***
As soon as the door shut between Escher and the two of them, Kowalski broke into a victory dance, pumping his fist and ... well, the word 'shimmying' seemed to fit. Ray grinned at him and leaned back against the wall to give him space. Because, yeah, they had Escher sewn up and that was worth celebrating. They just needed to pick up his buddies to tie off the loose ends, and the case would be ready for the DA. Frannie tried to slip past them, rolling her eyes at Kowalski's antics. Kowalski snagged one of her hands to dance her around the narrow hall. No sooner had he reeled her in than he turned from vaguely ridiculous to ... not ridiculous at all. Graceful. Poised, maybe.
The grin slipped just as Kowalski turned back around to face him. Whatever expression was left in its wake made Kowalski pause, just enough for Frannie to tug free. She smacked Kowalski lightly on the arm.
"Some of us are working
here," she informed him pertly.
Kowalski was still looking at Ray. Ray looked away first.
The next morning, before they'd even said hello, Kowalski announced, "We need to talk to McDonald again."
McDonald? 'Again' implied they'd talked to him already, so Ray racked his brain for any McDonald they'd talked to once. "You mean McDougall?"
"Yeah, whatever, the farmer in the Geertz case. We got to talk to him"
"Okay, why?"
"It's the wrong season for sheep shearing."
Ray
stared at him for a long minute. He'd have sworn that the closest
Kowalski had ever come to a farm was the exhibit in Science and
Industry. Ray hadn't even thought to wonder if sheep shearing had
a season -- he'd figured it was like dog grooming, something you did
when they looked ratty or woolly or whatever. Kowalski put on a
belligerent expression, and Ray decided not to even ask.
***
Ray
knew the time was fast approaching five o'clock. He didn't even need to
check his watch, because his new partner was such an obvious
clockwatcher. Kowalski had been out the door on time almost every day
their first week together, and the one day their investigations
dictated otherwise, he'd disappeared around a corner for a minute, cell
phone to his ear.
Ray would almost think that Kowalski had
someone waiting at home, except his mood turned sour around four
o'clock. Quick(er) to anger and subject to slumps -- not the attitude
of a man looking forward to getting home. It was a mystery.
Good thing he was a detective.
"Hey, Kowalski," he said, careful not to appear to be paying any attention. "Nice catch with the brother-in-law."
"Huh?" Kowalski dragged his attention away from the clock. "Oh, that. Thanks."
"Buy
you a beer?" he offered and glanced up in time to catch Kowalski's
smile. He hadn't seen the full wattage version before -- you could
light up Wrigley on fireworks night with a smile like that. Ray smiled
back even as he realized he was in trouble. He'd always liked a good
smile.
But just as quickly, the smile was gone. "Nah, I can't. I've got this thing."
"This thing have a name?"
"It's not like that."
And
then Kowalski was gone, too, a whole fifteen minutes early. Dief yipped
indignantly and scrambled up from his preferred spot half-under Ray's
desk to chase after. Ray leaned back in his chair until the bearings
creaked and thought about following him.
Then he thought about
Benny. Benny tended to take a direct approach -- if he wanted to know
something, most of the time, he simply asked. Ray was amazed how often
it worked.
Direct. He could do direct.
Or he could detect.
Ray sat back up, and the chair screeched a complaint. It was past time to call Canada.
***
Ray
had put in a long night, but he still made sure to be back at his desk
before his partner in the morning. When Kowalski came in, Dief once
more in tow, Ray followed him to his desk and leaned against the edge.
"So,"
he said in a particular quiet, even tone of voice which had been known
to make people who'd known the Bookman find reasons to leave the room
-- but of course Kowalski wouldn't know that. "Have you heard from
Benny lately?"
To give the man credit, he had a decent poker face. "Yeah, he's good. Still treading paperwork up north. Why?"
"Well, I haven't heard from him in awhile, and I'm getting worried."
Kowalski shrugged. "You know how he gets."
"Yeah,
I know." He leaned down into Kowalski's space, and the hand he laid on
the back of Kowalski's chair cornered him between chair and desk. "But
I also know that the consulate hasn't heard from him either. They think
he's still in Canada." Kowalski shifted, and Ray froze him with a look.
"Frobisher says he came back with you. And I can't find anyone up north
that says different."
Kowalski's eyes went wide.
Ray nodded in grim satisfaction. "You've got one chance to tell me what happened."
Kowalski opened and closed his mouth a few times, like he couldn't choose the words. "There's no way you'll believe me. I
wouldn't believe me." He drummed his fingers against the arm of the
chair for a moment. "Come back to my place, and I'll show you."
Ray raised his eyebrows incredulously. "Right. Is that the last thing Fraser ever heard?"
Kowalski
rolled his eyes in a very put-upon and utterly unthreatened way. Then
he leaned back in his chair and shouted around Ray, "Frannie, tell your
brother I'm not a serial killer!"
"They say it's always the
quiet ones," she replied absently, attention on her computer. Then she
looked over and gave Kowalski a deliberate once over. "So he's probably
okay."
Kowalski made a face at her, then turned an almost
hopeful expression on Ray. "Come on, do you think Dief would stay with
me if I'd hurt Fraser?"
"Depends on how many donuts you have."
Dief growled.
He glanced down. "What, like you wouldn't throw either of us over for a pizza." Dief looked away.
Ray sighed and gave up on intimidating Kowalski. If he was talking to the dog, the mood was broken, and he didn't really
think he'd done anything to Fraser. He was just worried and low on
sleep and maybe still a little too used to dealing with scum. "Fine.
Let's go back to your hovel so you can show me why Fraser's
disappeared."
"Hovel my ass. You're just jealous I don't live at home."
***
Outside
the apartment building, in Ray's car (which was very much not the Riv
he'd left behind when he went to Vegas), Kowalski bounced his leg and
didn't reach for the door handle. "So, it happened out on the Quest."
"The Quest," Ray repeated, deadpan.
"Yeah, searching for Franklin's hand."
"Wait, whose what?" He was utterly lost.
"There's
a song; it's a whole metaphor thing," Kowalski said, waving his own
hands around in lieu of explanation. "Anyway. We're out there, in the
middle of godforsaken snow-where, and Fraser is just... happy, like
I've never seen him. Me, I'm not so happy, but I'm doing all right.
He's teaching me how to set up camp, how to pack the sled and run the
dogs, and I'm slowly becoming better than extra luggage, though still
not as useful as the dogs."
Kowalski opened the door and
half-threw himself out of the car, practically shutting the door on
Dief's tail. Ray followed them into the building, and he started
talking again on the stairs. "Fraser-- he just. He made a mistake. A
small one, except this is Fraser, and -- well, you know his luck. So
because of this tiny mistake, I'm scrambling to set up camp -- tent,
fire, get him dry and warm, and -- " He cut himself off, shaking his
head.
Ray waited, but Kowalski didn't go on. They left the stairwell. "And?"
Kowalski
shook his head as he unlocked the door. Then he actually looked at Ray
and took in the worried expression. "He's fine," he reassured. "He just
scared me." He sighed and opened the door. "Look, I'm telling this
badly. So, uh. Fraser?"
"Ray?" Benny's voice was strong and
sure, and after Kowalski's wind up, an utter relief. Ray sagged against
the door frame. Diefenbaker sidled past. There was a curl of bluish
smoke threading through the apartment, and that was weird. He hadn't
thought Kowalski smoked, though it wouldn't have surprised him much,
but he couldn't imagine Benny putting up with it. Then Benny appeared
out of the smoke, and only the door held Ray on his feet. The smoke
wasn't that thick -- he'd just appeared out of nowhere.
Benny
looked straight at him. "Ray," he said hoarsely, like him seeing Ray
was as much of a shock as Ray seeing him materialize out of thin
air, then shot a rather pissy look at Kowalski.
Kowalski held
his hands up, placating. "I know you didn't want me telling anyone, but
Vecchio's been looking for you, and it was either bring him in or let
him go on thinking you were buried out in the tundra somewhere." Ray
remembered how Pa's ghost sometimes stepped out of nowhere and wondered
if that wasn't exactly what had happened. Just because he could see
Benny, it didn't mean he was here and breathing.
Benny's hand
went to his collar and tugged. Since he seemed to be wearing one of his
raggedy cable knit sweaters, Ray figured it didn't really needed
loosening. "Oh."
"Yeah, oh. I told you people would miss you."
Ray found his voice. "So, you're a ghost now?"
"What?
No!" Kowalski wheeled around. "Jeez, come in and sit down before you
fall down." He shoved Ray into the nearest seat, a soft white sofa, and
knelt beside him. "Take a breath. Frase, the door?"
Ray heard the door shut behind them, but Benny was still standing before them. He shivered.
"Very helpful, thanks," Kowalski shot sarcastically at Benny.
He glared and looked ready to retort, but Ray interrupted. "You didn't answer the question."
His
attention drawn back to Ray, Benny had the grace to look contrite. "My
apologies. No, I'm not a ghost. Though it's interesting you jumped to
that particular --"
"Saw one once." More than once, because Pa
was pushy even in death, but he was not being led astray by the king of
sidetracks. He shrugged it aside. "If you're not a ghost, what's going
on?"
Kowalski answered for him. "Fraser's a genie."
He sighed. "It's pronounced 'djinn,' not genie. And only half."
"Whatever."
Benny visibly changed his mind about rising to Kowalski's dismissive response and turned back to Ray.
"Okay, so you're --"
"Half-djinn."
"But
that doesn't explain --" Ray cut himself off, flashing on time after
time when reality reshaped itself to fit Fraser's expectations. The
loans repaid to him against all logic, the dumpster dives he emerged
from spotless, the honest answers from suspects offered up after little
more than a disappointed look. Ray had always known better. Actually,
it explained a lot.
"And this is new?" he asked instead. Ray was
proud of that; it sounded much better than 'why didn't you tell me' or
worse 'why did you tell him first?'
"Of course not. My mother was djinn, though she chose to live and ultimately die as a human. It's part of who I am."
"Then why are you hiding out in Kowalski's apartment?"
Another
sharp look was sent Kowalski's way. "I'm not 'hiding out' in Ray's
apartment so much as trapped in it." Kowalski flinched, and Fraser
added, "Ray wished me into a bottle."
"I did not."
Kowalski stood, bristling. "You keep saying that, and I did not do
that. Did I say, 'Fraser, my friend, I would like to hold you captive
in a bottle?' No, I did not."
"You were fairly nonspecific,"
Benny agreed. Ray couldn't remember seeing Benny so openly irritated
with anyone but Turnbull. He supposed Kowalski got under everyone's
skin, one way or another. "That probably accounts for the rather
nontraditional canteen."
Kowalski threw his hands up and stalked out of the room.
Ray
frowned. "Back up. You told him you're part-genie --" he ignored
Benny's put-upon sigh "-- and, what, he made a genie in a bottle joke
or ...?"
"Ah, no. Not as such."
"Are you saying he did it on purpose?" Ray couldn't quite make that fit with what he knew of the guy.
"I didn't tell him. Not in so many words."
"Benny, this is exactly the kind of thing you have to say in so many words. It's not something you can imply."
"I
know." He sat -- practically dropped -- into the facing armchair. He
was angled towards Ray, but head down, resting his elbows on his knees.
Ray reached over and briefly clasped his shoulder, solid and the very
opposite of ghostly.
"What changed?"
His head came up,
concern and maybe hurt on his face, and that wasn't what Ray was asking
at all. "I mean, with the genie thing. I know I made wishes around you
before without any dramatic side-effects."
Benny's face took on a
faraway look, and he brushed his hand against his forehead. It was
different from his usual tics of discomfort -- softer, less abrupt. "It
was after we'd-- I'd subdued Muldoon, down in that old mine. I saw my
mother, just for the briefest moment. She touched me, here." He brushed
his hand across his forehead again, a remembered touch. "I felt
something change. I thought -- well, at the time, I thought it was
closure. A purely psychological phenomenon." He smiled, but without
much cheer. "It took Ray accidentally catching me to realize that I was
wrong. That my early memories of my mother and her abilities weren't a
child's confabulations of fairy story and memory, but literal truth.
And that the change I'd felt was my mother undoing whatever she'd used
to contain my powers as a child."
He sighed. "It was an accident, and I'm being unfair to him, I know."
"Then why?"
"Because it's so confining!" The words burst free. "I was home,
out on the ice, surrounded by the sky, and a few careless words later,
I was trapped in that canteen -- which wasn't empty at the time, which
just made it more unpleasant. Ray figured out how to let me out, but
even now I'm bound to it. I can't travel more than 50 meters from it indoors."
"How far outdoors?" Ray asked, curious about the qualification.
"One hundred and six meters."
Ray's eyebrows went up. "That's very specific."
Benny shrugged.
"Apparently,
genie have more rules than Mounties even," Kowalski said, coming back
into the room with a pair of pop bottles and a glass of milk that he
set before Fraser. "Of course, he won't tell you about them in advance."
"Well, as you say there are quite a few. And some are more... arcane than others."
"O-kay. You want to give me an example here?"
"'You
aren't allowed to wish harm on a badger,'" Kowalski said in a voice
that really sounded nothing like Benny. As an impressionist, he made a
good cop.
"Why would you wish harm on a badger?"
Kowalski looked at him. "Why wouldn't you? Those suckers are mean."
Ray
had no response to that, so he drank his pop in silence. It wasn't
entirely uncomfortable, though he wondered if Kowalski and Benny would
agree.
"So!" Benny said in his utterly false hale and hearty
voice. "I suppose you two had better get back to work. Crimes to solve,
people to help..."
Ray blinked. Yeah, it was still morning on a
workday, and they should get back to it before Welsh asked them to
account for their time. He stood up. "Yeah, you're right." He glanced
at Kowalski and back at Fraser. "You could come with -- I mean, if
Kowalski brought your canteen, right?"
Kowalski and Fraser shared a look. "We talked about that, but..."
"If my 'bottle' falls into another person's hands, he or she could gain control over me."
Kowalski shrugged. "Too risky at work."
Ray nodded and rubbed his temples. "Yeah. I don't want to imagine what Frannie might wish for."
Benny looked perturbed. "I'd been thinking more about the criminals."
"Nah, they just want money. Frannie wants it all."
***
Ray
and Kowalski were ensconced in Ray's car, watching Hofstadter's 'completely
on the up-and-up, really' place of business before Ray broached the
topic of Benny's... predicament.
"So, what exactly did you wish?"
Kowalski sighed and sank down in the passenger seat. "I said I wished I could keep him safe."
"And that was it?"
"Yeah."
"That's
stupid." Kowalski glared at him. "Not you -- I mean, this isn't what
you meant, is it? 'Keep safe' doesn't the same thing as 'keep.' And I
take it you can't just unwish him from the bottle."
Kowalski frowned at the guys unloading wooden crates from the back of a small truck. "No. Against the rules."
"Could I? I mean, if I had the bottle- canteen."
Kowalski
shot him a searching look, and it was his turn to look deeply
interested in the proper handling of probably-legal cargo. "Don't know.
We can try to get a straight answer out of Fraser tonight."
We? "Tonight?"
"Yeah,
you're coming over, right?" Kowalski fidgeted in his seat and turned
his attention back to the loading dock. "I mean, now that you know,
there's no reason not to. I could order a pizza. Unless you don't want
to."
"No fish and no fruit," Ray replied before he'd actually decided to accept the invitation.
"No anchovies, pineapple on half."
"Deal."
He stared at the now empty truck. "Do you think they're going to load
it with boxes clearly labeled 'stolen goods' any time soon?"
"No. Do you want to tell Welsh we ended surveillance early?"
