Fairest Of Them All (06/?)
Copyright 2000
By Bonnie Rutledge

     The first pageant judge that Tracy met for an interview was Tim Midman, the 
renowned self-help guru. His specialty was empowering people with social anxiety 
disorders. She had little doubt that this meeting would go well; Tim Midman made a 
career out of fostering pleasant exchanges with a wide range of individuals. She 
forecasted that this would be one of the most comfortable interviews the entire evening.

     He stood as she entered the room and shook her hand in a friendly, confident manner. 
Tracy gave him a pleasant smile and took her seat. When she'd profiled Tim Midman in 
the wee hours of the morning, Tracy had concluded that that there was very little shady 
about him. He struck her as a salesman-type, a bit on the smarmy side, but she had no 
immediate suspicions that he was a threat. 

     After they exchanged five or so minutes of typical pleasantries and 'getting-to-know-
you' interview nonsense, her first impression hadn't altered. Tracy had slipped in a few 
questions of her own, testing Tim Midman's feelings toward the pageant contestants and 
the three deaths. 

     "It's really regrettable when friendly people meet an unfriendly end," he commented. 
"Shelley Lynn Poteat and Angie Hunter were so congenial. I think they would have done 
fairly well in the pageant. One or both of them might have made the semi-finals if it 
weren't for..." Tim Midman's voice trailed off as his mouth twisted slightly - the barest 
hint of a negative emotion. "Murder... the ultimate in antisocial behavior. How 
disappointing. I agreed to be a judge because I thought this pageant would be like a 
vacation among the confident and self-assured - people like you, Ms. Vetter. I was 
mistaken. Instead, it seems there may be someone in dire need of mental help among us."

     Tracy's curiosity prickled. Midman had revealed a hint of burnout with his clientele - 
people overcome with stress at the simplest interpersonal contact. Could his frustration 
on the job have manifested into something more sinister than the need for a vacation? 
Could he have seen some fragility in the contestants that made him snap? Her 
imagination in high gear, Tracy focused on the victim whose name Tim Midman hadn't 
mentioned. "What about Melissa Van Doven? I didn't have a chance to meet her, but I 
heard that she was nice, too. Did you think she was a good contestant?"

     He shook his head. "Poor, poor girl. I could see the signs - the malaise, the nerves, the 
lack of confidence. She was very unhappy. The competition certainly didn't make her 
happier. I don't think she would have done well at all. In fact, I had a strong suspicion 
that she was discontent enough to pull out of the contest altogether. That's a common 
occurrence with depression - withdrawal from society. I suppose she did. Death..." he 
pronounced prosaically. "...The ultimate withdrawal." 

     Tracy tried to maintain a friendly exterior. Really, this guy littered his entire 
conversation with empty catchphrases, like he was trying to get her to buy a set of 
encyclopedias. She resolved to talk to a few of the other contestants to get their 
impressions of the judges. In the case of Tim Midman, maybe she could track down 
former clients who would be willing to share their opinions of the man. 

     He, however, had moved on to another topic. "Didn't you say your platform had 
something to do with paperwork?"

     Tracy nodded. "Paperwork reduction."

     Midman frowned. "But keeping the lines of communication open are important. A 
memo is like a company handshake."

     <More like a company hand up your -> Tracy shook that rude thought away. 
Midman's reaction caught Tracy off-guard. She hadn't expected him to be pro-paper. She 
proceeded to reason with him. "Yes, I see your point, but there are more than memos to 
paperwork. Don't you think that endless forms, requisitions and reports do more to 
isolate individuals? Sure, a report presents information, but so does a face-to-face 
meeting. While you're so busy writing up a description of the work you've already done, 
and the work that you're planning to do, when do you ever actually get the opportunity to 
do something that involves contact with real, live people?" Tracy studied Midman's 
fuzzy expression. Either he needed glasses, or he just wasn't getting the significance of 
her platform. She gave a mental sigh and went for the environmentalist vote. "Besides, 
think of the trees - is it really worth leveling entire forests so that we can have requisition 
forms for new paper clips?"

     Tim Midman was mystified. This was a branch of thinking he'd never ventured onto 
before. "Hmm...I must admit, I haven't given much thought to trees before. They aren't 
the most social of animals."

