Tabloid Trix Chapter 20
Peter Belden pulled into the long driveway at Crabapple Farm, and sat for a minute, staring at the farmhouse that had been home to generations of Beldens. The past couple of days were surreal. Not only was his son-in-law (and that title still brought on a bit of a cringe) plastered across a sleazy gossip rag, but his daughter was apparently some sort of second coming of Sherlock Holmes. He shook his fine head in wonder.
Brian was the calm, responsible, studious one. Mart was the wordsmith and joker – always a dangerous combination. Bobby was the athlete and mischievous one; he and the Lynch twins were incorrigibles. And Trixie? Trixie was in a different category altogether. His hands on the steering wheel of the car, he thought back to when he and Helen were expecting Brian. They'd never label their kids, they decided. The pretty one; the smart one; the troublemaker. Kids had a tendency to live up – or down - to what a parent expected of them.
And, of course, like most people who don't have children, all those lofty plans evaporated like the early morning mist once the babies actually began arriving. Maybe they didn't say so in front of the kids, but they each held a special place in his and Helen's heart. And they each had a label.
But Trix? Trixie was the one who blithely pitted herself and her best friend against hardened criminals. Whose quick brain could dissect and analyze a crime scene faster than a computer. Trixie, who looked more and more like a porcelain doll the older she became, and the rebel child who caused black fear to bloom in their hearts more than once. And gray hair to sprout seemingly overnight.
He and Helen never wanted to admit that their fondest wish was for Honey and Trixie to drop their notion of running a detective agency and you know, take something up more suitable in college. Like teaching. Or landscape design. Or basket weaving. Anything else but becoming detectives.
Now this. An unexpected visit from his daughter's employers (and when was she going to get around to tell them that?); a man greatly respected in the field of law enforcement who informed him Trixie was truly gifted. Peter did take Dr. Brietling up on his invitation to Google The Locard Society. After the pair left, Peter sat numbly for a while, and then began to research the principals involved.
He was extremely impressed with the work Locard was doing; extremely impressed by the founders. He couldn't help the swell of pride that rose up out of nowhere. They wanted his daughter.
Helen Belden was standing at the back door, had been since Peter pulled in. She watched as he just sat there for a long while, his capable hands on the steering wheel. Worried, Helen wondered if the whole magazine drama was getting to him. She scooted out the door, letting it bang behind her much as the children did. She chuckled to herself, happy that Bobby had practice today so she didn't have to pull out the old parental adage: do as I say, not as I do.
Her knock at the driver's side window startled Peter, made him turn his head and smile at the woman who caught his heart so many years ago. Her blue eyes were full of worry, although her lips were curved in a small smile. She moved away from the door as Peter opened it. Resting one slim hip against the side of the car, she searched his face.
Slinging an arm around her shoulders, he buried his face in her blonde waves. Both her arms slid around his waist; an automatic gesture of comfort. Taking a deep breath, he informed her: "I had quite an afternoon!"
One slender hand left its resting space on his narrow waist and found itself brushing back his hair in a tender gesture. "Why don't we go inside and you can tell me all about it," Helen invited him. "A cup of decaf and a bit of conversation. I bet you won't have as much fun reading The Wall Street Journal."
As they walked inside, Peter's deep voice was saying, "I found something interesting out about Trixie today…"
Montréal, Quebec, Canada…
After he got Livvy situated, he could not quash the excitement that was rising steadily in him. His mind was exquisitely crystal clear; all the colors and shadows of the world seemed so vibrant as his vision narrowed to two dimensions, as it normally did in these times.
Exquisite clarity came with a price.
He wanted, really wanted to go down to the cellar and play with his captive. From the moment they met for their picnic, he could sense her arousal. It fed his intensifying exhilaration and pleasure with his prowess. He could be anyone, do anything. He was invincible.
Becky wanted it to begin now. The change. But he was too wired. He'd end up hurting the new one and incurring Becky's sharp tongue. He needed…he needed to cut. He needed to dance with the slippery red stuff, let it wash over him like a healing, warm rain.
