Tabloid Trix Chapter 9

Trixie let herself in to the quiet apartment, placing her bag down and leaning against the door. Skootching her head back, she cast her eyes towards heaven and blew out a large breath. It had been quite a day.

She ran a restless hand through her blonde curls, walking slowly into the kitchen. Jim was over in Jersey; he would be back in time to grab a bite at the Union and speed to his night class. She was on her own, at least for the next several hours.

Truth to tell, she was rather happy she was alone. One look at her face would send her overprotective husband into overdrive, and he would end up extracting the tale from her of Professor Masse's cavalier treatment of her and his sister. She idly thought that Jim was definitely going into the wrong field. He would excel as an interrogator. Opening the large refrigerator, Trixie stared at the contents, but her busy mind was conjuring up Jim's reaction if he should get wind of professor Masse's little 'tude problem.

It wasn't pretty. And she had no wish to bail her husband out of jail.

Nothing in the fridge screamed "Eat Me!" to her; she grabbed a cold water and shut the door. No real homework, either. Trixie wandered back into the living room; she was out of sorts and missing Jim. She briefly considered calling Honey, but quashed that idea. Honey was just as irritable as she was.

Especially after they met at the Union and Trixie related her conversation with Professor Masse. For once in her life, Honey wanted to call her father and have him use his influence to do…something. Anything. Her topaz eyes flashed with anger, and Trixie was secretly thrilled. An angry Honey was a hell of a lot better than a sick, victimized Honey.

They agreed to go through a few more classes; see what happened. If things didn't improve, or worsened, they would go to the Dean of Students. It was not an action they took lightly, but their careers were on the line here.

Trixie's eyes lit on the laptop from Locard. Jim wasn't home; now was the time to look into that magic folder named "Case Files." Logging onto the Locard intranet, she opened her first case. The folder revealed several documents and video files. She clicked on the one titled "Synopsis."

The case concerned a well-off couple, Jerome and Brenda Harper, living in a small town in Oregon. Jerome Harper was a respected businessman, operating a successful real-estate agency; he was also on the town council and taught Bible class on Sundays. Brenda was his second, trophy wife. Bleached blonde, big boobs, toothy smile. And much, much younger.

Micki Harper, the first wife, made out pretty well in the divorce, which was described as amicable. Trixie snorted her opinion of that. If she ever caught Jim fooling around, well, what happened next wouldn't be described as amicable.

Harper had two adult children, and an infant daughter with his current wife. He maintained cordial relationships with his adult children, while outrageously spoiling Brenda and his new daughter. They hired a Swedish au pair girl to care for Vanessa while he took his wife on lavish vacations or threw extravagant parties for the socially connected.

A couple of years into the relationship, the real estate market was tanking because of the recession, and Harper developed severe gastrointestinal problems. Brenda Harper, however, had not slowed down her profligate spending habits, and apparently, Harper did not have the cojones to set boundaries for his young, pretty wife.

As the market worsened, Harper's stomach problems became acute. He began to suffer from dizzy spells, shortness of breath and a general malaise. After suffering a several seizures, he was hospitalized. While undergoing a battery of tests, he suffered a massive seizure and finally died. The attending physician listed the manner of death as natural and the cause of death, digestive disease.

Micki Harper, the first wife, went to the police and demanded that there be an investigation of the death. Brenda Harper produced a will that left everything to her and Vanessa, and nothing to the adult children. Not only did Brenda inherit the faltering business, but a two million dollar personal insurance policy, all Harper's personal properties, and a key employee insurance policy worth well over ten million.

The police, while sympathetic to Micki's concerns, declined to investigate a death the physicians had determined as natural. It was a story as old as time; out with the old, in with the new. Micki Harper hired a private investigator, who did dig up a few interesting facts.

Brenda Harper was not quite the faithful, grieving widow she was portraying. In fact, she was partying it up in Cabo with the latest in a long line of young, virile, handsome lovers she entertained before and after her marriage to Harper. And the will that left his entire estate to her was signed just a few days before his death. The insurance companies had assigned their own investigators to the case, and were balking at paying off the policies. A court case was slowly wending its way through the judicial system.

Trixie clicked on the video links. The private eye and the insurance investigators had met and compared notes, and thought the whole thing was quite hinky. They had filmed interrogations they initiated with the key players, and Trixie concentrated on the grainy videos.

Micki Harper was angry. The questioners were pretty hard on her, but she maintained that the divorce was amicable. She was a realist, she said. Why spend the rest of her life pining after a middle-aged fool whose Barbie doll would tire of him soon enough? Regarding his illness, well, Jerry Harper was rarely sick a day in his life, she snorted. She didn't care about herself, but her kids were supposed to get something. She produced a copy of the divorce decree that had certain stipulations in it regarding their children, and his child, Vanessa.