"No."
They sighed.
"So how'd you know McDougall was lying about his sheep?"
"Fraser."
"Thought so."
***
Kowalski's
pizza guy met them at the door. Kowalski shoved the box into Ray's arms
while he settled the bill and argued with the guy over whether or not
pineapple ruined a pizza's artistic integrity. Dief met them just
inside the door with a great deal more enthusiasm. Benny took one look
at the box in Ray's hands and shook his head in evident despair. "I'm
beginning to wonder why you have a kitchen, Ray."
"You don't cook?" Ray asked, setting the box down on the counter.
"Too busy," Kowalski muttered.
Benny's
eyebrows drew in, and he looked ready to argue -- for Kowalski's own
good, of course. He stepped into the breach. "I could make dinner
tomorrow."
"You can cook?"
"Yeah." He shrugged. "It's
nothing to write home about, but yeah. I would invite you guys over for
dinner at Ma's, but..." He thought of one of the nephews getting a hold
of his own personal genie, and shuddered.
Benny and Kowalski looked equally disturbed.
"Plates?" he asked, and Kowalski shook it off.
Over
dinner, they discussed their current cases and told stories about past
ones. Ray and Benny were passing a convoluted story back and forth
between themselves, but Kowalski seemed to be having fun anyway. He had
to have heard most of it before -- if not from Benny, then from the
case files he'd been given -- but he didn't seem to mind. Ray caught
his eye as he was describing 'Ms' Fraser cutting a rug with him at the
school dance and got another bright smile, which had him tripping over
his words before Benny took back over the telling. His eyes lingered on
Ray, and his smile widened, before he turned his attention to Benny
earnestly explaining how difficult the wig was to manage.
Ray watched Kowalski.
After
dinner had been cleared away, plates washed and dried and put away,
there was little left to do to procrastinate. They gathered back in
Kowalski's living room again.
"Kowalski says he can't undo his own wish."
Benny nodded. "Even wishes have to have consequences."
"What about somebody else?" He cleared his throat. "Like me, maybe."
Benny
opened his mouth to reply, then tipped his head and frowned. "Actually,
I'm not sure." A bit of smoke wafted from the shelf on the far wall,
and a moment later, Benny was holding a book bigger than the phone
book. He started paging back and forth, muttering to himself under his
breath.
Ray shot a questioning look at Kowalski.
"There's enough rules that he hasn't got them memorized yet. I think it bothers him."
Benny
gave them something resembling a dirty look. Ray settled quietly back
on the sofa. The springs were starting to go; it'd be easy to tip
sideways into Kowalski. He leaned further back into the cushions.
Benny closed the book with a clap, and it dissipated back into smoke. "I can't say," he said.
Ray frowned. "The rules don't say?"
"Well, I admit there's a bit of ambiguity. But I meant I can't say."
Ray and Kowalski shared a look. Kowalski turned back to Benny and asked, "So should we try it?"
"I can't say," Benny replied.
"Most annoying man in the world," Ray muttered. Kowalski snorted in what sounded like agreement.
"I think we should try," Ray said.
Kowalski
hesitated and looked at Benny, whose face gave away nothing. He nodded
once, jerkily, then went to the shelf and brought back a canteen. Just
an ordinary looking camping item. He stood in front of Ray for a
moment, looking at it, then glanced at Ray. Ray waited him out.
"Okay,"
he said and thrust the metal container into Ray's hands. There was a
strange sensation, not painful but uncomfortable, like a sustained
static shock, followed by the full, nearly physical weight of Benny's
attention. He waited for the feeling to settle down, but it didn't. He
shook his head and tried to ignore it. No wonder Kowalski had been so
irritable about going home, if this feeling was lying in wait for him.
"Benny?" He'd only thought
he'd had his attention before. To be the center of all that focus was
intimidating, to say the least. He swallowed and kept going with the
wish he'd been turning over since the afternoon. "I wish you could keep
yourself safe."
There was a pause, long enough for Ray to worry
about the room he'd left for misinterpretation. Then the canteen jerked
and crumpled in his hand.
"Did it work?" Kowalski demanded.
He tossed the canteen to Kowalski. "Feels like it."
Kowalski
turned the canteen over in his hands and looked at Benny. Benny smiled,
broad and happy. "Yes, I believe it did, Ray." He got a far away look
for a minute, then refocused on Ray, though it didn't have the same
weird weight behind it. "And I don't think it could happen again,
though I am, of course, loathe to test it." He turned to Dief. "Are you
coming?"
Dief snorted and laid down.
"Alright."
"Whoa, wait, you're leaving?"
Benny's hand went to his ear. "I'm sorry, Ray," he said. And then he vanished.
Kowalski
sat down hard on the sofa. After a moment, still staring at the spot
Benny had been, he asked, "Do you think he's okay?"
"It's Benny; he'll be fine," Ray replied, hoping he was right. "He just needs time."
Kowalski
nodded, looking less than completely convinced. Ray sighed and stood.
As he let himself out, he saw Dief climbing onto the sofa to curl
beside Kowalski.
***
"Hey, Kowalski, did --" Ray glanced up and realized he was talking to himself. Again. If Kowalski called in sick for a second day, Ray was going to get a reputation.
It wasn't too surprising that Kowalski had taken the day off. He'd obviously been upset when Benny took off like that, without even a real good-bye. Actually, judging by the way they'd left things at the hospital, that was getting to be a habit with Benny. Ray hoped he hadn't picked it up from his own vague and inadequate phone call, but what else could he have done?
He started to ask Kowalski's opinion on it, then snapped his mouth shut again. Right, no Kowalski today.
Weird how quickly he'd gotten used to having an full-time partner again. Working with Benny had been great, but even if looking out for him sometimes felt like a full-time gig, Benny'd had an official job that could draw him away at anytime. So while he'd been used to seeing a ridiculous hat on his dashboard and a flash of red out of the corner of his eye, he'd also been used to carrying on in his absence. Cases had to be closed regardless of whether Benny was ready with the Inuit story for the occasion. Though he did seem to have one for every occasion.
And he'd had no one to inflict them on but Kowalski for weeks. Jeez, Kowalski must have them memorized by now.
Ray rubbed his eyes and slapped the file closed. He was so distracted by Kowalski's absence, he couldn't have even said what the case it was. Kowalski had better come back tomorrow.
Ray glanced at the clock. Screw it; he wasn't getting anything done anyway, and if he left now, he might beat the after five rush on the grocery store. He grabbed his jacket and headed for the door.
***
Ray shifted the bag of groceries to
the other arm and knocked again. "I'm not leaving, so you might as well
answer," he muttered.
"Vecchio?"
He spun around. Kowalski
had just come out of the stairs behind him. Dief sat down beside him,
mouth open and tongue lolling. "I brought dinner," he said holding out
the bag like it was Exhibit A.
Kowalski stared at him like he was completely insane for a moment. Then he smiled."Guess you better come in."
Cliché I: The Interruption
Certain acts have long been considered unbecoming of an RCMP official: falling off your horse during the Musical Ride, truly believing that you can find Prince Albert in a can, and not being able to locate Great Britain on a map were all things that consistently made the list. Most people would add using your office as a private location to engage in flirtatious acts with your subordinate. Meg Thatcher, however, would have to respectfully disagree for a variety of reasons, most notably because her office was used for that exact purpose on any and all days that her lunch break coincided with Constable Fraser's.
Which was, admittedly, every day they worked together.
Most days they were able to go about their business uninterrupted. Meg had a strict do not disturb policy in place for her lunch break, one which Constable Turnbull was usually quite good at following. Still, she and Benton had decided on a set of pre-determined code words, ranked according to potential imminent danger, just in case. But they had yet to need them, and were fairly certain they would not ever have to.
It was with this confidence that they let their lunches sit forgotten on Meg's desk while they made better use of their precious time making out in her office, mere inches away from the framed portrait of Queen Elizabeth II. Benton was leaning against the wall, using both it and the strength of his legs to hold both of them upright while Meg, in turn, leaned her weight against him. They were both still fully dressed, unfortunately, though he did have one hand slipped underneath the back of her dress shirt. His tongue tangled in her mouth while his fingers traced complimentary patterns on her skin, and Meg had her legs wrapped around his thighs and her hands tangled in his dark, messy hair, holding herself in position while she writhed against him.
Her Majesty would have been scandalized.
Somehow, despite the delicate genius of Benton's tongue in her mouth, Meg was able to keep enough of her senses to listen out for signs of a disturbance. It was this, her naturally superior hearing that was heightened by extensive RCMP training, that gave her enough forewarning to the fact that the knob on her office door was being opened.
Abruptly, she tore herself out of Benton's arms. "Timbits," she told him seriously, scrambling to seat herself behind her desk before the door finished opening, while Benton made a mad dash for the nearest closet.
He was surprisingly good at hiding himself away in one of those, Meg thought idly. He'd even managed to take his hat with him. She didn't have time to contemplate why, however, as her office door was all the way open now, and Constable Turnbull was cheerfully letting himself into her office.
"Ah, there you are, Inspector!" he greeted her warmly. "I've been looking all over for you-"
"Where else would I be, Turnbull?" Meg cut in irritably. She did her very best to glare threateningly while discreetly wiping her thumb across her bottom lip - just in case her lipstick was smeared.
That was certainly the wrong thing to say. Turnbull paused, tapping one finger against his chin thoughtfully. "Well, sir, that is a most excellent question," he began, and Meg groaned loudly, not bothering to hide her annoyance. It wasn't as if Turnbull would notice. "I suppose you could be at the hair salon, or out wining and dining visiting dignitaries. Oooh, or you could be undercover, with the mob, wouldn't that be exciting? Thrills and espionage and oh, just think of all the high-tech gadgetry you could be in possession of-"
"Constable!" Meg snapped. "Control yourself."
"Yes, sir," he replied meekly, schooling his face into an expression of serious concentration, and Meg was pleased to note that the Constable at least had the decency to look properly admonished for his unnecessary rambling.
"The reason you interrupted my lunch break, Constable?" she prompted.
"Ah! Yes, most exciting news, sir!" Turnbull was back to his exuberant cheerfulness in under two seconds. Naturally. "I've just collected the mail" - Turnbull had taken it upon himself to begin screening all of Meg's mail, in a roped off area of the Consulate while wearing a HAZMAT suit, after taking a required RCMP course about the sudden increase of mail bombings - "and it seems that you have been invited to attend A Good Proof is Proven: Why America is Wrong, a one night only event being held at the Chemically Imbalanced Theater on Irving Park Road next Friday night. The invitation describes the play as an evening dedicated to shattering the American perception of Canada, performed in the style of Jean Chrétien. Doesn't that sound thrilling, Inspector?"
"I can hardly contain myself, Constable," Meg replied dryly. Truth be told, she thought the play sounded like a right bore, but she had learned by now that disagreeing with Turnbull only made him even more passionate. And, considering the fact that he was already in the middle of his dramatic retelling of Jean Chrétien's rise to power, that really was saying a lot.
She managed to interrupt him with a blunt you're excused, Constable somewhere between the Kitchen Accord and Chrétien's original retirement in 1984, though it took another three and a half minutes for him to actually leave her office. It was obvious Turnbull had been fishing for an invitation to attend the show as her escort, but of course that was out of the question. Meg had no intentions of actually attending the play, and even if she were to suddenly decide to go, she would already have a date - the man hiding in her supply closet, waiting for the all clear code word.
"Zamboni."
Cliché II: The Surprise Guest Appearance
Somehow, Benton had convinced her to attend the play.
Meg wasn't entirely sure how he had done it, though she knew Benton could be a damn tease when he put his mind to it, so it was most likely something she had agreed to in the heat of the moment that he was of course holding her to because she had, in fact, agreed. He really was the most frustrating man on the planet.
She had asked him numerous times why he wanted to attend, but the only answer she had received was a vague "I've heard interesting things about the director's work". He wouldn't say anything more than that, so Meg had taken it upon herself to research the man. She hadn't learned much outside of the fact that he was indeed Canadian, and that not only was he directing the play, he was the writer and sole performer of the piece as well. An admirable feat, certainly, but Meg still had her doubts - his credentials were mediocre at best, a few plays in New Burbage that received mostly negative reviews. Reviews that included words like pretentious and illogical and contains flying zoo animals - but in the end she sighed and told Fraser to pick her up at six-thirty the night of the play. ("And for God's sake, Fraser, the dress code is black tie. Leave the flannel at home.")
She still wasn't overly enthused about attending, but Meg was pleased to see that Fraser had indeed worn a proper suit to the event, and their seats were in the front row, slightly off to the right side of the low-rise stage. They had arrived a few minutes early, so she studied the set critically while Benton told the other theatre patrons his life story in one hundred words or less.
The set consisted of one wooden bar stool and a milk crate full of items with no discernible connection that she could think of: hockey stick, yo-yo, Bedazzler, wooden train whistle, a small scale replica of the Mona Lisa, and a feather boa. Before she could even begin to wrap her head around all of that, the house lights fell and a tall, skinny man with thick glasses and erratic hair walked onto the stage. He was dressed in a black catsuit, with a Hawaiian grass skirt around his chest and a pair of red devil horns placed delicately atop his head. On his feet were a pair of jelly shoes.
Despite his haphazard appearance, the play was not all that interesting, and Meg found her attention wandering to the things she was going to have Benton do to her to make up for this monstrosity of a date. She had amassed quite the list (fifty-six items) by mid-way through Act VI of the play, when her interest was finally piqued enough for her to pay attention to the performance. It was at this point that all the lights in the theatre shut off and the man on stage took out a flashlight, then began shining it on unsuspecting members of the front row and theorizing on which King of Kensington character they were most like, proclaiming each and every one of them to be Gladys.
He did this repeatedly until he shone his light on Benton, which was when all hell broke loose. The man took one look at him and let out a high-pitched screech, then launched into a hysterical rant about audience planting and how the fragile state of the human psyche is only capable of so handling much stress. This was followed by five rapid-fire soliloquies from Hamlet and what appeared to be an Irish jig. The man then screamed and stormed off the stage in what could only be described as a snit.
The entire ordeal was met with stunned silence by the audience, most of whom initially thought it was all part of the play itself. Meg was included in that group; she'd been enthralled for the first time all night and hadn't realized the charade wasn't scripted until the man had pointed at Benton and shouted crazed swan fetishist!
"Is there something you forgot to mention?" Meg asked Benton warily as one set of the theatre lights flickered on again. She twisted around in her seat, glancing around the room at the crowd, all whom were now buzzing with theories about that wacky Canadian. ("It's the snow," she heard one old man say knowingly. "Makes them all crazy-like in the head.")
Benton shook his head and opened his mouth to reply, but was cut off by the theatre director taking the stage. The man looked very frazzled, Meg noticed, his thin, wispy hair mussed out of his distinctive comb over. In the background, a very off-key rendition of Corey Hart's "Never Surrender" was being performed, presumably by the director.
"Good evening," the theatre director announced loudly, attempting to be heard over the racket. "I regret to inform you all that Mr Nichols is rather suddenly not feeling well -"
Suddenly, the singing came to an abrupt end. "Not feeling well? Oh, that is rich! I am going through an existential crisis, and you make it sound like the common cold! Blithering American fool."
The theatre director cleared his throat awkwardly. "Right. Well. All tickets will be fully refunded at the box office" - it did look like saying those words hurt the man to the very core - "and my sincere apologies for the... inconvenience. Thank you, and good night."
The man scurried off stage as the house lights came back on in full force. Meg turned to Benton and found him staring at the now-empty stage with a look of utter confusion upon his face. "Did I-?" he started, then abruptly stopped and shook his head. "That was certainly odd. Wasn't it?"