     <That's because they're plants,> Tracy muttered to herself. <And I thought this 
interview would be easy!> "Exactly," she said with forced brightness. "Isn't that why 
your clients are called 'wallflowers'? To signify their isolation? Your work and my 
platform have a lot in common. All I want is to keep the trees from being chopped down 
by societal pressures..."

     "...And liberate our culture from the prison of wood products," Midman broke in, 
suddenly very enthusiastic, "promoting a revolution in interpersonal contact, not bound 
by the chains of manufacturing!"

     Tracy gave a weak half-smile. "Yah, I guess that's what I meant." Actually, it sounded 
like a mumbo-jumbo tureen of babble, but if it got her a good interview score...

     "What an invigorating concept! I must use it in my next infomercial! I'll give you full 
credit, of course."

     "No!" Tracy yelped. The embarrassing promise of being mentioned on late-night 
television along with a sales pitch for motivational cassettes had her suddenly 
understanding why some people might prefer spending their days hiding under their beds, 
away from society. Seeing that Midman's expression faltered at her protest, she rushed to 
cover her dismay. "You can take full credit. *Please.* It's not really important who gets 
credit for an idea as long as it makes a difference, right?"

     "Right!" Tim Midman glanced at his watch. "I'm afraid our time is up. It has been a 
fascinating experience talking to you, Ms. Vetter!" As she stood, he followed and gave 
her another friendly handshake. "Good luck in the pageant!"

     "Thank you," Tracy said, before moving as quickly as politely possible out of the 
room. <One down, six more to go.>

     The interview with Midman had taught her that she should take none of her audiences 
for granted. Despite her advance research, she should not assume any of the judges would 
be easier or more difficult to deal with than the last. This was an undercover assignment, 
and she would have to think on her toes. The prospect of that challenge had Tracy 
looking upon this assignment with favor for the first time since she'd heard the words 
'Miss Metro Toronto.' It almost made up for having to wear the high heels and hairspray.

     On that thought, she strolled off to prepare for her second interview with a whistle.

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

     Ann O'Malley didn't shake hands. She gave Tracy a business-like nod as she entered 
the room and motioned toward the free chair. Then she promptly began to sneeze and 
curse.

     "Christ!" Ann O'Malley complained, glaring at Tracy through red-rimmed eyes. "Do 
*all of you* have to use so much hairspray? It's a wonder I can breathe!"

     Tracy gulped. She'd foreseen that Dr. O'Malley, a popular lecturer in Womyn's 
Studies at the university, as well as the author of two books, 'The Estrogen Phallacy' and 
'The Stronger Sex,' would be sick of contestants prancing into her interview room 
dredged in makeup and feminine froufrou. Tracy had come prepared to tone down. As 
soon as she had exited her talk with Tim Midman, she'd rushed to the ladies' room to 
scrub her face clean and trade her heels for some sensible flats. The need to take care of 
the offensive hairspray had, well, gone over her head. <Oops. It looked like a case of 
'think fast, lie fast.'>  "I know what you mean," Tracy said, assuming the same disgusted 
tone. "One of the other contestants was primping in the bathroom. All I was trying to do 
was wash my hands, when she got me with her aerosol right in the face! I thought I was 
going to be blinded!"

     "Really." Ann O'Malley surveyed Tracy from head to toe, clearly not buying her story 
hook, line and sinker. While she sniffled into a tissue, she noted Tracy's natural 
complexion and puritanical loafers. Tracy saw O'Malley's nose twitch censoriously and 
quietly gave thanks that she had elected to not use any perfume. That would have 
torpedoed this interview for sure.

     Ann O'Malley lowered her tissue, apparently having decided to give Tracy the benefit 
of the doubt. "You don't look like most of the insults to my intelligence that have 
paraded through this room so far." She shot Tracy another critical look. "You're still 
pretty, but I suppose that's not all your fault."

     Tracy had the feeling that, if she could be blamed for the cut-copy-and-paste of 
genetics, Ann O'Malley would do it with gusto. "No, it's not," she retorted sullenly. The 
professor would expect obsequious contestants, and she would be prepared to shred that 
behavior on her scorecard. Tracy reasoned that she couldn't do worse by relying on frank 
speaking. "In fact, being pretty can be rather annoying."