The will did not match any of it.

The adult kids, Jerry Jr. and Annie, were grieving the death of their dad as well as the heartbreak of realizing he made no provision for them. But, as they both explained in separate interviews, they'd rather have him back than all the money in the world.

The young widow was able to sniff and sob through her interview, with her lawyer present, but Trix noted the absence of real tears. When they pushed her about Cabo, she summoned up a hurt, little girl voice. "I need to heal, the house has so many memories," she crooned, sadly.

Finally, the au pair girl was interviewed. They had arranged for a translator at the interview, as the girl was very nervous and scared. No, they had a good marriage, she told them. Never had arguments, although the make, or husband, was tense about all the bills. But the missus was devoted to him, even bringing him his daily mandelmjölk skälva, or nutty protein shake as the translator said, to the hospital.

Suspicion, innuendo, circumstantial evidence; a feeling by the family and the investigators that something was really wrong. But no direct evidence, and the DA declined to prosecute. Yes, there were the civil lawsuits wending their way through the justice system, as the private investigator and the insurance investigators stated in their letter to Locard. But it wasn't enough. They knew he was murdered. And they wanted justice for his family and the large insurance payouts to go to the correct recipients. Almost all states had a Slayer Statute, which prohibits a beneficiary from collecting insurance and other assets if the beneficiary murdered the insured. And they were damn sure the beneficiary murdered this insured.

Trixie rubbed her eyes and sighed. She had moved from the living room to their office, with the matching desks at opposite ends of the room. The clock on the computer astonished her…three hours had gone by in a flash. Her stomach rumbled loudly, reminding her the last time she actually ate was breakfast.

Dr. Brietling advised her to think about the case, organize it in her mind, and then ask the questions. She logged off of her work laptop, stood and stretched muscles unaccustomed to being still for more than ninety minutes. Jim should be home soon. She snatched an apple from the bowl of fruit displayed on the counter, and sat in the breakfast nook, turning the case over and over in her in her restless mind.

Quantico, Va.

The BAU, or Behavioral Analysis Unit of the FBI, was on Twitter. Well why not? Hell, the rest of the world was. God, somebody was even tweeting the raid on Osama Bin Laden's stronghold as it happened. What better way to keep up with the pulse of the people?

A few agents were assigned, full-time, to monitor Twitter activity. A sudden flurry of tweets from a podunk town in the middle of the country caught one agent's eye. A woman, found at a bus stop, dressed bizarrely. Dead. Old Harry the Barber losing his breakfast right in the middle of Main Street there! And the woman…she had no eyes. What replaced them was a pair of large, blue doll eyes.

The agent sighed, printed off the tweets. He took the printout to his supervisor, who looked up from her desk in askance. "It looks like he struck again," the man said solemnly.

"Who?"

"The UNSUB that was nicknamed the Dollmaker."They stared at each other for a moment, as he handed her the paper. She moistened her lips and stood. "I'll let the Director know."

She walked swiftly through the beehive of cubicles and activity, several people peeping up to see her set face. She knocked on the door of her supervisor; was bidden entrance. Holding the papers aloft, she said but two words: "The Dollmaker."

The man behind the desk scrubbed his eyes as if to wash out the images forever imprinted there. As the woman handed him the sheets, all he could think was Damn. He's out there hunting again.

At the Girls' Apartment…

Honey was sitting on the couch, feet propped up on the coffee table. Something she never would do at home, but here…here she was free to be herself. Di was flipping through the channels pausing every now and again but then moving on.

"It's true," she sighed, giving Honey a woeful look. "900 million channels and all of them are playing the same six movies." Disgusted, she hit the off button. "Has Brian called you?"

"Only about 15 or 20 times," Honey giggled. "How about Mart?"

Diana rolled her violet eyes. "Lost count. Either they're really horny or they really miss us." She pictured her handsome blonde boyfriend, and admitted sheepishly, "I really miss him, too." She didn't add anything about the horny part. TMI.

"I think it's a little bit of both. Horniness and missing. But we have to stand strong, Di. Although," Honey's eyes got a far-away look, "Brian has a great bod."

"What's Trix up to?" Diana really did not want to think about Brian's body, which would lead her to thinking even more about Mart's body. Or else she might be banging at his door at midnight, the hell with teaching him a lesson.