"Very odd," Meg agreed as she got to her feet. "That's what America does to people, Benton. It makes them crazy."
Cliché III: The Happy Ending
When Meg awoke the next morning, it was to find herself alone and the other side of the bed empty and cold. She frowned as she sat up, blinking sleep out of her eyes and pushing off the heavy blankets. The apartment was eerily silent, almost as though she were home alone, but she'd told Benton repeatedly that he didn't have to leave first thing -
Halfway through that thought she noticed his suit was draped carefully over the back of her armchair, something he must have done after he'd woken up because Meg had certainly not been that careful with it the night before. Which meant that he was still here, as even Benton wasn't one to walk around outdoors stark naked unless it was an absolute emergency. Besides that, now that she was beginning to wake up, she could hear two voices outside her bedroom, one of which distinctly belonged to Benton.
Curious now, Meg slipped into her red silk robe, haphazardly tying the band around her middle, then quietly made her way out of the bedroom. The voices got louder the farther down the hallway she walked, but she still couldn't place the second voice. In fact, she was certain she'd never heard it before in her life, so what on Earth was some stranger doing in her apartment?
As she rounded the corner at the end of the hallway, she could see that Benton was standing at the door in his boxer shorts, talking to someone in the hallway, and that he was highly agitated by whomever it was - she was guessing a delivery boy of some sort, as she could see he was waving around a clipboard.
"But it's not even for you, pal," the delivery man was explaining, his voice laden with frustration. Meg could sympathize; Benton did tend to have that affect on a lot of people, herself included. "Look, can you just sign for this? I got a lot of deliveries to make, you know?"
Benton shook his head. "I'm sorry, but I simply cannot-"
"Gentlemen," Meg interrupted smoothly, coming up behind him and settling one hand on his back. "Is there anything I can do for you?"
"Yes, actually, this man-"
"Look, lady, I got a delivery that I'm assuming is for you," the delivery man - his shirt was embroidered with the name Phil - interrupted. "'Cause it's addressed to the gorgeous brunette who attends plays with irrational, overrated hacks, and I'm just guessin', but I think irrational is a fitting name for your boyfriend here." Meg blinked in surprise, and Benton tensed irritably next to her. "Can you just sign for it? Please?"
"Certainly," Meg replied, accepting the clipboard from Phil, who looked so relieved she was almost convinced he might cry tears of joy. She signed her name in the designated area, then traded the clipboard for the package and shut the door behind Phil, who had already made a run for the elevators. The parcel was light, and it was indeed addressed just the way he had said. In the from section, the name Darren Nichols was scrawled in messy penmanship.
She tore the paper off quickly, barely paying any mind to Benton's protests that the gift was inappropriate and potentially dangerous.
"First rule of being a woman, Benton," Meg explained as she tore the lid off of the box. "Never turn down a gift, not even one from a deranged actor-slash-director."
"I thought the first rule of being a woman was we can do whatever men can do," he replied, his brow furrowing in confusion. Whether it was from her statement, the fact that what she pulled out of the box was the feather boa from the play's prop box, or some combination of both, she really wasn't sure.
Meg rolled her eyes in exasperation. The fact that Benton was a noble and honest man was one of the many things that attracted her to him, but it also happened to be the thing that drove her the craziest as well. "Yes, well, that too," she agreed absently. "But all girls like presents. Especially ones that are both pretty and useful."
"Useful, really? Meg, it's a feather boa for crying out loud! I'm quite certain the only time those are useful is when one is performing in Las Vegas."
"Don't be judgmental," she admonished him, then let a devious smile spread across her face. She was pleased to see Benton swallow hard, looking simultaneously aroused and nervous by that. "This boa happens to fit perfectly with item number forty-seven on my list."
His eyes went wide. "List?"
"The one we started on last night," she reminded him, tossing the box aside and wrapping the boa around her neck. "The list of ways you are going to make up for that disastrous theatre performance."
"Ah, yes, that," he replied, stepping closer to her without seeming to notice he was doing it. "As I seem to recall, we got through a number of those things last night..." His voice trailed off and his breathing became shallow as Meg brought her hands down to rest on the tie holding her robe together, deftly untying the knot without taking her eyes off of Benton's face.
He was standing directly in front of her now, and she could feel her own arousal flaring up as his scent and his presence overwhelmed her. Yet somehow she managed to keep her voice calm and steady when she replied, "It's a long list, Benton. Luckily, we have all day." Without another word, she spun around on her heel and started walking back down the hall towards her bedroom, letting her robe fall to the ground about halfway there.
She didn't have to turn around to know that he was following right behind her.
]]>
There he goes again. Frannie props her chin in her hand, watching him. He's helping an old lady with her bags, honest to God helping a little old lady. His shiny black hair is perfectly combed, his movie-star face is kind and open, and his jeans and Henley are so crisp and neat, Frannie doesn't even care that they're boring. He's perfect. He's like a dream come true.
Or he would be if he knew she was alive.
Every day he comes in, looking beautiful and dashing, sometimes in jeans and plaid shirts, usually in a bright red uniform that makes him look like a shiny toy soldier. He often stops to help people--giving directions, carrying bags, escorting older people. It's not like it's his job or anything, it's just what he does. Then he buys a token, tips his hat if he's wearing it, and steps onto a train and back out of Frannie's life.
But it doesn't matter. He's her Prince Charming, and someday, she just knows that he will look up from his tokens, meet her eyes and fall deeply in love with her, and marry her and take her to Florence.
Doesn't look like that will be today, though. His smile is congenial but impersonal as he goes up to Frannie's booth and buys two tokens. Their hands don't touch as they exchange his money for her tokens, but Frannie likes to pretend they might have. Likes to pretend his good-natured smile is something special, just for her, not something he gives away thoughtlessly all day long to anyone he sees.
"Thank you kindly," he says, walking away with the tokens. He gives one to the little old lady, who beams up at him and pats his hand in gratitude.
"I love you," Frannie says softly, watching him.
The next person in line, an impatient executive type bedecked in suit, tie and overcoat, looks at her like she's nuts.
"Uh, I love... you... having exact change!" Frannie says, switching the man's bills for tokens as coolly and professionally as possible.
The man shakes his head as he leaves.
***
Frannie's Ma used to say, "You never know how life is going to turn out," and that was for sure. Frannie never would have pictured herself working at the train station on Christmas, the only one without a family to share the holiday with. It just ended up that way.
Then again, she never would have imagined her Prince Charming would show up on Christmas Day, give her that dazzling smile of his with the sweet little twisted tooth--the only crack in his otherwise complete perfection--and wish her a merry Christmas.
The station is practically empty--Frannie can pretend it's just the two of them and it's finally the right time for her to gather up her courage and tell him... tell him everything. Nice hat; Have a good trip; Oh, do you come here often?; You were really nice to that group of nuns and orphans; I love you; Will you marry me?
She's not sure yet which is the best way to go, but she's working on it.
But he just comes right up to her booth, trades his money for her tokens, wishes her a Merry Christmas and walks away before Frannie can pull herself together.
She's kicking herself and trying to calm down by picturing something soothing, like the color yellow, when she looks up and sees some punks hassling an old man over by the train tracks. Prince Charming steps in, but the punks just get more aggressive. One of them pushes him and he falls over the edge onto the tracks.
Frannie rushes out of her booth, passing the fleeing punks in her haste.
"Hey, Mister?" she yells, peering over onto the tracks. "Sir? Can you get up? Somebody help me!"
"I'll get some help!" the old man goes, but Frannie barely notices, because Prince Charming doesn't stir. He's just lying there, broken like a doll in the middle of the tracks. She panics.
"Hey Mister? Sir!! Sir, you have to get up now, please!" she calls.
He doesn't move, and she climbs down onto the track with him, trying to get him to wake up. She shakes him, pats his face--his skin is so soft!, calls to him, looks up and really panics--there's a train coming right at them.
"Oh, my God! Oh, my God! Sir, please, you have to wake up now! There's a train coming, and it's fast! It's an express, and--oh!!" Gritting her teeth, Frannie grabs onto his lapels and rolls with all her might. They tumble over and over, out of the way of the oncoming train, and they end up safely on the side of the tracks. Frannie tries to keep from hyperventilating--was that the bravest thing she's ever done, or the stupidest?
He stirs, opens his eyes--blue just like the princes in the storybooks--and looks up at her for an instant before he blacks out again.
Maybe it was the most romantic.
***
Frannie gets to the hospital as soon as she can, but he's already being taken to surgery and she doesn't know his name. The doctor insists it's family only, and Frannie looks through the glass doors as the terribly still form of her prince is wheeled away.
"I was going to marry him," she whispers.
A nurse finally lets her into his room after he's settled into the intensive care unit, hooked up to a frightening amount of tubes and machines. "Let him hear your voice," she says kindly, so Frannie talks.
"Hey," she says, sitting by his bed. "You're going to be fine, I just know it. And, uh, when you wake up, there's this little Italian place--um. This is probably the wrong time. I'll ask you later, okay?"
She's working through her pretty extensive repertoire of "everything is going to be okay" variations when a cop comes in.
"Excuse me, miss," he says. "I need to ask you a few questions, if that's all right."
"Oh, sure," she says, standing up.
She's just getting through her mostly useless description of the punks that knocked her prince over while the doctor bustles around with the machines, when there's a commotion outside the room, and a bunch of people come bursting in, followed by the nurse that first let Frannie in the room.
What happens next is hard to keep track of. There are cries of "Ben!" and "Take it easy, Dad," and "What happened?"
"Who are you people?" asks the doctor.
"This is my son!" says a gray-haired man in winter gear. "How is he?"
"He'll be all right, won't he?" asks a woman with a neat blond braid.
"He's in a coma," the doctor explains.
"A coma!" exclaims an older man with a heavy accent. "On Christmas Day!"
"His vital signs are strong, his brainwaves are good--I think he's going to get through this."
"He's so pale!" says a matronly-looking woman as she pets Prince Charming's hair. "Oh, Benton. Oh, my boy!"
"Ray is gonna flip out." A young blonde guy in a smart suit runs a hand through his hair, making it stand on end. "How did this happen?"
"Um, he was pushed from the platform at the train station," Frannie says.
Six pairs of eyes swing Frannie's way.
"Who's she?" the father asks.
"She's his fiancée," the nurse says, and Frannie's too stunned to say a word.
"His fiancée?"
"Ben's engaged?"
Frannie shakes her head frantically, but no one's even looking at her anymore.
"Maybe he was busy?"
"Too busy to tell his own family he's getting married?"
"Damien, don't yell at him!"
"I'm not yelling at him! If only Ray were here."
The older man sits heavily.
"Is he all right?" asks the doctor.
"It's his heart," says the young man in the suit. "Grandpa Mort's had three attacks already."
"They weren't attacks," Mort says airily. "They were episodes."
"Excuse me," the younger doctor who'd first kicked Frannie out comes in. "She's not supposed to be here!"
"Hey, buddy, she saved his life!" says the cop.
"Saved his life?" the mother looks up at Frannie with wide, tear-filled eyes.
"I thought he was pushed from a train platform?" says Damien.
"She jumped onto the tracks!"
"She jumped onto the tracks?"
Frannie nods sheepishly. Still not entirely decided where it falls on the brave/stupid/romantic spectrum, but hey, nobody got squashed so it all worked out okay, right?
"It's family only!" the young doctor insists.
Prince Charming's father straightens, pushing the doctor away. "She is family," he declares, and for one wild, crazy moment where the roomful of people is looking at her like she's somebody, Frannie almost feels like it could be true.
"Benton's so reserved about these things, so we didn't know," says the mother, walking up to Frannie. "But I always hoped he'd find a nice girl. I'm so glad he found you!" She hugs Frannie tearfully, and as Frannie feels two more people join in the hug her voice--and her good sense--desert her completely.
***
Frannie chases down the nurse afterwards. "Why did you tell them that?"
The nurse blinks. "Tell them what?"
"That I'm engaged! I've never even talked to that guy!"
"But you said you were going to marry him!"
"What, when they brought him in? Geez, I was worried, he looked pale; I was just talking to myself! Like, wishful thinking, that's all."
"Yeah, well next time you talk to yourself, just tell yourself you're single and end the conversation."
"But I--"
"Excuse me, nurse?" the young man in the suit comes by, hands in his pockets. "Is there a pharmacy in the hospital? My grandpa needs a refill on his heart medication."
"Of course! Just off the lobby," the nurse says.
"Thanks. Upsets like this are hell on his ticker. We were just sitting down around the tree when the hospital called about Ben and, well, Grandpa Mort's heart ain't what it used to be." He nods at Frannie. "Sorry, I don't think I introduced myself with all the fuss. I'm Brando Kowalski."
"Brandon?"
"Brando."
"Oh, that's... different."
"My many elementary school ass-kickings would agree with you. The whole thing is actually Marlon Brando Kowalski," he rolls his eyes. "My dad was a fan. But hey, it could be worse. My brother's name is Stanley Kowalski."
"I'm not sure that is worse," Frannie muses.
"Yeah, you might be right about that," Brando shrugs.
He heads off to the drugstore with a nod. Frannie turns back to the nurse, but she wisely slunk away before Frannie could finish with her. Nice.
***
She goes back to the hospital late that night. The family had wanted to know everything--how she and Benton met, if she'd stolen him from his former girlfriend (luckily, no one seemed to like that one), how Frannie had known he was the one--and somehow, the answers just seemed to roll out. Mort looked so sweet, and they all seemed so comforted to have her there, and when Bob took her aside and told her in his own kind of confusing way that she had saved them all just by being there for Benton and the rest of them... she couldn't tell them the truth. She couldn't.
And maybe, just maybe, some tiny part of her didn't want to.
But after everyone's gone home for the night she comes back in, sits by Benton's bed and apologizes.
"So, hi. We never really got formally introduced, what with all the falling and screaming and, you know, paramedics. I'm Frannie, Frannie Vecchio. I think you should know that your family thinks we're engaged. I'm really sorry," she tells his peaceful, sleeping face. "I didn't mean for any of this to happen. It's just, they were all--and then Mort's heart started acting up, and I--I couldn't. I just couldn't do it. Um, you look good! I mean, you always look good, but..." she leans closer, confidentially. "Do you believe in love at first sight? You probably think it's silly, huh? Well, pretend you do for a second. You don't even know what you mean to people, walking around, looking so perfect, helping anyone in need, tipping your hat and just--you don't even know. I didn't think men like you existed anymore, if they ever really did outside of storybooks and romance novels."
Benton is just lying there, pale and still, but Frannie feels heard in a way she hasn't in a long time.
"It's not like I don't get offers, you know? 'Cause believe me, I get plenty of offers. But not from anyone like you. And, okay, maybe not that many. But mostly, I just... I just want somebody to laugh with, you know? Somebody to love besides my cat. I want to... I wanna make somebody's day just by walking into the room."
Benton just keeps sleeping, lashes casting shadows over his cheeks, but Frannie sits there anyway, keeping him company. For an instant she thinks she hears a rustling sound outside the door, but no one's there.
***
Life goes on, sort of. The next day Frannie still has work and her apartment and her cat, but somehow it all just seems extra empty now that she's got Benton's family to compare it to.
She's staring at her frozen dinner--also known as Haagen Daz--cat hiding smugly under the couch, when she finally gives in.