     O'Malley snorted dismissively. "You expect me to buy that? You're a contestant in a 
*beauty* pageant, genius. Sure, they call it a scholarship pageant, but we all know this is 
nothing but an elaborate sexual ritual. If you don't like your looks," the professor 
demanded, jabbing a rude finger in Tracy's direction, "what the hell are you doing here, 
capitalizing on them?"

     "Easy." To Tracy, it was. No, she wasn't going to explain that she was an undercover 
cop and that she was doing her job, but Tracy could easily explain how she felt about the 
pageant. "If I win, it'll be because I was smarter than the other contestants. It'll be 
because I smiled when I was supposed to, I kept my mouth shut when I needed to, and I 
was only honest about my opinions when absolutely necessary. It takes brains, not 
beauty, to maneuver through this obstacle course. Honestly, the only reason I would want 
to win this contest is so I can shove the crown right back at the sponsors. I don't need it. I 
don't think that any of the women that I admire and respect need it either. At best, they 
need that scholarship money. I think it's sad that women have to put themselves on 
display just so they can get an education or fund their own businesses. How else is 
society going to change unless someone stands up and says they won't accept this 
treatment anymore? If I win, that's what I plan to do."  

     "You could use the opportunity to lecture on your views during your reign, you 
know," Ann O'Malley tempted. "If this is your cause, you could reach more people by 
holding on to the crown."

     Tracy wrinkled up her nose. "And put my career on hold for a year? No way."

     Suddenly, Ann O'Malley smiled. "I like you, Tracy Vetter."

     "Let me ask you the same question, Dr. O'Malley. If you hate this pageant so much, 
why did you agree to be a judge?" Naturally, Tracy didn't expect her response to be 'so I 
could kill off a bunch of contestant and destroy the pageant,' but she was hoping for 
some clue if the professor's venom toward Miss Metro Toronto was violent.

     "You mean, 'why did I let the pageant board use me as a means to give their sexism 
validation?'" O'Malley asked ruefully, before burying her nose in her tissue again. "I'm 
using it as material in my third book, for one, and..." Drawing away from the Kleenex, 
she gave Tracy a conspiratorial smile, "...because I wanted someone smart to win the 
crown."

     Tracy liked the sound of that. <Two down, five more to go.>

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

     <Show no fear...show no emotion...> Vachon's warnings about Lucien LaCroix 
rumbled through Tracy's thoughts as she prepped for her next interview. He'd turned 
what she'd envisioned as a simply negative personality into something looming and 
ominous. On one hand, she was eager to pass this next hurdle; it made her wary. On the 
other hand, the mysterious persona of 'The Nightcrawler' struck Tracy as just the type of 
arrogant individual who believed he could get away with murder. Rules, mores - these 
only applied to the listeners of the world, not the radio show host. Yes, it was possible 
that LaCroix put on an act for broadcast, but, out of all seven judges, this was the 
personality that she instinctively trusted the least. The network executive was an open 
book Boy Scout in comparison.

     Tracy felt no relief at her first look at him. He was a cold person, a forbidding person, 
who seemed to look through her as she entered the room, as though he was still waiting 
for someone of real interest to pass through the door. Tracy suddenly thought of her 
father, of a hundred visits to his various offices as she was growing up, and how he had 
never once been happy to see her. She'd either been a tribulation to him - much like 
things were now - or as good as invisible. Old resentment seeped into Tracy at the stone 
wall that was Lucien LaCroix, and she could feel her throat tighten, twisting into 
something shriller and defensive out of habit.

     She caught herself just in time. <Show no reaction...> That's what Vachon had 
advised. He was absolutely right. She was a skilled, if only slightly experienced, 
professional. She could keep a poker face for the next fifteen minutes, if only to prove 
something to herself. <Like everything in my life doesn't come back to my father, the 
Commissioner.>

     Tracy walked across the room. She didn't extend a hand - Lucien LaCroix was not a 
person she wanted to hand an expectation to rebuff - but she spoke. She kept her tone 
moderate, her voice clipped in a business-like manner. "Mr. LaCroix, I'm..."