He settled Becky down with loving, soothing words. He was tired, he explained, and he wanted to make it perfect. Perfect for her. Mollified, she backed down, bade him goodnight. He crossed out of her room, into the hall and downstairs until he was sure her querulous voice had quieted for the night. Then it was out the back door, into the dusty, black and battered Chevy Cobalt. The Honda had been gracefully retired from active service.
By the time the sun was rising on the banks of the St. Lawrence, another family sat worried in their house. Their daughter hadn't come home yet. She was a good girl, kind and a bit naïve. As the girl's mother looked out over the river, stained red with the rays of the rising sun, she was spared the knowledge that the lifeblood of her daughter mixed in with the dawning of the new day.
He was peacefully sleeping in his own bed, nude, the waters of the St. Lawrence having washed off the telltale scarlet. A baptism, in a way. A fresh day where he would again see in three dimensions, not like before he played with his latest…thing. The blood geysered up from her jugular, a red, coppery shower; and suddenly he was alive again, and the world no longer resembled the flat picture of a movie screen.
He was alive, and the rest of the world, maybe the universe, existed to serve him.
Morning in the State of New York…
The blast text message from Matthew Wheeler to a certain group of people last night was simple and to the point: Strategy Conference, Sunday Noon, Wheeler Bldg. Board Room. It didn't ask for an RSVP. He didn't need to. He knew everyone would be there.
At OMG! Editorial offices…
Nanci D'Rue and Paul Trent finished up the layout of the next article. Her eyes glistened as she looked at the mock-up of the cover. Jim, with one arm around his sister Honey and one wound round the slim shoulders of the beautiful Diana Lynch. They all had a little smile playing on their lips. One that seemed to whisper of secrets and sex, if you were a certain type of person. And if you were that certain type of person, you could use your gift with words to whip others along that dark path.
Of course, the magazine would never bother to explain that the trio was busy watching Trixie get another half-hearted dressing down by that inept police chief in that little town they were from. No, the readers would be led by the nose down the path OMG! wanted them to follow. Secret Society of Billionaire Kids! What Really Happened in the Gatehouse!
The article itself had a pretty picture of the gatehouse the kids restored with their own earned money, but of course did not mention that fact. A few more blurry pix of the Belden contingent; a sharply focused picture of Dan in his black leather jacket. Only Nanci and Paul knew the picture was manipulated. The picture was old, dug out of Sleepyside archives, but updated with the more mature Dan's face, making it seem like he was still maintaining his old ties. He looked dark, and dangerously sexy.
The billionaires' kids and the gang member. Who knew what illegal pleasures he was sharing with them, teaching them? A bunch of wealthy teenage kids in a house in the woods with no supervision to speak of. It was the stuff a certain type of editor dreamed about.
"This week's issue is selling very briskly," Nanci smiled at Paul. "Not quite a sellout yet, but close to it."
"It's going to get even better next week, when we do the big reveal on Trixie Frayne." Paul rubbed his hands together. "Is Nick getting a lot of comments on the web?"
"Hell, yes! Traffic has nearly doubled." That wasn't saying too much since traffic wasn't all that much to begin with, but it was steadily climbing. Nanci suddenly frowned. "Do you think we should put the Trixie issue off a couple of weeks? We seem to be doing great with the unattached Jim. We might be able to go a couple more issues teasing the sex and drugs or booze angle in that little clubhouse they have."
Paul glanced down at the table, a sudden stabbing pain in his gut. He needed to think fast. "No, I think we should go ahead as planned. Sooner or later the gossip shows and other magazines will catch on to what we're doing. Let's get the reveal out there as soon as possible so we don't get 'scooped.' Besides," he said slyly, "The crazy ladies will just ignore the fact that he's married like they do with every other celebrity." He held his breath, waiting for her response.
Nanci's face was screwed up in concentration, mulling over what her star reporter just said. "You're right, Paul. Let's keep hitting hard on this. We don't want to allow anyone else to cash in so early in the game." This guy has great instincts. We'll go with him. For now.