Picking up a bottle of wine and some poinsettias, she goes to the post-Christmas Christmas celebration Benton's family had invited her to. Barbara welcomes her in with a warm hug, and Frannie closes her eyes and pretends it's her own Ma for a long, wonderful moment. Maggie takes her coat, Mort pats her hand, Damien claps her on the shoulder and calls her a good girl, Brando nods warmly and Bob--Bob just sort of smiles at her, a little sadly. There is a large, furry white dog in the living room who stares at her suspiciously.
"Dief's so upset about Ben," Maggie says, ruffling the dog's fur. "We can't even bring him to the hospital to see him because of their rules about dogs in the ICU."
Oh, he's Prince Charming's dog, Frannie realizes. She waits for the family to be distracted by the presents, sneaks a Santa cookie from a decorated platter and approaches the dog cautiously.
"Hey," she says quietly. "I kinda saved Benton's life, so, you know. We're on the same team. I'm just saying."
Dief looks at her sadly for a long moment, then takes the cookie she's offering. Frannie hopes that means it's a done deal and dares to scratch his ears. His fur is thick and soft.
"So we're friends now, right? There's more cookies where that came from."
Dief gives a quiet whuff and eats his cookie, and Frannie figures that will have to do. She sneaks him an extra cookie just in case.
"Do you have any family in the area, dear?" Barbara asks as Frannie's helping her in the kitchen.
"Not really," Frannie says. "My mom passed away last year. She'd been sick for a long time. My sister's brother got a job in California when I was just a kid, so I don't know them very well, and my brother has this undercover mission someplace they wouldn't even tell us about, so..." She shrugs. "I've got a cat."
"I'm so sorry, sweetheart," Barbara says, pulling her into another one of those hugs Frannie didn't even know she'd missed so much. "But you have us now."
She doesn't really, but Frannie feels lighter just hearing it.
***
Dinner is nonstop talking. They all take turns telling stories about Benton, how Barbara and his mother, Caroline, had been best friends as schoolgirls, how they'd kept in touch even when Barbara married Damien and moved to Chicago, how Bob had charmed Caroline into marrying him and moving to the Northwest Areas.
It all sounds like a fairy tale, until the part where Benton's mother died when he was six and he had to go live with his grandparents.
"Ben was thirteen when his grandfather got sick," Barbara says, serving Frannie more pierogi. "And that's when I was finally able to talk Bob here into letting Ben come live with us. It was the least I could do for Caroline, and Ben was such a sweet boy. He became a son to me and Damien both."
"Good influence on our little brats," Damien tops up his water glass.
"Hey!" Brando pats his tie, grinning. "Ray and I were perfect little angels, weren't we, Mum?"
"That's right, dear," Barbara smiles, patting his hand. "Deep, deep inside your hearts you were."
"On the outside you were a couple of little hellions," Damien jokes.
"Thank goodness our Maggie turned up here in Chicago a few years ago," Barbara smiles. "I always thought it would be nice to have another girl around the house."
"Take in one Fraser, you might as well adopt them all," Maggie agrees. "My own mother passed away a few years ago back home in Canada, and Barbara has been so kind. Dad and always I come visit Ben and the Kowalskis for the holidays."
Frannie smiles and nods and listens as the Frasers and Kowalskis bicker and tease and laugh, and she feels like she never wants to leave.
***
Frannie ends up spending the night on the couch, but she hears someone at the door in the wee hours.
"Ray!" Maggie calls out softly on her way back from the kitchen. "Did you solve the case?"
"Hey, Maggie," Ray hugs her. "Yeah, finally. Really coulda used Ben on that one, but we got the guy. Hey, who's that on the couch?"
"Oh, that's Frannie, Ben's fiancée. She's great."
"That's not Ben's fiancée," Ray says with certainty, and Frannie gets a sinking feeling.
"Sure she is. Wait 'till you meet her in the morning; you'll love her."
"Yeah," Ray says. "You know, I think I'm gonna spend the night."
"Yeah, well, I'm already in Brando's room, so you're bunking with Dad," Maggie says. "He snores."
"The snoring doesn't worry me, it's the caribou stories," Ray says as they walk up the stairs together. "Even in his sleep he tells 'em."
Maggie laughs.
Frannie waits until they're gone to open her eyes, but she totally, absolutely does not panic.
Much.
***
She's almost home free, sneaking out the door to wait for the cab she's called bright and early the next morning, when someone clears his throat behind her.
"Oh! You scared me," Frannie says. Her heart is going a mile a minute. "Good morning, Ray."
"Morning," he says. He's sipping a cup of coffee on the landing of the stairs as he leafs through the newspaper. "Coffee?"
Frannie shakes her head. "Oh, thanks, but I should really get going. I mean, I have work and stuff, and--"
A horn honks outside, and Frannie tries not to let the relief show in her face. She was once told she has very good stage presence. Maybe it's paying off?
"Frannie?" Ray stands.
She whips around. "Look, I know this is all--"
"Welcome to the family." Ray is smiling a little bit, and the soft morning light brings out the gold in his hair.
"Oh," Frannie blinks. "Thank you."
She dashes out the door, sending up a little prayer of thanks. Maybe she got a Christmas reprieve.
***
The Kowalski-Fraser clan is just leaving the hospital that afternoon, cheered by the doctor's reports that Benton seems to be improving, when she stops by to give blood like the hospital staff had asked.
She promises to come over for some cider later on and is just about to go to Ben's room when she realizes someone's still there.
Ray is pacing, but he stops by Benton's bed, looking down at him for a long moment. "Hey, Benton-buddy. I, uh. I just, y'know, stopped by. To say hello. Dief's okay, I took him home to Mum." Ray scrubs his hands through his hair just like his brother Brando, leaving it even more on end that usual. "I don't know what you're doing here. You're just--you make me so crazy sometimes, with the stunts you pull, and then you--well, you're gonna be okay. The doctors say you're gonna be fine, you're not--Anyway."
Ray sighs and drops into the chair beside Fraser's bed, then pops back up again to pace some more.
"So, uh, you're getting married, huh? You never told me that. You know you could have told me that, right? You could have told me. I always listen, don't I? Don't I always got your back?"
He stops at Fraser's side, adjusts his blanket, smoothes it over the still, quiet form.
"Known you my whole life, and sometimes it's like I don't know you at all. You're a mystery, Benton-buddy. A real, uh, enigma." He brushes his hand gently across Fraser's pale forehead, his temple and the dark curls of his hair.
Frannie shifts guiltily. She shouldn't be intruding like this. She's about to walk away when Ray turns, looking at her almost belligerently.
"What, a guy can't talk to a guy in a coma?"
"Oh! Well, sure. I mean, I've done it myself a lot lately, so..."
Ray sinks into the chair, deflated. "It's just so hard to see him like this. He's usually raring to go all the time, full of this crazy energy and good cheer."
"Yeah, he is," Frannie smiles. "And he keeps stopping to help and John, Dick and Harry who needs it."
"Even if they don't," Ray grins ruefully. "So what was it about him that caught your eye? Besides, you know, everything."
Frannie laughs. "Well, the everything is a lot. But I guess it was his smile."
"Yeah. That, uh, that's a good one."
"With the little--"
"Twisty tooth?" Ray grins. His own teeth are perfectly straight and even, Frannie notices. She looks back down at Benton.
"Yeah," she says. "I think it's kinda sweet."
"Yeah, well, don't ever tell him that, okay? Word to the wise." Ray frowns a little. "Don't know how you ever got him to go out with you in the first place, let alone propose. Ben's real shy around the ladies, usually, and, uh, you're not exactly his type."
Frannie draws herself up to her full, not-so-imposing height. "What's wrong with my type?"
"Nothing!" Ray says hastily. "Nothing, just... Ben usually goes for darker types."
"But I'm Italian!" Frannie tosses her, hello, dark hair.
"No--well, yeah, sure. But, you know. Dark. It's a thing." Ray shrugs. "Someday you'll tell me all about that, huh, buddy?"
Benton just lies there, silent. Frannie wonders if he can really hear them.
"I should probably go," she says. "I just stopped by to give blood, so. It was nice to see you, Ray."
"Likewise," Ray smiles a little, then nods and sits back down by Fraser. "Brought some cards, buddy," he says, pulling out a pack. "Thought maybe a poker rematch. I gotta say, I think your odds are low this time around."
***
"Ah, Francesca," Bob says as she's heading down the hall. He's wearing his usual heavy winter gear, complete with boots, parka and a fur hat. "I was hoping to have a word with you." He sets down a box full of mysterious objects and beckons her to sit by him in the waiting room.
"Oh, um. Okay." Frannie sits cautiously. "Brought some stuff?" she gestures at the box.
"Oh, yes," Bob says heartily. "The eagle feathers were the hardest part, of course, but luckily I always keep a sextant handy. Good whalebone is so difficult to find in Chicago, isn't it?"
"Tell me about it." She peeks in the box. "Nice rocks."
"River stones, actually, straight from the MacKenzie. I've got just about everything we need rounded up now, so, it's important to ask your intentions regarding my son."
Frannie blinks. "My intentions?"
"Yes, of course! I need to know if I should put in a good word for you." Bob leans closer. "Benton has been led astray in the past, in affairs of the heart. They're not really his strong suit, I'm afraid."
"Oh. Well, I..."
"Francesca," Bob puts a strong, work-worn hand on hers. "I should probably tell you I was here at the hospital that first night. I heard you talking to my son. I know you're not really engaged."
Frannie pales. "I'm so sorry! I'll tell everyone right away, it's just, Mort's heart, and Barbara kept crying, and--"
"Don't breathe a word of it," Bob says firmly. "You may well be the best thing that's ever happened to my son, even if he doesn't know it yet. After all, it's not just anyone who'll jump onto train tracks to save a man."
"Well, I couldn't just let him die!" Frannie exclaims. "Even if he wasn't perfect. I mean, that's like a civil duty."
Bob smiles, a little sadly. "I'm afraid I haven't been a very good father to either of my children," he confesses. "I didn't even know about Maggie until a few years ago, and when Benton's mother died, I just... passed him along like so much baggage. But I'm not going to let him down now. Do you think there might be any slightly more comfortable chairs in this place?"
***
"Hey," Ray says, awkwardly. "Good morning."
Frannie rubs her eyes, opening her door a little wider. "Timeizit?"
"Um, early. I have an engagement present from my folks for you and Ben, and I just wanted to drop it off. Sorry I woke you."
"Oh, I couldn't take anything!" She really couldn't.
"Sure you could," Ray says. "You don't even know what it is yet."
"Well, let's take it to Ben's place. I mean, anything would look better at Ben's place. I'm just gonna--" She jerks a thumb back towards her cluttered apartment. "I'll be right out."
Slamming the door in Ray's face, Frannie runs to her bedroom to throw on some clothes, washes her face, slaps on some makeup and turbos through her hair styling routine. She dashes out the door in record time.
Ray is outside, waiting by a U-Haul truck.
"Oh, wow! You got us a moving truck?"
"Yeah," Ray smirks. "Congratulations. Hop in, wise guy. You can see the goods at Ben's place."
Stifling a smile, Frannie climbs into the passenger seat.
***
Prince Charming's place isn't really the palace she'd imagined. It's a tiny apartment in a dodgy part of town, almost bare of furnishings but neat and tidy. Benton has a trunk, a plain kitchen table with one chair, and a twin sized bed. There's not much else. There are no plants, nothing living, no touch of personality anywhere.
It isn't the home of a prince; not even just the home of someone who doesn't think he is a prince. Part of her wonders if it's the home of someone who's punishing himself for something he thinks he did wrong.
Frannie stands in the doorway, wide-eyed.
Ray looks at her oddly. "You've been here before, right?"
"Oh, sure! Lots of times. It just... seems bigger with him in it, you know?"
He narrows his eyes.
"And, I mean, we usually hang out at my place," she adds. "It has... stuff in it."
Ray cracks a smile, and Frannie stifles a sigh of relief.
"Not really the kind of digs you bring the ladies to, I guess." Ray shoves his hand through his hair in that gesture he shares with his brother. "Fraser was never really one for having a lot of stuff, you know? And after his old place burned down in that fire, he went in for stuff even less. It was hard enough getting him to move into a new place at all. Took the whole family to force him to stop squatting in his office."
"So I guess he really does need a U-Haul worth of stuff?"
"Well, we all pitched in. Mum's been looking for an excuse to do this for years. Brando had to wrestle the credit card away from her at one point. It got ugly."
Frannie grins.
"Brando will help me bring in the new bed later," Ray says, gesturing at the forlorn, narrow little bed. "You can't tell me you and Ben ever spent the whole night on that thing."
"No," Frannie says truthfully. "No, we never have."
Together, they move the things into the little apartment, and suddenly it all begins to look more like a home. They argue over where to put every single piece, stub their toes on furniture, straighten each other's crooked paintings and laugh their guts out. By the time they're done, they're exhausted, sweaty and buzzed.
"Hey, you wanna grab something to eat?" Frannie asks. "I know a great Italian place."
"Sure," Ray looks surprised. "That sounds real good."
They end up talking till dawn, trading stories and laughing. Frannie hasn't laughed this much in a long time.
***
They end up getting together a few more times, after that. They run into each other in the hospital or at the Kowalski house and Frannie even helps Ray pick out a belated Christmas present for his ex-wife, who still comes over for Sunday dinner once a month--talk about a challenge.
Suddenly it's New Year's, and it seems a like a hell of a lot more than one week has gone by since Frannie temporarily lost her senses and did the bravest, stupidest, most romantic or possibly just best thing she's ever done in her life, jumping onto those train tracks to save the man of her dreams.
She rings in the new year with the Kowalski and Fraser clan, stuffed full of food and good will and Mort's killer hot toddies. Bob takes off shortly before midnight, muttering about the phases of the moon and the skins between worlds or something. Frannie wonders if he's just drunk, but the family assures him he talks that way sober, too.
Just before the countdown to midnight, she feels a sudden surge of elation, a subtle buzz of expectation that comes seemingly out of nowhere. She wonders if she should blame the hot toddies.
Frannie steps out onto the porch to get some air, hears the whole neighborhood begin to chant the last seconds of the old year. It was a kind of crappy year, she thinks. She's not sad to see it go. Things are looking up already, though, even if she feels a little like she's living on borrowed time, waiting for Benton to wake up and denounce her for the liar she's become, all because she can't seem to give up this family like any sane, normal person would have done long before.
But the new year--the new year is still fresh and untapped, just waiting for Frannie to make of it what she will. For the first time in a long time, she feels like she can.
Midnight, and the whole street explodes into whoops and cheers, the rattle of noisemakers, the toot of horns, the rapid pop of firecrackers and even the loud din of fireworks up above with their vivid explosions of sparks. When she turns around, the family has come out too. They are all laughing, hugging and kissing, and when Ray walks up to her, a question in his eyes she didn't even know she had the answer to, he gently sets his warm hands on her shoulders and kisses her.
It only lasts a second, but when they part Frannie feels flushed and short of breath and confused, and Ray's face reads exactly the same as hers has to.
The family swoops in then, and Frannie is kissed and hugged and patted on the back by Brando, Maggie, Barbara, Damien and Mort in quick succession while Dief dances around them, and she's a little dizzy and breathless but it's the best she's felt in years.
***
The next morning everyone is slow to get out of bed. Frannie shuffles into the kitchen to see Ray sitting there, hunched over a mug of coffee at the long wooden table, Dief curled at his feet. When she comes in he looks up at her and his whole face lights up for a moment.
"Good morning," he says.
"Good morning Ray," Frannie answers, and the moment disappears like a puff of smoke as Maggie and Brando troop into the kitchen, closely followed by Mort.
