmm. They don't 
make paper out of mulberry trees. That's con-tree. Hmm. Figaro Newton. Fig Newton. 
Figs grow on trees! How could he not be pro?"

     Tracy glanced up abruptly as a sound of pain emitted from the vicinity of the 
doorway. "Vachon?"

     He strolled back into her living room on the crest of a sigh. "Did I just hear you say 
that Figaro Newton, the fashion designer, is one of the judges in this pageant thing?"

     "Yah. All the judges are local professionals or celebrities. There's Figaro Newton, one 
television network exec, some local talk show host that my partner always listens to -"

     That did it. Vachon leaned over and yanked Tracy to her feet, before shoving her 
toward her bedroom. "Go change," he said brusquely.

      Tracy looked over her shoulder with a frown. "Is there something wrong?"

      "What could be wrong? I'm just coaching you for a pageant. Nothing weird about 
that. Is it cold in here? Put on a turtleneck."

***************************************************************

     Tracy was pretty sure that something was up with Vachon. He'd been uncooperative 
ever since they had come indoors. She had a few theories about the cause behind that, so 
that wasn't the strange bit. All at once, though, he had become the uber-coach. Hadn't he 
had one foot out the door when she first started talking about the judges? *That* was the 
strange bit.

     She briskly put on a turtleneck and jeans for the sake of cooperation and returned to 
the den, where she found Vachon messing with the information she had oh-so-carefully 
stacked in seven piles. She clucked at the onslaught of disorder. "Don't shuffle those!" 
She methodically put everything back the way she'd left it, complaining, "You know, 
when you grew that hand back, maybe you should have tried for a model that wasn't 
always touching everything."

     "That would have kind of defeated the purpose of a hand, Trace."

     She looked up from her data with a glare. He was smiling! "I'm not joking!"

     "I can tell."

     He was still smiling. Tracy fumed. "I appreciate your help picking out my talent and a 
platform, Vachon, but I am perfectly capable of profiling the judges myself. If you have 
somewhere else you want to go, or something else you want to do, well, by all means, 
don't be my guest."

     "Is that what you're doing?" Vachon asked, his voice suddenly bordering on intent. 
"Profiling the judges?"

     "It's part of my job," Tracy reminded him. "One of them could be a killer."

     Vachon's expression was blank. "You think?" 

     Tracy shrugged. "It's possible, but even if they're innocent, I could use a glimpse 
inside the judges' heads. Figuring out ahead of time what they like, what makes them 
tick, it could help with the interrogations." She grinned sheepishly. "I mean, the 
interviews."

     Vachon was rubbing his chin doubtfully. She wasn't sure, but Tracy thought he might 
also be clenching his teeth. "You really think you can do that?" he asked.

     "I do it all the time. If you know how the suspect or witness thinks, you can say the 
right things so they'll trust you. You push the right button, and they do exactly what you 
expect. You get it just right, and they spill their guts." Tracy sent him a smug look. "You 
could say it's a cop-whammy."

     "Oh, really?"

     "Really."

     Vachon pointed at the file she'd collected on Figaro Newton. "So what insight have 
you picked up on him?"

     "Well..." Tracy picked up the papers and flipped through them to refresh her memory. 
"There was a murder earlier in the year at his fashion house. The case was closed, but the 
perp conveniently killed herself and left a confession. Sounds suspicious to me. I'll have 
to ask my partner about it. He worked the case. Now, other than the guy being in the 
vicinity of four murders in the same year being extremely suspect, I think I've picked up 
on a couple of other things."

     "Like what?"

     "He has a sense of humor. There's no way a guy named 'Fig Newton' escaped being 
called 'Cookie Boy' as a kid."

     "There are ways," Vachon muttered under his breath.

     "If he didn't have a sense of humor about his name, he'd have changed it before it 
went on a clothing label," Tracy continued. "He's not self-conscious. He'd be impatient 
with people who are. I read that he's an avid fencing enthusiast. He's athletic and 
combative, but he focuses on dexterity more than brute force. I just can't see him hitting 
Angie Hunter - that's the name of the third victim - with a car. Especially a beige sedan."