     He interrupted. "I know who you are." Tracy fought to keep her eyes from narrowing. 
He had a knowing look, as if he understood *exactly* who she was and what she was 
about. "Please, Ms. Vetter," he said as he waved a hand toward one chair, "be my guest." 
She didn't comply immediately. Instead, Tracy eyed him with a stony face. His politeness 
had a predatory edge to it, and she wanted to know why. LaCroix didn't obviously grow 
impatient with her inaction, but after a few moments, he did prompt silkily, "Ladies 
first."

     Tracy lamented that she allowed a faint scowl to escape at that cliche. "In that case," 
she mimicked his wave of hand, "be *my* guest. Aren't 'ladies' a bit of an antiquated 
concept?"

     LaCroix arched one brow, but he sat first. He appeared faintly amused. "In my 
experience, that depends on the 'lady.'"

     Once he was settled, Tracy deigned to sit in the other chair. She gave no reaction to 
his comment, so LaCroix probed further. He loved challenges, the more difficult, the 
better. Nicholas' partner had walked into the room as though she'd been warned about 
him. LaCroix suppressed a chuckle as he wondered who did the warning, and exactly 
how the caution had been phrased. Of course he recognized Tracy Vetter as the partner 
who had replaced the departed Detective Schanke. He made it his business to know these 
things. Information was, after all, the most useful of currencies. "I take it that you are not 
a traditionalist. Why is that, *Ms.* Vetter?"

     Tracy picked up on the emphasis he placed on her title, and she wondered if frowning 
wrinkles were forming on her forehead, despite her mental efforts. Did he know who she 
was? How could he know? Rather than air these questions, she countered his with a new 
one. "Why should I be old-fashioned? I always had the impression that the reason women 
clung to chivalry for centuries was because it was the only paltry illusion of power and 
respect they had. I can open my own doors, thank you very much."

     "You must be very proud."

     Tracy's chin snapped up slightly, but she kept her features cool as she examined 
LaCroix's expression. There was no sign in his face that that comment had been 
humorous, yet she knew with the instinct of the one being teased that her attitude was the 
most amusing thing he'd experienced all day. Tracy straightened her shoulders and 
replied, working on maintaining her cool, clipped voice, "I am very proud of my 
accomplishments."

     "Obviously." His mouth twitched; she was sure of it. "However...you are completely 
erroneous in your assumption that the lure of a chivalric code of manners lies in the 
illusion of power or respect."

     Tracy didn't purse her lips, though she wanted to. Instead, she gnawed on the inside of 
her cheeks. "I suppose you plan to illuminate me with the 'right' assumption."

     "My pleasure. *Ladies* appreciated chivalry for centuries because..." He leaned 
forward in his chair, his blue gaze tunneling into her own, "...it was fun. Do you 
understand the concept of fun, Detective Vetter?"

     Tracy lost her battle for subtlety. She instantly noticed his change of address, and her 
features charged with accusation. "You know that I'm a detective," she stated.

     "If I didn't before, I do now," LaCroix pointed out, before chuckling at her abashed 
expression. The set of her chin immediately became mulish. "I noticed that you were a 
last minute addition to the pageant roster. Considering the recent events concerning the 
contestants, it wouldn't be too far of a leap for a person aware of these facts to suggest 
that you are not simply a representative of Metro Toronto, but the Metro Toronto Police 
Department, would it?"

     Tracy crossed her arms in front of her chest and eyed him dispassionately. "What gave 
me away, besides my big mouth?"

     "Your attitude is beyond the norm."

     "And what is the 'normal' attitude for these things?"

     "Most of the pageant contestants act honored to have the opportunity to participate. 
They have enthusiasm. They are breathless with anticipation over the outcome of the 
process. You, on the other hand, have the zeal of drying mud. If I didn't know better," he 
taunted, "I would suspect that someone told you to share as little emotion during this 
interview as possible." LaCroix omitted to add that this behavior would have been 
intriguing had he not already been aware of whom Tracy Vetter was.

     "Gee, thanks, Vachon," Tracy muttered under her breath, before shoving aside her 
annoyance over her cover being broken and delving into her work. "You said 'most of the 
pageant contestants' act like they're glad to be here. Any exceptions besides myself?"