"I think Jim's probably on his way to their apartment now. He had a night class. She's probably either doing homework of looking at stuff the Locard society sent her."

"You know, we ought to have a Bob-White get together at least once a month. Make it like on a Friday night, say, the second Friday of the month. Anyone who is free could attend."

Honey warmed up quickly to the idea. "That's great, Di! We could have a pizza or Chinese, watch a movie, catch up. We could rotate the apartments, too, so everyone has a chance to host." She paused. "Maybe we can invite Aidan and Kaitlin."

Di chewed her bottom lip. "I don't know about that, Honey. I mean, Aidan was looking so longingly at Trix the other night, all I could do was hope that your brother didn't notice. Kaitlin's nice and all, and Dan is dating her. But you know jealous Jim gets…" she trailed off.

"I had dinner with him the other night." Honey said, arching her brows and smiling faintly.

"Who, Jim?" Diana crinkled her nose. It wasn't like Honey hadn't had dinner 17 million times with her brother. Big whoop.

"No, silly. Aidan."

Diana's violet eyes widened with shock. "You. Had. Dinner. With. Aidan. Oh my god, Honey. Dinner." A gleam came into her fine eyes. "And how did this occur? I can't imagine he called you up and asked you out."

Honey leaned back against the sofa and grinned. "As if. It was the night you were out with your CGI group. Brian was working, Trixie and Jim were doing, well, whatever they do that I don't want to even think about, and Mart and Dan were still at class, I think. I decided to go down to the deli and grab a sandwich and ran into Aidan. He decided to come with me, and we had a pretty nice time." Honey gathered her knees close to her chest and rested her chin on them. "It was kind of cute, actually. I don't think he wanted me to walk by myself."

Di leaned back and groaned. "Just what we need. Another overprotective male in our lives." A sly smile crossed her face. "And what, pray tell, did you two converse about?"

"Oh, a little bit of this," Honey said airily, waving with one hand, "and a little bit of that." She waved with the other.

"Hmmmm, let me guess," Diana mused. "All things Trixie?"

"Not so much. After all, I am her sister-in-law. It's not like he's going to tell me he has the hots for her, or ask me if she liiiikes him." Honey grew a bit more sober. "He had some words with Kaitlin and felt bad. He didn't exactly tell me what was said, but using my superior detective skills, I kind of guessed she took him to task about his ummm…obvious admiration for Trix in front of us all."

Diana snorted daintily. "Admiration? They probably had to call in Stanley Steemer to get the drool stains out of the carpet."

Honey rolled her eyes. "Anyway, I really do think he's trying to get over his crush or whatever. He told me he went out a few times with Leigh Michaels back home. He was so cute about it, like it was actual news. Obviously, the ins and outs of living in a small town have escaped him."

Diana nodded her head. "True, that. I almost expected The Sun to run a front page article every time Mart and I had a spat. So, is he still seeing Leigh?"

"Nope. Too cheerleadery, he told me. Waving her pom-poms everywhere. I guess he's just not a pom-pom guy." The wicked glint in Honey's eyes caused Diana to collapse in gales of laughter.

"Okay then, Ms. Wheeler. Aidan and Kaitlin are in. But," she cautioned with a wink, "Any bloodshed is on you."

Back at Crabapple Farm…

Peter Belden set his reading glasses aside. The Wall Street Journal was required reading for anyone dabbling in the wicked world of finance. Luckily for him, no one seemed too interested in taking over a small savings and loan in a rural New York town. He often suspected Matt Wheeler and Ed Lynch had a lot to do with that.

He went in search of his wife, surprised that she wasn't in the kitchen performing her sexy, homey chores. Really, she had to be the only woman in the country that made canning tomatoes in the heat of August look like the precursor to a spread in some skin magazine. He grinned at the thought. A naughty vivid vision of her flushed and glowing from the heat, slowly taking off one article of clothing at a time…just for him.

He bounded up the stairs, entering their bedroom. Strangely enough, she wasn't there. She wasn't in the upstairs bathroom. A small sob came from the direction of Trixie's old room. He pushed the door open, frowning. Helen rarely cried, yet there she was, sitting on the edge of one of Trixie's twin beds, with tears silently dripping down her face.

Peter crossed the room in two long strides, sitting beside her and gently wiping the tears with one shaking finger. "What's wrong, baby? Why are you crying?" He hated it when she cried. "Is it one of the kids?"

Helen looked at him with her drenched delphinium eyes, so much like Trixie's his heart constricted. "I miss her, Peter," she said, misery in her voice. "When they come to visit, they always stay up at the Manor House." She sniffled, leaning into his strong arms. "I miss them all, and the noise and endless hamburgers and even the darn kitchen door slamming shut every two minutes."