"And now you will be welcomed to an old Kowalski tradition, my dear," Mort pats Frannie's shoulder, smiling in perfect good cheer. "On New Year's Day we have breakfast, and this breakfast we make entirely without the help of dear Barbara, who cooks so much for us all year. So," he claps his hands together. "To work!"
Dief goes to keep Barbara company in the living room, and the family falls into a smooth rhythm, everyone moving to apparently pre-assigned duties.
Frannie claims sole control of the coffe-making process. "Excuse me," she says, "Is anyone else here Italian? No? Then I should probably handle this myself, okay?"
Damien and Brando are soon manning the waffle iron like pros, Mort sets the table and cuts some gratefruit to broil with brown sugar on top, and Ray does something experimental involving fresh strawberries and maple syrup.
Maggie is thoughtfully composing a fruit salad while Ray has moved on to squeezing fresh orange juice when the phone rings. They let Barbara answer it as they all put the finishing touches on their respective tasks.
Suddenly a jubilant whoop comes from the living room.
"He's awake!" Barbara rushes into the kitchen, flushed with joy, Dief barking happily at her heels. "The hospital says Benton's awake!"
The kitchen erupts into happy chaos. Damien and Brando start turning off burners and covering food while everyone else rushes out to grab their coats. Frannie is helplessly swept up in the tide before she can think of a way to get out of it.
"I know, I know," Ray tells Dief, ruffling his fur. "But you already know you can't come to the hospital. I promise I'll bring him right back, okay?"
Dief whines piteously, but stays back.
The family all jam into Brando's SUV, with only Ray and Frannie unable to fit.
"I should probably just--"
"Don't be silly," Barbara says. "You go with Ray in the GTO. We'll meet you there. Go!"
Frannie goes, but she looks longingly out the window as they pass train stations, taxicabs--any potential means of escape. This is it. This is when her house of cards comes tumbling down, and there's nothing she can do to stop it.
She sneaks a sideways look at Ray, whose knuckles are white on the steering wheel. "Listen, Ray..."
Ray stills.
"After today, things are gonna be different, you know? With Ben being awake and everything."
"Yeah," he says softly. "I know."
"But whatever happens, I just want you to know--you've become a really good friend."
Ray smiles, but he still won't meet her eyes. "You, too," he says.
"You let me become a part of your family, and I haven't had that for a long time."
"Frannie, what are you doing?" Ray sounds tense.
"Nothing," Frannie says. "I just... wanted to say thanks."
"Yeah, well, it sounds more like goodbye."
"I don't want it to be," Frannie says, miserably, but they're already pulling up to the hospital, just behind Brando's car.
Everyone jumps out and Frannie is again swept up in the mad dash as they rush all the way to Benton's room.
He's sitting up in bed, eyes alert, hair neatly combed and healthy color in his cheeks. Beside him sits Bob, looking tired but triumphant.
"Benton!" Barbara rushes over to hug and kiss him. "My son. Oh, my little boy."
Ben's color deepens, and he smiles happily. Maggie is next, then Brando and Ray, until they've all piled on, Ben's still form barely visible under them all.
"It's good to see you, son," Damien says.
"Does an old man's heart good," says Mort. "The holidays have not been the same without you."
Frannie just stands there on the outskirts, longingly eyeing the exit sign, when the family finally pulls back a little and Ben looks at her. Those clear blue eyes are just as perfect as she remembers, and even in his flimsy hospital gown he looks dashing. Her prince.
"Frannie," he says, and Frannie's jaw drops open. "You're here."
Barbara smiles broadly and pats Ben's shoulder. "Of course she's here. Frannie's been a rock through all this. I don't think we could have made it without her there, giving us hope you'd come back."
"Yes," Ben says thoughtfully. "So I've heard."
Bob carefully looks away.
"So, about our engagement..." Ben says, and Frannie feels the pit of her stomach drop like a two-ton rock. "We should probably set a date, don't you think?"
"Great idea!" Damien says, and everyone starts chattering about churches and color schemes and catering, and Frannie feels like she has just stepped right into the Twilight Area or something.
"You... you want to set a date?" she asks, just to be sure. "To marry me? Me, Francesca Vecchio?"
Bob laughs. "Such a kidder, this girl!"
"Shouldn't I?" Benton asks.
Ray's face is pale, but the set of his mouth is determined. "No, you should," he says. "Frannie'd be good for you, Benton-buddy. You deserve the best."
"You'd make each other happy," Maggie says softly. "That's a gift too large to squander--mine slipped through my fingers."
"Yes, just so. It has been... brought to my attention," Benton says, "that I may have been avoiding certain aspects of my life. I've had a lot of time to think, lately."
"You were in a coma," Frannie says.
"As you say," Ben nods. "I don't remember all of it, of course, but lovely weather."
Bob nods. "Crisp, clean, solid snow. Could sled for miles on that, with a good team of dogs."
"What?" Frannie asks, dazed.
"Will you marry me, Francesca Vecchio?" Benton asks.
"Oh, my God."
***
The ceremony is set to be pretty simple; Ben isn't the kind to go in for a lot of fuss, and Frannie... well, she used to dream of a big church wedding when she was a little girl, but that was a long time ago.
Barbara gives Frannie her antique gold watch to wear, Maggie runs to the gift shop to buy her a new floral arrangement for her hair, Brando lends her a blue pocket square from his suit jacket and the nurse who first accidentally outed Frannie's imaginary engagement, after recovering from her shock, borrows a white dress that's close to Frannie's size from the head of cardiology, who always keeps spare dress clothes in her office in case of emergencies.
Frannie bets she never counted on a wedding emergency.
She paces nervously out in the hall for a few minutes before she squares her shoulders, takes a deep breath, and walks down the aisle of the little chapel. The family is there, waiting for her, and Frannie bites her lip as she passes them by.
Benton is there too, standing at the altar, still hooked up to an IV drip but with Brando's suit jacket draped over his broad shoulders. He looks unreal; magical. Perfect.
Frannie stops.
"Everyone, I--I object!" she cries.
They all look at her, startled.
"You object?" asks the chaplain.
"Yeah, I... listen," she says. "I'm not who you think I am. I mean, I am who you think I am, but I'm not what you think I am."
"What?" asks Mort, confused.
"Hey, Mort, did you take your heart medication today? How are you feeling? You feeling good?"
Mort nods, so Frannie takes a deep breath and carries on.
"I'm sorry, but I can't marry you," she tells Benton.
"Frannie!" Barbara gasps.
"I'm really sorry," Frannie tells her. "About you most of all, but I--I'm in love with your son."
"Well, good!" Barbara says. "So what are you waiting for?"
"Not that one!" Frannie points at her Prince Charming. "That one."
Ray's face lights up like it did when she walked into the room that morning, and Frannie feels an answering burst of love in her chest.
"And we..." she turns back to Benton, who is simply standing there, expressionless. "I really was in love with you. Maybe I still am. But you were a fairy tale. I made you up because it was safer to love you and never speak to you than to meet someone real and try to make it work and--and I'm so sorry."
She turns back to the family, sitting wide-eyed.
"I never meant to lie to you. There was just a mix-up in the hospital that first day, and I wasn't quick enough to set things straight, and then I fell in love with you. All of you. I went from being all alone to being a daughter again, and a sister, a granddaughter, a fiancée and a friend. And I just couldn't let that go. But it was all a lie, because I'm--I was never engaged to you, Benton. I've never even talked to you before today."
There is a long, shocked silence in the chapel.
"I know that, Frannie," Benton says simply. "It's all right."
"I knew that, too," Bob says. "That's no reason not to marry the boy!"
"Me, too," Maggie says.
"And me," adds Ray.
"What? Wait, you--you all knew?" Frannie says.
"We're all cops, Frannie," Maggie points out. "It's kind of our job. But we figured you would be happy this way. You'd both make each other happy, and my brother hasn't let himself have that for so long."
"This is the craziest wedding I have ever been to," says the chaplain. "And I used to work in Vegas!"
"I'm really sorry," Frannie says, backing away from the altar. "I'm just... so sorry."
She walks away, and the family bursts into agitated chatter behind her.
***
Frannie takes a few days off work; visits her mother's grave and tells her the whole crazy tale, calls her sister in California, talks to a travel agent, takes down the little Christmas tree in her apartment. The season's over now. She turns off her answering machine.
She's back at work the next Monday, trading money for tokens, and it seems like years have gone by but it was barely over a week in reality.
Someone taps on the window of her booth, and she looks up from her token-dazed contemplation of the trip she's finally going to take to Florence next month.
The Kowalskis and Frasers are there, smiling widely. Diefenbaker jumps up, paws on the narrow ledge, so he can look up into the booth with a doggy grin.
Ray steps forward. "Hey," he says. "Would you maybe like to go out with us sometime? We could... see what happens."
Frannie gapes.
Ray smiles a little bit. "I used to believe in fairy tales, too," he says. He trades a smile with Benton and looks back at her. "So, what do you say?"
Ray, Benton, Barbara, Damien, Bob, Mort, Maggie, Brando and Dief are all looking at her expectantly, and Frannie can hardly speak through the knot in her throat.
"Yes," she says.
Author's Note: I adore "While You Were Sleeping," and this is my own little Due South spin on it. Hope you enjoyed!
]]>defenestrate (dee-FEN-uh-strayt) verb
To throw someone or something out of a window.
From the Latin de- (out of) + fenestra (window).
kerfuffle (kuhr-FUHF-uhl) noun
A commotion.
Of uncertain origin, perhaps from Scots curfuffle, from fuffle (to disorder).
infatuation (in-fach-oo-EY-shuhn) noun
A foolish or all-absorbing passion.
From the Latin infatuatus (make a fool of).
excoriate (ik-SKOHR-ee-eyt) verb
To denounce or berate severely; flay verbally.
From the Latin excoriatus (to strip, to skin).
bellicose (BEL-i-kohs) adjective
Inclined or eager to fight; aggressively hostile; belligerent; pugnacious.
From the Latin bellicosus (pertaining to war).
accoutrement (uh-KOO-ter-muhnnt) noun
An accessory item of equipment or dress.
From the French accoutrement, earlier also accoustrement. See accounter.
catalyst (KAT-l-ist) noun
A person or thing that precipitates an event or change.
Formed in English (an analogy of analyst) from Greek kata (down) + -lysis (a loosening).
competent (KOM-pi-tuhnt) adjective
Having suitable or sufficient skill, knowledge, experience, etc., for some purpose; properly qualified.
From the Latin competere (to be suitable).
]]>
Fraser lowered the eyeglass, and said one word to Dief. "Go! "
Dief
tore off, skating over the deep drifts which the man below them had to
plough through. By the time Fraser caught up in the thinner snow on the
steepening slope, Dief had him cornered, but he was still trying to
edge backwards and away.
"Easy there!" Fraser slowed. "I don't think you want to do that."
"Huh? I been running from you for five hundred miles, and you think I should stop now?"
He held out his hand placatingly. "Son, there's something I want you to consider. My father gave me one piece of advice. He said always ... no, he said never ... Well, actually he gave me two pieces of advice, and the first one is, never chase a man over a cliff."
The man frowned. "Yeah?"
"Obviously your father didn't give you the other piece of advice; so let me. You should never let a man chase you over a cliff, either."
The man looked behind him. "Oh..."
Fraser caught him as he toppled in a faint, one foot from the edge.
Two days later he steered the sled into Dawson City, grateful to see the flags flying over the RCMP outpost, but also somewhat regretful. His position as CO at Fort McPherson had sadly constrained him from the sort of endeavour he'd just undertaken: it was hard to reconcile the regular deskwork of a commander with a headlong chase through the wilderness, tracking down a malfeasant. Luckily, he'd already had a chance to fully brief his successor, Corporal Postlethwaite, before setting off in pursuit. It had only taken three weeks to catch up with the poacher: time he had to spare, since his posting to Beaver Creek would not come into effect until the beginning of the new year.
The young constable on the desk was rather surprised, he suspected, to have him stagger in with a man slung over his shoulders.
"Corp - Sergeant Fraser! They've been looking all over for you! Search and rescue and all the rest!"
By
the time he'd put the dogs in the kennels behind the station and gotten
the prisoner booked and in the holding cell, Constable Deane (or Evelyn
as her friends called her - Fraser spotted her name on the Christmas
cards decorating her desk) had recovered enough to hand him a stack of
telephone messages. "Constable Tetlichi sent these for you, Sir. In
case you made it this far." He could almost hear the unspoken addendum,
alive.
The first few were congratulations
from a variety of colleagues on his promotion. He tucked Buck
Frobisher's securely in his breast pocket, where he kept Ray Vecchio's
last few letters. The later messages, though, were a series from Ray
Kowalski, each bearing an increasingly pointed variation on the same
theme. The last one read, Get your tail over here!
He tapped the paper thoughtfully with his fingers. "Would you be so kind as to find out for me, Constable, if there are any more flights to Fairbanks this evening?"
At his knee, Diefenbaker grumbled. Absently Fraser fondled his ears.
"Stop fretting: you won't have to go into quarantine for Christmas. I took the precaution of packing the permit Ray got for you in with our things before we set off."
"Yes, it's highly likely that you are the only canine in Canada with an American visa. But that's no reason to brag."
"No, having a visa does not entitle you to a share in the Christmas pudding."
With a wuff of protest, Diefenbaker pointedly turned his back, so Fraser looked out the window again.
From
the tiny cockpit, the ground below was lush with forest in comparison
to the tundra around Tuktoyaktok, though Fraser suspected a Chicagoan
unused to the north would view it as a stunningly barren wasteland. On
the higher elevations, the fir trees gave way to rock, all blanketed in
snow. The lakes were frozen into ice; the solitary road was
indistinguishable from the creeks running between the trees.
The border itself was an irrelevance: there was no sign of man's artificial separation of one territory from another.
There
was a smell of pine and woodsmoke. The hallway was unlit, but a door
was ajar and light spilled into the darkened sitting room, along with
the murmur of voices in quiet conversation. He recognised Ray's voice
easily, yet it took him a second to realise that the other man was Ray
Vecchio. He had not heard Ray's voice for nearly two years. Fraser
stopped by the doorway, unwilling to interrupt what must be a private
discussion.
Dief, however, had no such inhibitions: he pushed through the door. It swung wide open.
Fraser stood, incapable of not staring.
The bed was wide ("big as a boxing ring," Ray had told him, waggling his eyebrows as if to suggest other ways they could spar, making Fraser laugh). In it the two men lay, bared to the waist, the sheets pulled down around them. One dark head against the pillows, one light. Ray Vecchio's hand lay loosely on Ray Kowalski's arm; they were turned toward each other, and there was such an intimacy to their postures, such absorption in one another, that Fraser's breath caught.
Then
Dief threw himself onto the bed, barking excitedly, and the tableau
dissolved. Kowalski jerked upright. "Dief! Dief! Down, you stupid wolf!
Fraser? Where - ?" A moment later he was flinging his arms around
Fraser, still stark naked, his embrace strong. "You coulda called, you
freak! Don't they got phones in Canada no more?" He forestalled any
answer by putting his mouth squarely over Fraser's and pushing his
tongue in. Out of the corner of his eye Fraser caught the movement of
Ray Vecchio getting up; but Kowalski was insistent, claiming back his
attention with lips and teeth and hands. There was a taste on him, one
Fraser knew from the times Ray had swallowed his semen and then come
back up to kiss him with it smeared on his lips; yet this was
intriguingly, subtly different. The taste, the smell - both made
Fraser's head swim.