    Of course he didn't give her an answer right away. "Any particular reason that you 
want to know?"

     "So I can form a sorority for bitter, ungrateful, beauty pageant survivors."

     "If only you could. The other contestant that comes to mind is no longer with us. 
Victim number two, I believe."

     "Melissa van Doven?" 

     "That would be her name. You do not appear surprised by this information, 
Detective."

     Tracy shook her head slightly. "I'm not." She was on alert, however. Tim Midman 
had expressed concerns about the same contestant, singling her out from the others. It 
bore further scrutiny. Tracy began by studying LaCroix with a frown. "What surprises me 
is that you would offer the information. Not to be rude, but you don't strike me as a 
naturally helpful person."

     "I offer assistance when it amuses me to do so," LaCroix countered smoothly.
      
     "Hmph." Tracy let her eyes squint out their annoyance. "In that case, is there anything 
else amusing that you'd like to share?"

     LaCroix steepled his hands and eyed her complacently. "Not at the moment."

     Tracy got to her feet. Not only did Lucien LaCroix put her at a disadvantage, he gave 
her a sense that she was spinning her wheels. He knew more than he was telling her; a 
blind ostrich could see that. The question was...did he know who the killer was? Was he 
the killer? 

     Tracy had grown up in a household where her father and uncles were always talking 
about work. Never a day went by that they didn't leave case files and photographs laying 
around for an inquisitive young girl to investigate. She'd seen the effects of violence 
from an early age, a two-dimensional variety, rather like a portrait of what evil could be. 
Even more than these visions of the victims, Tracy had seen a parade of police photos of 
suspects once they'd been apprehended. They'd come in a cavalcade of styles - the quiet, 
harmless looking ones who carved up their grandmothers with kitchen knives, the brutal 
looking misfits whose eyes craved the damage their fists could bring, the ones in shock, 
the ones who lamented - she'd seem them all. One thing all these types had in common 
was that they never smiled at the police photographer. That was another type altogether, 
the kind that looked into the camera as though they were untouchable. Sometimes, the 
legal system had proven that they were. Whether their smiles came from smug guilt or 
innocence, Tracy had always known, even from an image on paper, that a person who 
looked at you like that could not be trusted. Don't get comfortable around them, and stay 
on alert.

     Lucien LaCroix smiled at her in exactly that way.

     "Since you know that I'm a cop, there's no point in wasting my time on a pageant 
interview," she announced, then added, "It would be more convenient for me if you don't 
tell anyone else that I'm a detective."

     "But you're not going to make an official request that I stay silent?" LaCroix 
countered. "You could say 'please.'"

     "If I did," Tracy said, assurance behind her words, "you'd do exactly what you want 
to anyway."

     "How perceptive, Detective Vetter. Tell me," LaCroix added, his voice lilting. "Do 
you think I'm guilty?"

     "Do you consider yourself innocent?" 

     His eyes flashed thoughtfully, whimsically, for a second. "No."

     "Interesting, but you're still wasting my time." Tracy started for the door.

     LaCroix called mockingly after her. "My apologies for not standing as you see 
yourself out." After a moment's laughter, he tacked on, "Detective, one more piece of 
generous advice..."

     Tracy paused before the doorway and looked back. "What's that?"

     "You might be on guard when you speak to judges such as myself, but be equally 
careful what you say to or ask your fellow contestants. They are, after all, in a 
competition."

     Tracy said nothing, merely gave him a short nod and exited the room. <Beware of 
smiling men with helpful offers.> She'd wound up bound in a basement for letting her 
guard down around a less-skilled deceiver. Tracy consoled her battered ego with the 
memory that she'd come out on top at the end of that business. There was no use 
lamenting that she'd fumbled through the LaCroix meeting like an amateur and that 
Vachon's advice had done her no good.

     Still, she kicked her frustration out at the first patch of wall along the hallway. 
"Dammit!"

     Tracy sighed, then aimed for her next interview. <Oh, goody!> It was time for her 
audience with the lingerie model. "Just what I need to make me feel better," she 
mumbled. 

     <Three down, four more to go...>

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End of Part Six