He bent his head and kissed her hair, his mouth curving into a gentle smile. "I miss them too, Helen. But this is exactly what we prepared them for – growing up, leaving the nest. Besides, we still have one chickadee left, even if he spends more time at the Lynches' house than over here."

"Ummm, Peter, Bobby's 12. Why do you suppose he's spending a lot of time there?" she asked wryly.

"Oh, God, no. Not yet. Girls. Can't you do the talk this time?" he groaned.

"Hey, I did my part with our girl." Her face crumpled again, remembering how she and Trixie had identical floods of vibrant red suffuse their cheeks during the obligatory mother-daughter talk.

"Tell you what. Why don't we put these old beds in the attic and buy a new queen-size bed and mattress for here? Redecorate a little. I bet Jim and Trixie would be happier to stay here then," he waggled his eyebrows suggestively. "After all, twin beds went out with Lucy and Ricky."

She had to giggle at him, even through her tears, remembering their first months of marriage. "That's a great idea, Peter. I'll go to Crimper's tomorrow and see what they have available."

"C'mon, then, let's go to our room." He pulled her to her feet and out the door. As she was turning to close it, a shudder ran down her spine. Mother's intuition. She couldn't tell Peter, not yet. But she felt it deep in her bones. Something wicked this way comes.

At Trixie & Jim's Apartment…

Jim let himself in, a bit surprised and hurt that Trixie was not there like she usually was, opening the door before he even had a chance to put his key in the lock; throwing her arms around him like they were parted for years instead of hours.

After locking the door, he followed the light into the kitchen, placing his bag on the sofa as he passed. And there he found her, his peripatetic wife, leaned back against the cushions of the breakfast nook, sound asleep, slumped uncomfortably against the cushions.

Her head was slightly tilted to one side, blonde curls tumbling about. Her beautiful face was soft and so very young looking in repose, he felt his heart just swell with tenderness. Her full lips were slightly parted and the corners tilted up. Jim leaned back on one of the stools; these moments when her boundless energy flickered down to a low simmer were few and far between. He was content to sit for a minute and just imprint this charming picture into his brain.

She was walking along a rocky beach in Oregon, alone, barefoot. Every so often the Pacific would wash up as far as her feet; the water was icy and she could feel the sand pulling away, being sucked back towards the sea.

A man started walking with her. She wasn't afraid. She had a lot of questions for him. "They think you were murdered, Jerry," she opened with.

"Well," he replied, "It's your dream. What do you think?" He had on a hospital gown, flapping in the breeze, and was holding a pair of slippers in his hand.

"I think you were a rat bastard for leaving your first wife and children for a Barbie doll."

He winced at that, then smiled, although the smile didn't reach his sad eyes. "Middle-age crisis. What can I say? I wasn't the first husband and I sure won't be the last."

"They think Brenda did it," Trixie said. "They think she killed you for the money. And that, my friend, means you weren't the first middle-aged husband killed by his young blonde bimbo for the money, nor will you be the last."

"Aha! So you do think she did it." He did a sort of lame victory dance.

They stopped walking and faced each other. "Did she kill you, Jerry?"

"You know I can't tell you that," he gave her a weak grin. "You read the reports." He tapped her forehead with one cold finger. "It's all up here, waiting to be put together."

"Fat lot of help you are," Trixie snorted. The slippers dropped out of Jerry's hands and into the ocean, bobbing further and further out to sea.

Jerry stared at the slippers, turned back to her. "Gotta go get my slippers, Trix, or else my feet will get cold." He started wading into the ocean, following the elusive objects into deeper and deeper water.

"Jerry, wait," she shouted at his back. He was already up past his knees, and all she could see was his exposed back.

"Don't worry, Trixie," he turned slightly and called back over the roar of the waves. The sky was darkening and the waves churning higher and higher. "I'm just going to get my slippers and have some of your Mom's Swedish Almond Bars."

A moment later, he disappeared under the green glass of a large wave, and Trixie watched in horror as it rushed towards her. The sand was holding her feet down, she couldn't move; she closed her eyes and braced for the impact of the icy water.

Instead of a frigid embrace, it enfolded her in warmth and love, gently rocking her, making her buoyant. Instead of icy fingers, she could feel the soft stroking of the water's tendrils, just like…

"Jim?" She opened up her eyes and looked directly into Jim's emerald gaze, just inches from her own. Instead of being cramped and stiff at the table where she fell asleep, she felt her pillow beneath her head and her body sinking into the softness of their bed. Jim must have carried me to bed.