Sunday at Noon, the Wheeler Building…
Bill Regan was standing at the window of the sleek black granite building that merely had a large brass plaque announcing the address. Forty stories up, in a conference room that nearly equaled the size of his apartment over the stables. He scrubbed a large, freckled hand over his face and had to chuckle inwardly. Here he was, rubbing elbows with two of the richest men in the country. Him, Bill Regan. It simply boggled the mind.
He rode into the city in a damn limousine, for God's sake, in back with his employers and their best friends. He would have been more than thrilled to sit up front with Tom Delanoy and shoot the breeze about those damn Yankees, but Mr. Wheeler cleverly maneuvered him away from opening that front door and instead, Regan found himself sitting in back with the big guns.
Damn, it made him sweat.
First to Crabapple Farm to pick up Peter and Helen; then onto the highway and into the city. Mr. and Mrs. Lynch would be meeting them there, as well as the kids. Chief Molinson too; the Lynches were bringing him.
Up in the boardroom, the Chippendale sideboards in the room were groaning with brunch. Eggs, bacon, hash browns; buttery croissants and all kinds of Danishes; tempting sliced fruits and yogurt; orange and apple juice and enough coffee and tea to float an ocean liner.
As everyone started to trickle in, one thing Bill Regan noted with a tiny tilt to his lips: nothing could keep the appetites of Sleepyside contingent down. Everyone, himself included, was filling their plates and a number of Mart Belden jokes were keeping everyone entertained.
The kids arrived in a big, noisy group. If Jim looked a bit pale and the smile did not exactly reach Trixie's eyes; if Honey's and Di's hands were nervously fluttering; if his own nephew's face was strained, no-one commented.
As they filled plates and bantered, Phil Ramsay and Garrett deYong strode into the crowded room, followed closely by three very large, very tough looking men dressed casually. Regan sat down, Dan sitting next to him with a filled plate and a clap on the back. "Thanks, Uncle Bill," he whispered, awed that this taciturn man would come into the City for him. Again. He knew how much his Uncle Bill detested being away from the stable.
"You're mine, Dan," he said gruffly in response. The two men settled back. Those words were as close as Regan could get to 'I love you.'
"Who're the muscle?" Dan hitched a thumb over to the big men, joyfully filling their plates with just about everything.
Regan shrugged his shoulders as Matt called the room to attention.
"In a few days, another issue of OMG! will hit the newsstands," Matt began. "I'm sure it will be as…flattering as the first issue. I thought we'd have this meeting here, in the Wheeler building, far away from possibly prying eyes and idiots with telephoto lenses."
"Dad, can't we stop them?" Jim broke in. Under the table he was grasping Trixie's hand. "Isn't there some kind of a law they're breaking? We're not celebrities or anything. We didn't ask for this."
Matt grimaced at the raw pain in his son's eyes. "According to Mr. Ramsay here, we can't get them for libel…yet." Why couldn't he make this better for his children? He had a gazillion dollars and he couldn't make it better. His gut was churning up vast amounts of acid.
Phil Ramsay stood up, noticing Matt Wheeler's real distress. "My name is Phil Ramsay, and one of the specialties of my law firm is going after publications such as this. Now, you all know me, and I know Mr. Wheeler here. Why don't you all introduce yourselves to me and Mr. deYong? Then you can ask me any questions you want, and if I can answer, I will. If not, I'll get back to you A.S.A.P."
The round robin of introductions went quickly, but it was Trixie Belden Frayne who caught the interest of Ramsay. The research gathered by the very expensive private investigative firm he had on retainer indicated that she was the lightning rod for this close-knit group.
And the other, unannounced fact that was brought to his attention…she was about to eclipse everyone in this room, money aside, when she was inducted as a member of the prestigious Locard Society in a few days.
And true to her nature, Trixie spoke up first. "Can you stop the publication of the second issue?" she demanded. "I am not looking forward to seeing any more pictures of my husband or my friends and family in that piece of trash." Or watching other women drool all over him either.
"Unfortunately, no." He held up his hand as the Bob-Whites began a loud grumble amongst them. "Can any of you look me in the eyes and state that the information contained in the article was untrue?"