It seemed like minutes before Ray pulled back. "Bet Dief's hungry," there was the expected yip of agreement for that, "so lemme feed him and stick this away." Quick fingers had already stripped Fraser's coat from his grasp. "Vecchio, say hello to the guy while I'm gone."
Fraser
straightened his spine and turned to face Ray. The things that struck
him immediately were how much Ray had changed - hairline receding, a
beard dotted with grey -
- but, even so, how much he remained the same. His eyes, so familiar, so dear. "Hello, Ray."
Ray had belted a dressing gown around himself while Kowalski kept Fraser occupied, and was hunched into it now, weariness, wariness and mortification in his bent shoulders: everything that Fraser himself would have felt in a similar situation. And yet...Fraser could have sworn there was an eagerness to him, laced into the apprehension. "Hey, Benny. It's good to see you."
"It's good to see you, too."
"Yeah?" Ray scrubbed a hand over his beard. "This is not... we tried to get ahold of you, Benny, honest to God."
"I know, Ray," Fraser said gently.
"And with Kowalski - It got out of hand so fast, you know?"
At that Fraser had to smile. "Things often do, with him."
"Knew you two would hit it off." Kowalski sauntered back in. "Hey, Fraser, I got a Christmas present for you. Wanna unwrap it? But you got to be real careful - treat it nice. It's kinda fragile still." He leaned forward and took a kiss from Vecchio, very fast, and then when Vecchio's mouth had dropped open in shock, he took another, long and slow and deliberate. When he pulled back, Fraser was breathing quickly; he supposed by the stunned look on Vecchio's face that he had lost his breath entirely. "Nice, huh?"
"Ray - " Fraser twisted a finger in his collar, still unused to how quickly arousal could come upon him.
With a wicked grin, Ray pushed Vecchio between the shoulderblades so he stumbled forward, stopping just shy of Fraser's chest. "I got him special for you."
Fraser could not let that go unchallenged. "Ray, I rather think Ray - Ray Vecchio, that is to say - might have his own ideas on the matter. People cannot be given as presents, like snowmobile parts."
At that Ray Vecchio seemed to recover his breath, for he held up his hands and said, "Hey! Wait a minute," spinning towards Ray Kowalski, "and yeah, that means you." When he turned back to Fraser, he looked deadly serious. "Yeah, he can't give me away. But he's just telling you what I shoulda told you years ago, if I'd had the sense to work it out myself. So I'm offering, alright?" Fraser watched Ray swallow, pupils almost obscuring the green of his eyes. "If you want it - if he wants it - it's yours." He pulled on the belt of the bathrobe, and let it swing open. Like a page disrobing his master, Ray Kowalski slipped it from his shoulders, and bared him to Fraser's gaze.
"Ray..." And now it was Fraser who had to swallow. He reached an unsteady hand up to stroke Ray's temple.
"Score one for me on choosing presents," Ray Kowalski said with quiet satisfaction.
Fraser was on his side in the center of the bed. Beneath his hip
there was a patch of damp: he'd rubbed a thumb over it climbing in, and
now the scent of it was on his fingers, and under his nose.
Kowalski had asked Vecchio, "You or me?" and Vecchio had said, voice quavering a little, "Better be you. I still don't know half of what I'm doing here," and then Kowalski had gotten into the bed behind Fraser and spooned up to him.
Fraser knew what was to follow. He was trembling already.
The bedsheets rustled, Ray Vecchio sliding tentatively in. "Hey, Benny."
"Hey, Ray."
Behind them Ray Kowalski chuckled. "Aren't you guys done with that already?"
But it was a re-establishment of contact that Fraser was much in need of, for he'd never - well, alright, he'd rarely - considered himself in this position, about to have sex with one man in the presence of another. The very thought of exposing himself so to a stranger was anathema. When that man was Ray, the thought made his stomach curl in unfettered excitement.
A prompt from Ray behind him, and he swung his leg forward, hesitating for a moment before resting his calf on Ray Vecchio's thigh. The fine hairs on their legs clung, tickling. Greatly daring, Fraser let his fingers follow, to skirt over thigh and hip and finally groin, Ray Vecchio watching him all the while with wonder in his eyes. Ray Vecchio's pubic hair was rougher than Ray Kowalski's: yet another difference to savour.
Ray Kowalski's long fingers began to work, and Fraser sighed.
He was being breached. Fraser's hands were curled into fists, his eyes screwed shut; he was aware of Ray Vecchio's fingers stroking delicately over his sex, and the contrast between the gentle, considerate touch in front and the sharp burn behind was more than Fraser could easily absorb. He groaned, pushing against Ray's hand.
"Kowalski." There was an undercurrent of anxiety in Ray's voice. "Take it easy. You're hurting him."
Ray gasped in at the end of his stroke. "Nah. Likes it this way. Specially if it's been a while." He pulled out, pushed back in hard. "Says he - wants to feel - where I was - inside." Fraser was helpless to stop his own whimper.
That was what fucking was. To show
yourself in your true colours: your perversions, your lack of control,
your overwhelming greed. It was disturbing that Ray Kowalski already
knew these things about him; distressing, that they were on such open
display to Ray Vecchio; worst, that the thought of both these things
made his heart pound faster, brought his orgasm closer.
"Christ, Fraser." Ray Vecchio placed his mouth on Fraser's, tongue licking in. "What you do... "
Fraser started to come. "Oh, Christ, yes," Vecchio whispered against his skin.
Long before dawn Fraser woke Ray Vecchio with his
tongue on Ray's penis, indulging himself in the soft sensation of it
growing to fullness in his mouth. Ray Kowalski was usually too sleepy
to allow him this pleasure so early in the day. Ray Vecchio sighed and
whispered drowsy encouragement, then curled up back to sleep against
Kowalski's warmth when Fraser was finished with him.
He took Dief for a walk in the fresh, sharp air and came back two hours later, bearing doughnuts and hot buns.
"I think I would like to join the Canadian section of your task force," he said, eyeing the excess grease on his bun (he had made the error of allowing Kowalski free rein with the butter knife).
"Huh,"
Ray Kowalski said. "You mean, instead of the posting to Beaver Creek?"
He looked like a little boy, with suger sprinkled on his chin.
"We need all the good guys we can get," Ray Vecchio said. "But you gotta have someone to vouch for you, Benny. The RCMP get a little touchy if we try and tell them who to send from their team."
Fraser felt his ears turn a little pink. "I think Buck Frobisher might recommend me. And it's just possible," he said carefully, "that my... recent escapade might have convinced them I'd be better off in another position. Something with a little more scope for - "
"Freaky weirdness?"
"Seriously strange goings-on?"
"Bizarro partnerships?"
"Wildly dangerous ways?"
"All out insanity?"
He put down the bun and wiped his fingers. "For creative policing," he said, and primly shook his napkin free of crumbs.
Fraser's wearing the serge, of course, and Vecchio bought a new suit for the occasion. Ray doesn't have to give a speech, but he wants to show that he means business. So he's dug out his dark blue suit - the one Vecchio says makes him look like a mobster, and Fraser says compliments his eyes. He's gelled his hair extra stiff, he's wearing his blue flip ups over his glasses, and he's standing to the right of the podium like a bodyguard, hands folded and legs wide apart.
Good thing he went for the flip ups. The glare of the morning sun on all those Mountie uniforms could give a man a serious headache.
Fraser's up first, on behalf of Canada. He doesn't use notes, but his briefing on the organisation of the new task force, how it fits in with the IBET mission and what section of the border it's gonna cover, is so clear half the guys in the audience are nodding their heads in agreement before he's half done. When he starts in with an Inuit thing, though, Vecchio coughs into his hand until Fraser gives up the mike. Vecchio's speech coulda gone on for hours, except Ray threw the notes for it into the fireplace this morning 'by accident', because he's heard Vecchio reciting it for the last month and it gets more wooden every time. Vecchio yelled at him and Fraser said Oh, Ray! a lot, but he figures the rest of the audience have more to thank him for than they will ever know. Vecchio's charming when he's operating on nerves and fear.
They have to schmooze afterwards, the part Ray
really hates. It's late afternoon before the fleet of fifteen-seaters
from Fairbanks land on Beaver Creek's tiny runway, and half the guys
vanish. The RCMP crowd disperses more randomly, some in buses for the
five hour drive down to Whitehorse, some in light planes up to Inuvik
or Tuk or Norman Wells.
A few poor suckers are staying overnight in Beaver Creek before facing the eight-hour drive across the border into Alaska, up to Tetlin Junction, then over the border again at Boundary on to Dawson City. Ray doesn't quite get how Fraser persuaded the IBET guys to authorise that ("A thorough inspection and reconsideration of the immigration post at Border is long overdue, Ray,") but he's sure Mrs Martin at the Beaver Creek Inn is grateful for the traffic this early in the season.
In fact, she smuggles Dief a few cookies as a thankyou. Ray filches one too.
Then the work is done, done, done, and they can go about their own business.
First
off, they wander into the hangar by the airstrip, where Bill Hutton has
his old Cessna 172. "How much is he asking, again?" Vecchio asks, while
Fraser peers into the engine compartment and Dief pees on the starboard
wheel.
"$45,000," Ray says, "US."
"That's
a thousand bucks for every year it's been around!" Vecchio says
indignantly. "What's he gonna do when it hits the hundred? Pay off his
mortgage?"
Fraser dusts his hands on his jeans, having changed out of the serge at the Inn. "The mileage isn't too bad for an aircraft this age, Ray, but the O-300A engines do need more frequent overhauls than the Lycoming O-320's they fitted a decade later. You'll spend a fair bit of time under the hood."
Ray and Vecchio look at each other. "No problem," they chorus. It's like being offered a great big Erector set.
By the time they climb back in the Jeep they've agreed that they'll offer Hutton $40,000 if he throws in a bunch of spares he has behind the hangar, and that Vecchio will do the bargaining. To each man according to his strengths.
It takes them three quarters of an
hour to reach the Alcan border, twenty miles north along Highway 1,
because Fraser insists on stopping to check in with the Corporal at the
RCMP post. The sun is low on the horizon now, and the temperature's
busy dropping down to zero.
Fahrenheit.
Fraser turns off up a dirt track that edges along the border for a mile, and then pulls in. To the west, the land flattens slightly, with a wide, bare patch where a rocky outcrop has been smooched by a passing glacier. Beyond that there are trees again, and once they turn off the engine Ray can hear the trickle of water.
Dief takes off when they get out, chasing the long shadows of a pair of circling eagles. "So where's the border?" Vecchio asks, hands deep in his pockets.
Fraser takes a stick and scratches a line on the ice coating the rock. "Roughly here, Ray. To within sixty centimeters."
"We can stick a windmill up there," Ray offers, pointing up to the ridgeline above them. "A shed for a hangar there," he gestures east, "and the cabin in the trees."
"Lots of timber," Vecchio notes. "No shortage of stuff to build with. How much of this would be ours?"
While they've been looking around, Ray realises, Fraser's been watching both of them, showing all the signs of being on edge. Now he tugs at his sweater neck and rubs his eyebrow, his usual tells. "Fourteen acres on the Alaskan side, Ray, and one hundred hectares on the Canadian."
"Huh." Ray's getting better at kilo-thingies and centi-thingies, but he still ain't so good on the squares. "That's what? Another ten acres?"
Fraser's getting real uncomfortable now, rubbing his eyebrow harder. "A hectare is two point four seven acres, so one hundred of them is about twentyfive acres - " Vecchio gives a low whistle, being not so geographically challenged as Ray, " - or about half a square mile."
Ray wants to sit down suddenly. But he doesn't, because the rock is hard and the ice is cold and his ass will get wet. "Half of a square mile. We could own half - three-quarters of a square mile, all in all."
"It's a great extravagance," Fraser says earnestly, "far more than we need. But it's the first pair of lots I've found stradding the border, much less this close to the highway; and the owner refuses to break up the parcel. We could afford both it and the plane if we took out a small mortgage. Given the size - it's quite reasonably priced, Ray, Ray." He looks from one to the other of them, like one of Dief's puppies begging for a turn in the harness.
And hey, that's all it takes; because Fraser never asks for himself and neither of them can ever refuse him.
Vecchio exchanges a secret nod with Ray, then they both look up to where the sun is dipping behind a distant, snowy peak. "Yeah, Frase. It sounds just grand."
"Fraser," he said to the desk, "I'm exhausted. I do not have the energy to be interpreting Mountie sighs. What's your problem?"
"I can't find my hat."
"That's tragic. Really tragic. How about I help
you look for it after I take a quick nap?" He settled in again. Come hell
or highly annoying Mountie, he was determined to catch some Zs before the Lieu
showed up demanding results on the homicide he'd caught yesterday.
"Understood," replied Fraser, but he
followed it up with another, even more heart-rending sigh. Lessons from Turnbull,
no doubt.
"That's great. Just great," Ray said,
lifting his head from the desk. "Are you sure you were even wearing the
hat today--uh, yesterday? I don't remember you wearing the hat."
"You haven't slept since yesterday. You don't
even remember where your desk is."
"Hardy-har-har. My desk is right here," he
said, pointing, "where my head should be." He started lowering his
head back onto said desk. Fraser was perfectly capable of finding his own damn
hat.
"Actually, you're seated at Detective Dewey's
desk. I find it an odd choice, considering how often you complain of his
personal hygiene."
Ray jumped up and started brushing Dewey germs off
himself. "Aw, dammit, Fraser. You knew I was touching that disease
factory, and you didn't tell me? That is not buddies. Goddammit--I put my face
on it. I'm probably going to get face Ebola."
"It's very unlikely Detective Dewey has
contracted Ebola. I spoke with him for several minutes earlier. He wasn't
exhibiting any observable symptoms. I suppose he could still be in the
incubation period, or perhaps, he's just being unusually stoic about the
initial symptoms which are much like the common flu. If he begins vomiting
excessively or exhibits a maculopapular rash--"
"OK! Aright! I'll help you find the damn
hat."
"Thank you, Ray." Fraser smiled his most
benign, Canadian smile, but Ray wasn't fooled.
"Damn, passive-aggressive..."
"What was that?" asked Fraser, innocently.
Ray made a face. "I said, 'You're welcome. Can't
wait to assist you in this noble endeavor.'" He smiled meanly, then went
back to scowling. "Where's the last place you saw it? Allegedly."
"There. On your desk," said Fraser. He
looked at Ray pointedly. Then back at the desk. Then back to Ray.
"What? I didn't take it."
Fraser said nothing in reply, merely raising an eyebrow.
Ray crossed his arms and glared back at him. Two could play that
game.
"Perhaps
you moved it while looking for something? Your desk is somewhat...organizationally
challenged."
"I
didn't move your hat. I didn't touch your hat. I didn't see your hat."
"I left it on your desk."
"I didn't steal your hat, crazy Mountie."
"I didn't say you stole it, Ray. But perhaps as
one of your funny American jokes--"
"You got me, Frase. I was keeling over exhausted
from investigating Mrs. Thelma O'Grady's murder for most of the day and
interrogating her scumbag son-in-law half the night and then, on my way to
la-la-land, I decided 'hey, I'll play a quick game of Stash the Stetson before
I pass out on Dewey's desk.'" He stuck his hands out. "Cuff me. Take
me away. I confess!" Maybe he could sleep in his cell.
Fraser blinked. "You need sleep, Ray."
"Ya think?"
"I do indeed." Fraser stepped forward and
placed a reassuring hand on his arm. "As soon as we find my hat, you can
take a nap."
"You're a real pal."
"Thank you, Ray. I consider you to be a 'pal' as
well. Now, I think it's best if we begin our investigation by retracing my
steps..."