     "Fig doesn't have a driver's license," Vachon pointed out. "He doesn't like 
combustion engines."

     Tracy didn't pick up on this intimate detail right away, she was too focused upon what 
*she* knew about Figaro Newton. "He's dynamic. If he found someone dull, if they 
bored him, he wouldn't hesitate to tell them so. It's not that he lacks manners."

     "Could have fooled me," Vachon commented as he settled on the couch between her 
stations of Initial Interview and Final Interview clothing.

     "No." Tracy shook her head, deep in thought. "I think Figaro Newton sees promoting 
style and entertainment as a public service. It's how he makes the world a better place, by 
improving the appearance and encouraging the wit of those around him. He's like a 
fashion humanitarian."

     "I'm not sure 'humanitarian' is the word you want to apply to Fig. Not that he doesn't 
like humans in his own way..." Vachon allowed.

     Tracy snapped out of her deductive haze. "How do you know he doesn't like 
combustion engines?" she demanded. Her eyelids became thoughtful slits. "*That's* why 
I couldn't find a driving record."

     "That's why you couldn't find a driving record," Vachon echoed. "To answer your 
question, I've met Figaro Newton."

     Tracy crossed her arms and eyed him doubtfully. "You've met Figaro Newton."

     "Yes."

     "The fashion designer."

     "Yes."

     "The one in 'Vogue'?"

     "Yes."

     "And 'Cosmopolitan'?"

     "Same guy, Trace."

     "When? Where?" Tracy glanced at his jeans and leather jacket, added them together 
and came up with another question. "Why?"

     Those details, Vachon wasn't going to share. It was one thing to admit he'd met the 
man. It was another to give Tracy a crash-course in vamp bloodlines: 'My bitchy crone of 
a grandsire made Figaro into a vampire. He's my blood uncle in a we-don't-do-Christmas 
kind of way.'

     No, this was not an explanation he planned to share with Tracy. She knew too much 
already. He hedged the nature of his relationship to Figaro to maximize honesty while 
minimizing actual fact content. "I've only met him a couple times." That was true 
enough. Vachon considered how to define Domino. "I have a friend who works as his 
photographer." That was true, too. "He talks." A third indisputable truth. Domino 
definitely knew how to talk. Shutting up was the skill that gave Dom problems.

     Tracy adjusted her Evening Gown pile slightly to avoid creases and took a seat in the 
chair. "What does he say?"

     Vachon gestured at the suit topping Tracy's Initial Interview clothes. "If you walk in 
wearing black, Figaro will write you off as unimaginative, and you'll have to work twice 
as hard to change his mind."

     "What's so unimaginative about black? It goes with everything." The turtleneck she 
had on was black. Tracy was affronted.

     "He thinks it's depressing."

     "Then what does he like?"

     Vachon frowned. "Orange...I think."

     "Yuck." Tracy hated orange. Wearing it was not an option. "Does Figaro Newton 
have a psychological problem with red?"

     Vachon shook his head. "Not likely."

     "Then red it is," Tracy concluded, nodding with satisfaction. "What else have you 
got?"

     "He doesn't like guns. He's big on fencing, remember? Fig blames the proliferation of 
pistols in the Western world for his lack of decent sparring partners."

     "Check. Make no mention of shooting stuff. Anything else?"

     "Yes. Your profile - throw it out the window."

     "Excuse me?" 

     "If you spend the entire interview calculating what he wants to hear, Figaro will know. 
He's been toyed with by the best, and he has his standards. Don't push him. He'll turn it 
right back on you. Trust me. Figaro isn't a guy you want laughing at your expense. 
Chances are, he's already getting a kick out of most of the people involved with this 
pageant."

     "I don't get it," Tracy said. "If he feels that way about the contest, why did he agree to 
be a judge?"

     "I have no idea," Vachon answered honestly. "When you talk to him, talk *to* him, 
not at him. Make eye contact. He likes women who can stare him down. Listen to him. 
Don't just sift through his words while you devise what you're going to say next. He 
won't go for formula answers. He likes reactions. He likes emotion. You have to be as 
colorful as you honestly can, and you have to look at him as though the end of the world 
couldn't pry your attention away. If you can manage that for fifteen minutes, you'll have 
Fig in your pocket."