"No, not all the way untrue," Diana piped up. "Just...just sort-of untrue."
"What I don't understand is why Trent is starting all of this stuff now," Brian ground out. "I mean, okay, he never liked us, Trixie especially, but why now? We never did anything to him."
"Quite simply, Brian, he's down and out. It's quite a fall from living in a small garden apartment in a charming village to a roach-infested transient hotel downtown. For that, he blames all of you," Ramsay's arms swept the room in an all-encompassing gesture. "He can't or won't blame himself."
"But why wait so long?" Honey asked pointedly.
Ramsay smiled at the pretty honey-blonde heiress and steepled his fingers. "A very good question. Why now? We asked that question ourselves. While we don't yet have all the answers, we have dug up a few interesting facts on Mr. Trent. After he lost his job at The Sun, he was unable to get a job in the legitimate press without references. You know, print journalism is giving way to ejournalism and broadcast journalism; even social networking sites. No self-respecting newspaper was going to hire him without a reference when they were letting talented reporters go. He began working as a stringer for OMG! and a couple of the other sleazefests because they were the only ones willing to take a chance on him. Although," Ramsay mused, "His forte was more the Crazed Albanian Albino Dwarves Ate My Baby type of story rather than pure gossip, although he did both. He did sell a few of those types of pieces to the more sensational press."
Mart snorted. "I'm sure he did, just as I am sure that he checked all the facts to make sure the story was 100% true." He looked down at his plate and briefly wondered what happened to all the food he had piled there, and stood up for his second go-round.
Trixie was absently rubbing Jim's knuckles as she listened to Mr. Ramsay. Her eyes widened in shock as she looked across the table at her partner. Honey took in Trixie's expression and she smiled at her grimly. "Go for it," she mouthed.
"So, Trent writes a few stories for OMG! and the even sleazier press," Trixie said. "Gets in their good graces."
Honey picked up the narrative. "He tells somebody there about Sleepyside and its wealthy citizens. Maybe he says he has some dirt on them."
"But they're not interested in some old guys – sorry Daddy!" Trixie shot a quick smile to her chagrined father. "So he says he has a bunch of rich kids, a former gang member and us Beldens, a pretty good looking lot if I do say so myself…"
"And they jump on the chance to print something out of the ordinary, something no-one else has," Honey crowed.
"Voilà! Their very own reality stars. Trent gets his revenge and a steady paycheck." Trixie smiled across the table at her best friend. There really was nothing quite like the Frayne-Wheeler Detective Agency in action.
Ramsay was so shocked that the two women reached the same conclusion in less than 30 minutes as his really expensive agency on retainer, he stuttered out, "No wonder Locard wants you, Trixie. I have no doubt Honey will be the next member."
Trixie's face flamed with that hated blush. "Yes, well, be that as it may, we have other issues to tackle." She hadn't told her parents or in-laws yet. Now it seemed her reticence was about to backfire as Matt and Maddie looked at her in askance.
Ramsay immediately recognized his gaffe, and covered up quickly, as lawyers with golden tongues were wont to do. "Chief, you and you men will need to monitor the activity on Glen Road. Kids, I need you all to carefully review anything that is published about you. If something is an out-and-out lie, you need to contact my office immediately. Even pictures can be photoshopped expertly. If they put your head, Mart, on Arnold Schwartzenegger's body, you need to let me know."
"Well, I don't know about that," Dan snickered. "It would be a great improvement."
"Yeah, I hope they paste your face on…on Pamela Anderson," Mart retorted.
Ed Lynch brought everyone back to the present with a smart click of his coffee cup on the inlaid wood of the table. Giving Mart and Dan what he hoped passed for the evil eye, but in reality was more like a stoner on the verge of passing out, his booming voice took the spotlight. "Anything else, Mr. Ramsay?"
Philip Ramsay shot a grin at Lynch, thankful the meeting did not degenerate into a snaps fest. "This is Mr. Garrett deYong, and he'll talk about your security issues."
Garrett deYong watched the young adults exchange confused glances. He read them well. Security? We don't need no stinkin' security. Oh yes you do, kids, oh yes you do.