* *
"While you were guiding Mr. Hayden through
booking," said Fraser, "I was logging in the knife we recovered from his
toaster."
"Uh-huh," said Ray absently. Before
following Fraser into the evidence lock-up, he stopped to shake himself awake
and straighten his hair. Officer Pineda was on duty. She had long, curly, red
hair that she pulled back in a sexy Librarian bun when she was at work, and
best of all, Ray had smiled at her twice
since she was transferred to the 27 and hadn't gotten the stink-eye in return.
Ray strolled into the room, real casual-like and gave
Pineda his
best I'm-a-competent-professional-and-a-sexy-bad-boy-action-hero-detective
smile. She smiled back, and he did an internal victory dance. Now he just had
to make it to her desk and ask her out without making an idiot of himself. Or
Fraser making an idiot of him. He glanced over at Fraser...who was on his hands
and knees in the corner, sniffing the floor.
Ray rushed over and yanked him up. "Fraser," he
hissed, "Don't embarrass me in front of the pretty lady."
"Can I embarrass you in front of women you don't find
attractive?" whispered Fraser.
"Yes!" he whispered back, "Just act normal for the
next five minutes until I get Pineda to agree to go out with me, then you can
sniff garbage, lick dirty floors and talk to the air--and Dief--all you want.
Cross my heart."
Fraser shook his head. "I'm afraid I can't in good
conscience accept your offer."
"Why not?" Ray thought it was a pretty good bargain.
"I'm not entirely clear on what you consider normal," answered
Fraser.
Behind them, Pineda burst out laughing. They both
whipped around.
"Uh. Hehe. I guess sound travels in this... small room,"
said Ray, "And you're not deaf, and that's good--not that I got anything against
the deaf." Shit! He couldn't stop talking! "I love the deaf--I mean I like them
just fine. I like them the amount it's normal to like them. I mean--
"I believe Detective Vecchio is trying to say he finds
you very attractive and intelligent, as well as a fine officer, and
he would be honored if you would agree to accompany him to dinner and dancing
at your earliest convenience," said Fraser.
"Uh. Yeah. What he said." Ray tipped his head toward
Fraser.
"Dinner and
dancing? I could hardly turn down such an opportunity," Pineda said, still
grinning. "How about this Friday? Say,
"It's a date," said Ray. "And I swear I'll have my
mouth working again by then. Probably."
"I hope so," she replied and gave Ray a look that he
was kind of embarrassed and kind of proud to know Fraser was also seeing. They stared at each other a
few more moments, until Fraser, who Ray noticed was looking a little red in the
face, killed the moment.
"Have--have you seen my hat? I may have inadvertently
set it down in here approximately ten-twenty-two yesterday evening while you
were helping me log in the evidence from case 98-004792. It's a size 7, 1/8
official RCMP Stetson. Light tan, flat-brimmed, 100% felt with--"
"Fraser, she knows what your hat looks like. Everyone
knows what your hat looks like."
"Sorry, Constable. I haven't seen it." She smiled
again. Ray really liked her smile. He'd like to see it in a more intimate-type
setting.
"Are you quite certain? Perhaps it was mistaken for
evidence and logged in."
Ray snapped out of his daydream. "Fraser, no one
mistook your hat for evidence."
"How can you be sure of that?" replied Fraser.
Ray opened his mouth, then closed it and threw up his
hands. Sometimes,
it was best to accept the inevitable with Fraser. It usually saved him a
lecture on proper procedure or an Eskimo story, sometimes both.
And so he waited twenty minutes, leaning against the
wall, trying to sleep standing up, while Pineda very patiently checked all
twenty-six evidence boxes that had been logged in since Fraser's visit.
Fraser's hat wasn't in any of them--of
course--and when she emerged from the back room with Fraser, Pineda's
formerly brilliant smile was showing signs of strain.
"Hey...so...
"Thank you, Officer," said Fraser. "I'm impressed with
your dedication to duty. I feel confident it's safe to depart for the next
destination on our agenda." The last words were shouted in Pineda's general direction from the
hallway.
"Which is?" Ray sighed.
"The men's rest room."
"The bathroom?"
"Yes, after logging in the evidence, I heeded a
call of nature."
Ray followed him down the hallway, rolling his eyes.
"You mean you had to take a piss."
"One needn't be crude."
"This one needn't be awake," Ray
reminded him.
"Understood."
* *
"Maybe she just likes cats." Jack Huey's voice wafted
out from one of the stalls, as Ray followed Fraser into the men's room.
Ray really hoped Fraser wasn't going to crawl around
on the bathroom floor. He may not be the hygiene king, but Ray had some standards. Besides, his stomach was
already churning from too much coffee and too little food. If Fraser licked anything in
the bathroom, Ray would not responsible for any barfing that might occur.
"No, that's what I'm telling you," Dewey replied
from the other stall. "She has three dogs. No cats."
"That doesn't mean she doesn't like cats," said
Jack.
"If
she liked cats, she'd have cats! She's a dog woman. And that purse is
obviously--"
"Maybe it was a gift. From a beloved aunt."
Ray wondered what they were arguing about this time.
No, strike that--he didn't care. "Hey, duckheads, you seen Fraser's hat?"
"What, in here?" asked Dewey. Ray
kicked the door to his stall.
"What's your problem, Vecchio?"
"You." Duh.
"Hey, Ray," said Jack, emerging from his stall. "Our
vic's girlfriend is carrying around a purse with a bunch of cats embroidered on
it. Tell my idiot partner it's a purse, not a clue."
"But the dogs!" shouted Dewey. Ray kicked his door
again.
"Does the artwork on the purse depict cartoon cats or
real cats?" asked Fraser. Everyone turned to look at him.
"Uh...real, I guess?" replied Jack. "It kind of looks
like a Normal Rockwell painting. Except with cats. They're sitting at a booth,
eating ice creams and sipping sodas in one of those old-fashioned diners."
"Hmm," said Fraser.
"Ha! I was right," yelled Dewey. He flew out of
the stall, still zipping his pants up. "It's a clue. She did it!"
"You really think it's something?" Jack asked
Fraser. He got his notebook out.
Fraser looked thoughtful. "No, but it reminds me
of the handbag Turnbull purchased for his mother's birthday. Hideous. She
apparently agreed. Turnbull was quite devastated."
Jack sighed and put his notebook away. "Thanks a
lot, Fraser."
"Oh, anytime. Have either of you seen my hat?
I--or someone--" He looked at Ray. Ray glared back. "--seems to have...misplaced
it."
Neither Jack nor Dewey had seen Fraser's hat, and they
left the bathroom still debating whether or not the cat purse was important.
Ray noticed Dewey didn't wash his hands. He further realized he hadn't washed
his own hands or his face since his
up-close-and-person encounter with Dewey's stink. He made a beeline for the
sink while Fraser examined every nook and cranny of the bathroom.
Ray finished up only to discover Fraser trying to look
inside the paper towel dispenser. Ray stared, wondering how long it had been
since Fraser'd gotten any sleep.
Maybe he needed one of his little power naps.
"Fraser. Your hat ain't that small and the
bathroom ain't that big. Where to next?"
"I suppose you're right. Let's see...I finished
my ablutions--"
"In the bathroom? Gross."
"--and then went in search of you." Fraser
left the bathroom, with Ray in not-so-hot pursuit. "I thought you'd still
be at Central Booking, so I headed in that direction, but then I heard you
taunting the suspect and deduced you had progressed to the holding cell."
"Hey! I was not taunting him. I was prepping him. For
the interrogation."
"You were making fun of his pants."
"They're plaid. Who wears plaid pants? That is
just not right. Not even on a golf course."
"Mr. Hayden plays golf?"
"No."
Fraser frowned slightly, the Canadian version of
'you're very annoying.'
"I know the feeling," said Ray.
* *
"Hey! I want a lawyer! I'm not staying in here
another minute!"
Ray reached through the bars of the holding cell and
grabbed Glenn Hayden by the shirt. He slammed him against the bars.
"Listen, scumbag. We found a trail of blood leading to a bloody knife in
your toaster the same day your mother-in-law was stabbed to death. You'll get
your public defender when he or she gets here, but in the meantime and even
after that, you ain't going nowhere. So unless you changed your mind and want
to confess, shut the fuck up!" Ray let him go, then stalked off to the far
corner of the room. Damn, he was exhausted.
"Ray, there's no need to curse at the young
man," Fraser admonished him. "I'm sure he's sorry for what he's
done."
"Yeah," said Hayden, "I'm sorry--Hey! I'm not sorry! I haven't done
anything to be sorry for. I wasn't
even home when she was killed."
"That's great, dipshit," said Ray
"'Cause she wasn't killed at your
house."
"I wasn't at her house either!"
"Nor was she killed at her house," said
Fraser.
"You--You--both of you--stop trying to confuse me! I
know how this works! You're trying to trick me into saying I killed that bitch!
Well, I didn't! I thought about it a
million times, and I'll shake the hand of whoever finally did in that meddling
old crone, but it wasn't me. I'm not going down for it!" He stalked to the
back of the cell and slammed down onto the rickety cot.
Ray watched the outburst from his corner. A night in
jail was finally loosening Hayden's tongue. He'd interrogated Hayden
for two hours, and this was the first time Hayden even admitted to disliking
his mother-in-law--like most everyone else in her life--much less wanting to kill
her. But he still wasn't saying what Ray wanted to hear--a confession--and worst
of all, Ray had a hunch that Hayden wasn't the perp. The guy was definitely a
scumbag--Ray's scumbag-ometer was redlining. Unfortunately, his lie-ometer was
barely flickering. Hayden was probably telling the truth--at least about not
killing his mother-in-law.
Problem was, he was their only viable suspect so far. The
violence of the crime, the multiple stab wounds, and the very personal slashing
of the vic's face, indicated the killer was someone who knew the vic, Thelma
O'Grady, and was seriously pissed at her. Ray couldn't imagine anyone being
that pissed at a little old lady--until he'd met her daughter. She was a
first-class bitch with a serious case of the Better-Than-Yous. If the mother
was anything like the daughter but with twenty-five more years of self-centered
sourness added on, she'd be the kind of little old lady that even Fraser would
be tempted to throw under a bus rather than help across the street.
Ray had seen Fraser twitching with the desire to
lecture the daughter, Mrs. Ingrid Estelle O'Grady Hayden--'You may call me Mrs. Hayden, Officer.'-when
she'd gone on a tear, reaming the maid out right in front of them for spilling
some tea. They'd just finished delivering the bad news about her mom, when Mrs.
Hayden suddenly picked up a giant bell on the table next to her and rang it
loud enough to hear in
It turned out to be something of a lucky break. Fraser
was able to get some background info on the vic from the maid who, when
separated from her boss, was able to stop shaking long enough to answer a few
questions. Incredibly, she'd made excuses for Mrs. Hayden--Fraser'd said it was like
she was an abused women making excuses for her abuser. Fraser had listened
patiently then, no doubt politely, questioned the maid about her other boss's--Mrs.
O'Grady's--friends and enemies. Apparently, no one liked her, but it was
doubtful anyone hated her enough to kill her; it was easier to just ignore her.
The maid painted a picture of a mean old women who had long ago alienated
everyone and so lived a lonely, bitter life. It became slightly less lonely when
her daughter moved in after separating from her husband.
Ray, meanwhile, had continued trying to get info out
of the 'grieving' daughter; she turned out to be a lot more interested in how
soon mommy dearest's estate could be settled than in who killed her. Ray had
immediately inquired where Mrs. Hayden herself had been when her mother was
killed. She had informed him that she didn't appreciate his insinuation or his tone. He'd replied that she'd
like being arrested for obstruction even less. She'd then gleefully informed him
of her ironclad alibi, all but sticking her tongue out at him. She'd apparently
then realized it was a great opportunity to harass her (soon to be ex-) husband
and casually mentioned that he'd been "in trouble with the law" and
that he "despised mother."
A phone call to Frannie later, and they had the full
scoop on Mr. Glenn Hayden. Mr. Hayden's troubles with the law included nearly a
dozen arrests for assault, aggravated assault and assault with a deadly weapon.
Ray and Fraser had booked it over to Hayden's house, Ray intent on dragging him
to the station and interrogating him despite Fraser's reminder that Hayden had never
been convicted of anything. It was a moot point when they'd arrived to find a
trail of blood leading from his front door to the bloody knife in the kitchen.
Now it was the following morning. Hayden was safely
ensconced in a jail cell and finally talking after keeping mum for most of the
two-hour interrogation the night before. Ray frowned. A perfectly good scumbag,
and he turns out to be innocent. Probably.
"If it wasn't you, who was it?" Ray finally
replied. "Why don't you think about that while you wait for your lawyer."
Hayden gave him the finger. Ray returned the favor.
"C'mon, Fraser, the hat ain't in here. Let's go."
"We haven't checked the holding cell
thoroughly," said Fraser.
"The cell has bars," Ray explained. "We
can see through the bars. The hat
ain't in there."
"We can't see under the cot," Fraser said.
"Your hat is not--" Ray stopped. Accept the
inevitable, sleep sooner. He turned back to Hayden. "Hey, plaidboy,"
he said. "Get your butt off that cot and lift it up, so we can see under
it."
"Make me."
Ray rushed toward the cell, but Fraser grabbed him and
pulled him away.
"I suggest you do as my partner requests unless
you'd like him to kick you in the head. He has a fondness for threatening to do
so, and I am confident that one day he actually will." Ray nodded in
agreement. Damn straight he'd actually do it one day.
"I'm not afraid of your little sidekick!"
sneered Hayden.
"Sidekick!?" yelled Ray. "Let me at
him, Frase. I'm going to make him eat those pants."
Ray waited in the hallway, while Fraser finished
persuading Hayden to move the stupid cot. He paced back and forth, getting more
and more pissed.
He was nobody's sidekick. If anything, Fraser was his sidekick. Yeah. Ray was the main guy, the hometown hero. The badass
The truth was, he'd felt like a sidekick--just a
bit--since the first day he started working with Fraser. The stories about him
being some kind of Canadian Superman were practically true. Ray'd always
thought he was a pretty good cop, smart--well, street smart--and reasonably brave.
But when it came to working with Fraser, he was always a day late and five dollars
short. He was always chasing after Fraser, trying to keep up. Always one step
behind. Physically and mentally. It
sucked. Fraser was a great guy with a heart of gold, but he was also really
frigging annoying. Mostly because Fraser would never tell him what the hell was
going on. He would figure things out and keep them to himself, half the time. It
wasn't buddies.
When Fraser finally stepped into the hallway, Ray got
in his face.
"Let's get one thing straight, Fraser," snarled
Ray, I am not your sidekick."
Fraser looked at him blankly, hesitating before
finally saying, "Understood."
Ray narrowed his eyes. "What? Is that how you think of
me? Your little American sidekick?"
Fraser looked stricken. Hurt flashed across his face. Ray
instantly felt guilty. "Ray! Of course not. We're a team. A duet, remember? For
heaven's sake, why are you letting this particular miscreant's choice of
pejoratives get to you?"
"Aw, jeez, Fraser," said Ray. He blew out a
breath, letting the fight wash out of him. "I'm real sorry, buddy. I'm just tired, and he..."
Ray shrugged. "Button." A big, honking 'Ray is incompetent button,' that
Fraser was always pushing. It wasn't his fault though. Mostly.
Fraser looked down at his tunic buttons.
"Not those kind of buttons." Ray laughed. "Forget it.
We're cool. Temporary meltdown due to lack of sleep. Let's just find the hat.
Hey--why don't you just ask Dief to sniff it out? He already go home?"