     Tracy gulped. <That's *all*?> "And your photographer friend told you all this?"

      Vachon shrugged. "Most of it." Actually, Domino had had quite a few stories to tell 
about Figaro and Clare over the years. Vachon always pretended he wasn't interested. It 
had been a matter of pride. She didn't give a damn that he existed, so why shouldn't he 
return the sentiment? By the time the Second World War had ended, the choice had been 
taken out of his hands. Clare was dust. There were no new stories for Dom to spill. Adios 
to nothing. 

     "Are you sure your information is accurate?" Tracy questioned. "I had the impression 
that Figaro Newton is gay." She contemplated pulling out one of her polka-dot ties as 
insurance.

     "He isn't." This was Vachon's sincere opinion. "What some people consider rules or 
laws, Figaro considers slavery. He finds his happiness in freedom. More than style and 
entertainment as a public service, Figaro is first and foremost devoted to his own 
enjoyment."

     "And *how* does that make him different from any other man on the planet?" Tracy 
said sarcastically. She waved the papers making up Figaro's profile at Vachon, before 
tossing them aside in a flutter. "Never mind. Don't answer that. You haven't met any of 
the other judges, have you?"

      "Well, since you asked...the radio host. I've seen him around," Vachon said casually.

       Tracy tackled her remaining profiles. He was talking about Lucien LaCroix. The file 
she had on him was the most meager of the lot. She remembered the times Nick had 
listened to his program enough to speculate on his personality, though. "Let me take a 
wild guess - LaCroix hates everything."

     "Close...he does like the color black."

     "Oh, brother."

     "And he likes the sound of his own voice."

     Tracy made a noise of agreement. That was going to be her second guess.

     "Don't react to what he says. Don't show any emotion, and whatever you do, show no 
fear. Do that, and you just might make it out of the interview with LaCroix alive."

     "What? I won't have him in my pocket?" Tracy said facetiously. 

     "No." Vachon was definite about this.

     Vachon's 'coaching' wasn't exactly leaving Tracy feeling inspired for success. 
<'Make it out of the interview alive?' What's up with that?> she thought. Her brow 
furrowed suspiciously. "How do you know LaCroix, again?"

     A long stare. "I've seen him around."

     "Uh-huh. Anyone else you've 'seen around' on the panel?"

     "The lingerie model." Well, she asked.

      Tracy's frown deepened. "Would this be a real-life encounter with Reva, or is she an 
'imaginary' friend?"

     Vachon gave her a 'what do you think?' look. "She's worked for Figaro Newton. I 
met her through the photographer again."

     "Okay..." All at once, she felt less gracious toward Vachon's talkative photographer 
buddy. Tracy was on her feet, and suddenly very busy straightening her pageant 
paraphernalia. "What's she like? You know...without the airbrushing."

     "She was very boring. She was bored by almost everything, too. She won't care about 
saving trees or paperwork efficiency, colors, guns, fencing or eye contact. You'll be 
lucky if she even looks at you."

     "Hmm," Tracy said noncommittally. Vachon thought Reva was boring. She didn't 
sound too bad for a lingerie model. "You said she was bored by *almost* everything. Is 
there an exception?"

     "Yes." Vachon told her what it was.

     "I think I can manage a conversation about that," Tracy said confidently. "So who else 
do you - or your photographer friend - know? The doctorate in woman's studies? The 
self-help guru?"

     "Sorry. You're on your own there."

     Tracy picked up her four untouched files and settled in her chair once more. "So I 
guess I get to profile someone after all." She flipped the top cover open and began to 
read. She didn't look up but held out one hand in Vachon's direction for a sterile 
handshake. "I appreciate your input. I guess you'll be getting back to the church and your 
bottles of blood now?"

     Vachon stared at her hand for a moment, followed by the top of her head, then her 
throat shielded by the turtleneck. He rolled his eyes. "You're welcome, Trace." There 
was a *whoosh!* and he was gone.

     Tracy looked up from her profiles, a satisfied smile on her face. "I guess I pushed the 
right button."

*************************************************************
End of Part Five