"You probably noticed that one of the freight elevators in your building has been out of service for a couple of days," he began. "It's being retrofitted with certain security measures in order to ensure that all of you are safe when at home."
"But we have a doorman and alarm systems," Brian interjected. What more could they need?
"And that's wonderful. It's a first-line defense; but that's not enough." The big man placed both palms flat on the table, looked each Bob-White directly in the eyes. "Doormen…however nice, friendly and wonderful can be bribed. They can become reporters for the very magazines you are trying to avoid, reporting on your whereabouts, your fights, what food was delivered and what medicine the pharmacy brought in for delivery. Alarm systems can be bypassed, especially in an apartment building."
"I don't want to frighten you, but we have to realistic. Jim, Honey and Diana are children of very wealthy men. Jim is also very wealthy in his own right. Besides looking like an easy mark to the criminal element, now you're also going to have to contend with the mentally ill people who decide your picture is talking to them and that you love them. People are going to want you to invest your money with them, give them loans or outright handouts. My firm specializes in protecting people like you, who, through no fault of their own, find themselves thought of as public property."
"I bet you had more cell phones and cameras aimed in your direction in the past few days that you ever suspected existed. Have you been asked for autographs?" Jim flushed at that one, surprising Trixie. He never told her that. "Your classmates may become resentful. Or overly friendly. You may be accused of things you never did – paternity suits, for the men, I-had-wild-and-crazy-sex stories for both the men and women. Honey and Diana, if you wear a loose-fitting top, you'll be pregnant. You need to be prepared for all of this, and worse."
Jim dropped his head into his hands. "How can it be worse than what you just described?"
DeYong sat back down; he certainly had everyone's widened eyes riveted on him now. "Imagine a knock at the door, Jim. Your pretty wife goes to answer it, and the young lady on the other side simply pulls out a gun and blows her away, simply because she feels Trixie is in the way of her perfect love. Believe me, it has happened. If this story catches fire, you'll find paparazzi dogging your every waking moment. They'll be documenting every move, every expression, every morsel you put in your mouth. Whenever one of you talks to a member of the opposite sex, you'll be 'hooking up' with that person. Your friends, and I use that term loosely, will sell you out for the almighty dollar. People you barely spoke one word to in your lives will suddenly have stories all about you. Those stories are rarely of the gee-what-a-wonderful-guy variety." DeYong paused for a much-needed breath. "Now, back to the elevator."
"The elevator is being modified to go to the 14th floor and lobby level. Those are the only two floors it will stop on. The other elevators will not be able to open on your floor, unless a special bypass code is entered in case your elevator is out of order or there is an emergency. You will get in and out via a biometric lock. Full palm prints." He paused, knowing the hardest part was yet to come. Gesturing to the three large, silent men at the table, he continued on. "These fine fellows are your bodyguards. At this point, we only think we have to shadow Honey, Diana and Jim. We'll see if there is any escalation or threats after the next issue. So far, the Beldens have not been prominently featured and Dan got a few more lines, but not many. Trixie should be covered mostly by either Honey's or Jim's guy, but right now we don't see a threat to her."
Dan spoke up. "What about Kaitlin and Aidan? Can they be given security clearances, Mr. deYong?" He didn't relish the thought of having to ride the elevators twice in order to visit his girlfriend.
Matt glanced at deYong, saw the question in his eyes. "We'll discuss it, Dan." His firm voice closed off any complaint Dan might voice. He looked at his children and their closest friends; he would do anything in his quite considerable power to protect them. Even if it meant running roughshod over their feelings, which were very evident in the mutinous looks being cast his way.
"What about the stairs?" Of course, she would ask, deYong grinned inwardly. Locard's little prodigy.
"You can get out, but no-one can get in. Let me also mention one other thing; keep your shades drawn. You may be 14 floors up, but paparazzi with telephoto lenses up on the roof of one of the other buildings will just be waiting to catch you dancing in your briefs to Old Time Rock 'n Roll."
"Now," he concluded with a sharky smile, "Are there any questions?"