Jim's lips curved into a gentle smile as he peered into Trixie's soft, slumberous blue eyes. "You know what, Sleeping Beauty?" he whispered, his breath warm on her face. "When it's time for us to have a family, I want a half dozen little girls with blonde curls I can tug on," he tugged on his curl gently, "And cutest dimples and the prettiest blue eyes." He kissed each of her eyelids as he spoke. "And I can carry them to bed and tuck them in when they get sleepy, just like their mama."

The corners of Trixie's luscious mouth turned up. "And what if I want a half dozen little boys with gorgeous red hair, emerald green eyes and lots of freckles to kiss?" she whispered back, stroking his hair, that one wave he never could tame.

"Well, then, I guess we'll just have to have an even dozen," he smiled against her lips before claiming them as his own.

Somewhere in cyberspace…

TO: .net

FROM: .edu

Dr. Brietling,

My name is Professor Luke Masse. I teach criminology at John Jay College. You may or may not remember me. I have written you several times regarding eligibility for membership in the Locard Society. I have also suggested that you may find it worthwhile to speak to some of my classes.

However, I am not communicating today about either of those issues. I have some urgent information about the misuse of a Locard Society Membership Pin. I would like to meet with you at your convenience to discuss this, rather than over the telephone or through email. This is a very sensitive issue I feel is best reviewed in person.

Please let me know the best time that we can meet and discuss this. You can reach me at 212-555-5785.

Luke Masse

Montreal, Quebec, Canada

His agent closed the deal on the house in Riviere-Des-Prairies for two million U.S. dollars. It was a newly built, Victorian-inspired red brick mansion, complete with swimming pool, huge solitary lot and access to the wooded areas of St. Helen's island right across the St. Lawrence.

His name was not mentioned on the deed. As far as anyone was concerned, the RJL Group purchased the edifice. His staff outfitted the interior to his specifications. If they wondered about their reclusive employer, talked lowly among themselves, he didn't know. Or care. All of it was part of the meticulously crafted persona he created: young, secretive genius inventor and investor. Rarely if ever photographed; but a huge benefactor of many charities and a supporter of the arts.

He pulled into the garage, stepped out of the vehicle and braced himself for the barrage of ill temper he knew Becky was going to fire his way once he opened the trunk. And of course, she did not disappoint, voicing the same outrage at being confined to the airless, dark space instead of riding up front with him, where she belonged.

He ran a slender hand through her blonde curls, easily lifting her scarred body. "I'm going to take you to your new room," he told her. "You'll feel better when you've had a chance to rest in comfort." He strode through the home and upstairs, not taking any note of the charming touches his decorators worked so hard to create.

He threw open the doors to a gorgeously female bedroom, decorated in white with counterpoints of gold and red. A huge canopied bed beckoned, filmy white curtains caught at the posts and the head of the bed stuffed with white ruffled pillows. French doors opened onto a balcony overlooking the river, and there was a separate sitting room with the vanity mirror covered in a discreet white sheet. She couldn't bear to look at her ravaged face.

"My bedroom is just across the hall," he informed Becky, whose complaints had died down in delight at the ultra-feminine room. They both preferred the Victorian method of relationships. Everyone had their own rooms, and no one mentioned anything about the traffic in the hallway at night. It was terribly bad manners to do so.

Her eye was closing, and he walked to the French doors, throwing them open, looking at the island across from them. "You need to hurry," she said in a tired voice. "I'm falling apart."

"I know. I promised."

"The last one was close, darling. So close."

"Yeah." He nodded grimly. He had been unable to stop himself from cutting the delicate white skin of the last Becky. The red just looked so…artistic on her torso and legs. He didn't tell Becky. She would get so angry with him. But it was so pretty.

He continued to stare out at the river. He wondered briefly if the new firm he had looking into the whereabouts of his sister had any success. He knew she was alive somewhere; surprisingly, looking at his father's accounts, he realized dear old dad must have squirreled away lots of money for Jody. To escape.

His hand fisted against the frame of the door. He would find her, sooner or later, and she would be punished for her part in Becky's disfigurement. As usual, any thought of his sister stirred up the agitation; the longings that were getting harder to ignore. There were lots of college girls on the island of Montreal. Lots of petite Beckys to choose from. He turned to her and whispered, "I'm going out to hunt." The problem was he didn't know if he was hunting for her, or for himself.

A/N: A tip of the hat to my two wonderful editors, Mylee and Grandma Cindy. They keep me honest and on track.

Stanley Steemer is the name of a mobile carpet cleaning company.