Fraser tugged at his collar. "Ah. No. I believe he's
napping under your desk. I...haven't spoke with him for a few hours."
Ray smiled. This was going to be good. He looked at
Fraser, patiently waiting for the rest of the story.
Fraser quickly gave in. "Oh, alright," he said,
slouching ever so slightly in defeat. "He's not speaking to me. I put him
on a diet. A very healthy, nutritionally sound and tasty diet, I might add. Well, tasty to a wolf--a normal wolf."
"Dief ain't normal."
"Indeed. He claims he's experiencing delirium
tremens--the 'DTs'--due to donut withdrawal. He fakes a seizure whenever I try to
talk to him."
"Maybe I could talk to him," Ray said in
between bouts of laughter. "I could medit--medie--be your go between."
"No, thank you. Even if he agreed, I hardly think being indebted to him for finding my hat will improve his attitude. Let's just continue our search." He clasped his hands together and turned. "Now, after leaving Mr. Hayden in the holding cell, we briefed Lieutenant Welsh."
* *
"Detective!" barked Lieutenant Welsh.
Ray jumped up off the Lieu's sofa where he'd been
dozing. He looked around for Fraser, intending to glare at him for letting Ray
get caught sleeping in the boss's office while looking for his hat. Fraser was nowhere to be found, however, and the
Lieutenant's glowering face was demanding an explanation pronto.
"Uh. Yes, sir. Just waiting on your arrival, sir. So's
I could update you on the O'Grady case. Sir." He glanced at his watch, trying
to remember what time they'd gone into Welsh's office, the next stop on their
hat-seeking adventure. Ray couldn't have been sleeping that long. Where the
hell had Fraser gone? Maybe he was heeding nature's call again.
Welsh sighed irritably. "Well, get on with--Fraser! What are you doing under my
desk?"
Fraser popped up from behind Welsh's desk. "Good
morning, Lieutenant. I trust you slept well."
"I didn't get home until after
Ray slumped back onto the sofa and banged his head
against the wall a few times. The Lieutenant had only just got there, and he
was already in a worse mood then the time Frannie made him switch to fat-free
cream cheese.
"Indeed," answered Fraser. "I'm in search of my hat,
which is, as you may or may not know, an official part of my uniform, meaning
if I am unable to locate it--"
Ray could see Welsh was about to boil over, so he cut
Fraser off. "I clocked out at six. I was going to get some rest before getting
back on it, when Fraser shanghaied me into looking for his hat. Dief's not
talking to him, and he's convinced I hid it."
"The dog thinks you hid the Constable's hat?"
"Wolf," said Fraser.
"No," said Ray, "Fraser thinks--"
"Forget it," growled Welsh, "Upon reflection, I find I
don't care. Just give me your progress report and get out." He shooed
Fraser away from his desk. Fraser looked at him blankly before finally stepping
around the desk and standing at attention.
"Yes, sir," said Ray. "I questioned Hayden--"
"The vic's son-in-law?"
"Yeah. On his way to ex- son-in-law. He's
separated from the daughter for almost a year now--I sweated him for almost two
hours, but he didn't break. Said he didn't know how the knife got there, it
wasn't there before, I was asleep, I don't know nothing, blah blah bah, 'til he
finally wised up and lawyered up--public defender--but he ain't here yet.
He's--Hayden's still in holding. While we were on the great hat hunt of 1998,"
he continued, throwing a dirty look at Fraser, "we passed by him, and he
must've been rattled by the night in jail. He admitted spontaneous-like that he
hated dear old mommy-in-law and fantasized about killing her, but--" Ray
shrugged and shook his head.
"But, what, detective? I'm not a mime-reader."
"That's
very funny, sir."
"Thank
you, Constable."
Ray refrained from rolling his eyes at Welsh's comedic
stylings. "I don't think Hayden did it."
"Why not?"
Ray shrugged again. "I can't say yet. Just a feeling."
"Unless you've got some hard evidence that points to
someone else," Welsh said, his voice rising in irritation, "Hayden's history of
assault, admitted disdain for the deceased, and the bloody knife you found in
his kitchen trump your feeling."
Ray just nodded. No since poking the bear.
"What about you?" said Welsh, looking to
Fraser. "You concur with his 'feeling'?"
"I...don't disagree with the conclusions to which
Ray's feeling has led him." Ray translated in his head; Fraser was
agreeing with him.
"English, Constable." Welsh wasn't fluent in
Canadian.
"He means," said Ray, "he doesn't think
Hayden did it either, but he's got some fancy logical reason for it."
"Well, let's hear it." Welsh gestured
impatiently.
"Mr. Hayden clearly has a motive," Fraser
began, "and the knife is compelling evidence. I'm confident it is, in
fact, the murder weapon. However, why would Mr. Hayden kill Mrs. O'Grady in the
park then bring the murder weapon home? There are numerous locations in the
park itself--most noticeably the lake--as well as on the route from the park to
his home at which he could have easily and very likely permanently disposed of
the knife."
"That's it? That's all you got?" said Ray.
"Maybe he kept the knife for sentimental reasons. Maybe he's just stupid."
Fraser
frowned at him. "I would also question why Mr. Hayden
would leave such a glaringly obvious blood trail in his own home. From the
front door directly to the murder weapon." Fraser scoffed. "It's
absurd. No, I believe Mr. Hayden is being framed. You'll recall he was asleep
when we arrived. Someone made illicit ingress to his home and planted the
knife. We need to determine who."
"Anyone can fake being asleep," protested
Ray. "And the blood trail wasn't all that obvious. I didn't see it. You didn't see it. Dief was the one
pointed it out. And there was no sign of a break-in. You checked the doors and
windows yourself."
Ray flushed. "I know. I'm just being thorough, playing
devil's what's-it. Advocate."
Welsh stared for a few more moments, then shook his
and huffed out a breath. "You get prelim labs on the knife yet?" he
asked. "Are his prints on it?"
"We were just in the evidence lock-up," replied
Fraser. "The analyst hadn't yet picked up the knife."
"Great, so we don't even know if it's the same blood
type as the vic? I'll call Marie and light a fire under her department's ass.
What's his alibi?"
"Uh--he wasn't too clear on that, sir," said Ray. "Kind
of squirrelly about the whole thing. I think he was doing something he
shouldn't, just not killing his mother-in-law."
"Hmmph. Go talk to his boss, his friends, the wife
again if you have to. Figure out where he was. If you're right, and he's not
our guy, I want to know yesterday.
I'll have Ms. Vecchio call you when the labs come in."
Ray considered mentioning his lack of sleep, thought
better of it, and just nodded. "Aye-aye, sir."
"Lieutenant, if I may, Ray is in dire need of--"
"Coffee," interrupted Ray, glaring at Fraser. As
if Fraser didn't need sleep too. "I'll
grab some on the way."
Fraser made his 'but,
Ray' face. Ray glared harder and shook his head.
Fraser rolled his eyes - 'you're being childish, Ray.' Ray responded by sticking out his
tongue. 'I'll show you childish.'
"As entertaining as this isn't," interrupted
Welsh. "I'd like to hear what the Constable has to say."
"Ah," said Fraser. "Indeed." Ray gave him a
warning look. "Ray is in dire need of...my assistance on this case, so I
shall--ah, assist him."
"That's wonderful news. Thank you for your generosity," Welsh said, eyes
narrowed. "The Chicago Police Department is fortunate to have someone such
as yourself to assist us with our dire needs," he added. Ray closed his
eyes.
"Think nothing of it," Fraser replied,
"That reminds me--I have some home-made antacid that I think would be very
effective in liberating you from your digestive distress. It's made from ginger
and ground Walrus' kidneys. It also helps clogged sinuses, and if applied
topically, it can be quite effective in alleviating muscle soreness."
Ray
covered his face.
Welsh yelled, "FRANCESCA!"
Frannie popped her head in. "You
bellowed?"
"Get me Marie Baclao on the line."
She saluted Welsh sarcastically, then turned to
Fraser, stepping in close. "Good morning, Fraser."
Fraser tugged on his collar and took a small step
backwards, but Frannie just followed him, getting even closer. "Ah. Good
morning, Francesca." She smiled up at him.
"Ray," said Fraser, looking at Ray desperately. "I
believe you wanted to depart immediately in order to speak with Mrs. Hayden again
before she leaves for work?"
Mrs. Hayden's work, according to the maid, consisted of
schmoozing with her country club pals most of the day and the occasional spot
of charity work, and Ray doubted she got up before
Frannie scowled at him. "You look terrible," she
said, "and you smell like a locker room."
"Gee, thanks, sis.
Good morning to you, too. I hope you enjoyed your nice, warm bed last night. I
was here all night, making the city a
safer place for kittens and babies."
"Lighten
up. I was just kidding. Except for the part about smelling. And looking
terrible."
"That's
all the parts!"
"Children!"
hollered Welsh, "No fighting in my office." He frowned at Ray.
"She's right. Go home, get some sleep. I'll put Ortiz and Baker on the
alibi. They're not doing anything useful. I want you back here at
Frannie smiled at Welsh, and Ray could have sworn he
blushed, which was weird and kind of scary. "Nah, I'm fine. Raring to go." He punched
the air a couple of times, sparring with an invisible boxing partner and
showing Welsh he was ready to fight crime another day. Then he tripped over his
own feet and crashed onto the sofa.
"
"Jeez," Frannie said on her way out, "someone woke up on the right
side of the bed."
"It's 'the wrong side,'" said Ray.
"Duh, that's why he's so grumpy."
* *
Ray tried to slip out the door to go home and sleep
like his boss told him to, but Fraser
gave him the big, sad Mountie eyes, and Ray found himself following Fraser to
the interrogation room. He headed straight for one of the two chairs in the
room and collapsed on it.
There couldn't possibly be that many more places to
look for the damn hat. After dumping Hayden in a holding cell, he and Fraser'd
been joined at the hip, working the case the whole night. The farthest Fraser
had gotten from him was the other side of the two-way mirror separating the
room he was currently in from the viewing room next door.
He glanced around, his eyes itchy with fatigue. There
was nothing in the room except a table and two chairs. It was obvious--to him--that
Fraser's hat wasn't there. "Fraser, you really need my help to search two
pretty much empty rooms?"
"I'm aware of that," replied Fraser. He was
glaring at the corner behind where Ray was seated. Or
maybe he was glaring at Ray. It was hard to tell with Fraser. Maybe
it was a Canadian thing. Don't glare
directly at the person you're pissed at. Except Ray'd been glared at
directly by Fraser plenty of times and anyway, he was pretty sure he hadn't
done anything glare-worthy recently. Well, there was that little tiff in the
hallway, but Fraser'd seemed more hurt than angry.
"You pissed at me?"
Fraser looked confused. "No."
"Then why--never mind. What are you aware of?"
"Pardon me?"
"What are you aware of? You just said, 'I'm aware of that.'
So, of what are you aware?"
"Ah, I am aware that the interrogation and
viewing rooms are essentially empty."
"O...kay," said Ray. He was way too tired to deal
with Fraser's brand of weirdness today. "So you're just dragging my exhausted
ass around to torture me?"
"Not now," hissed Fraser.
"Fine," said Ray, jumping up and knocking
the chair to the floor. He'd had just about enough of this. "I'm outta
here." Fraser
could find his own stupid hat without Ray.
Fraser moved fast, getting himself between Ray and the
door. "No--my
apologies, Ray. I was talking to myself--'Not now! Now is a very bad time
to lose your hat!' Hehe." Fraser said, ending with a completely fake
laugh.
"Why's now such a bad time?" he asked.
"Ah...well... I have to be on duty...soon...and
it wouldn't do for me to be out of uniform."
"Don't you have a spare hat?"
"...Yes."
"Then what the heck is your problem? Are you
trying to drive me crazy? Are you trying to kill me with sleep deprivation? I know you ain't on duty again
until tomorrow morning, and since you sleep in your office, I'm pretty sure
you'll have time to grab your spare hat before going to work. Why are you being
such a freakazoid? Do you really think I hid your hat? I didn't hide your damn
hat!"
"I know," admitted Fraser.
"Aghhhhhh!" yelled Ray. He kicked the wall a
few times, then leaned against it, and slowly slid to the floor. He leaned
back, head resting against the wall and closed his eyes. It sure was quiet in
the interrogation room when no one was being interrogated. He started to drift
off, when Fraser finally spoke up again.
"My apologies," he said. "You're right.
I'm being--silly. You go home and get some rest. I will complete the search
alone and then seek my own slumber." He smiled, but Ray could see he was
faking again. He drifted off towards the viewing room, with an obvious and very
unMountie-like slump to his shoulders. Ray watched him go, feeling guilty again. Fraser helped him get a date
and he repays the favor by flipping out on him and making next to no effort to
help him find his hat, which given, Fraser was acting kind of nutty about.
"Aw, jeez, Fraser," he called out, "I'll
help you find the hat." He gazed longingly at the floor, amazed at how
comfy it looked, before hoisting himself up. "We only got a couple places
left, right? Just tell me why you're being a freak about it first."
"I'm not--"
Ray crossed his arms and stood there, making it clear
that the hat quest wasn't continuing until Fraser came clean.
"Alright. I confess to being a bit...insufferable
about my hat. It's just..."
Ray made a beckoning gesture. "Out with it."
Fraser looked away. His ears were turning red.
"My spare hat doesn't fit right. It's the exact same make and model, and
I've treated it exactly the same. There's no logical reason for it to be so--it
itches! And it squeezes my head, giving me rather unpleasant headaches, and
yet, it has the most
infuriating habit of falling off. It
fell off of my head once while I was standing guard duty. I wasn't even
moving!"
Ray tried
not to laugh.
* *
The vending machines were taunting Ray. He felt around
in his pockets for change, but in addition to exhausted and starving, he was
unfortunately, at the moment, broke.
"Fraser, you got any money? I'm starving."
"I gave you all the American money I carry last
time we were in here." At long last, they had reached the final stop in
their quest to find Fraser's hat. The break room.
"Oh, yeah. Thanks." Ray remembered the four
bags of Doritos longingly.
Now that he could see food, dozens of packages of it,
he was suddenly lightheaded from hunger. A package of potato chips caught his
eye; they were sticking out a bit more than most of the junk in there. He
banged on the machine, then grabbed the sides and shook it a few times, trying
to dislodge the chips. Nothing. Ray sighed. He was going to starve to death.
"Ray," Fraser tsked from behind him,
"that would be stealing. I'd have to report you."
"You wouldn't. And it's not stealing if you're
going to die without it. It's self-defense. I'm starving here, Fraser. I need food."
Fraser snorted, though he'd probably deny it. "Nothing
in that machine could be called food. There's isn't a modicum of nutrition to
be found in there."
"Yeah, well, it all looks good to me. A bucket of
corn syrup and a couple packages of empty calories would be just the thing to
help a starving Detective remember where he put his partner's hat."
Ray watched Fraser whip around, eyes narrowed
suspiciously.
"I'm kidding. I'm kidding. I didn't do anything
to your hat. Jeez."
Fraser studied him for a few moments before shaking
his head. "Indeed," he said. He packed a whole lot of disappointment
and disapproval into that one word. "Since you're right there, why don't
you search for said hat under the vending machines, while I check the seating
area."
"Sure," said Ray. He glanced under the first
machine. The hat wasn't there, of course. Just a thick layer of dust that
reminded Ray of his own house. While looking for the remote a couple nights
ago, he'd found an Oreo under the couch with a layer of dust on it thicker than
the layer of cream--and it had been a DoubleStuf. He was far from a clean-freak,
but that had disgusted even him. He decided then and there to hire a maid,
someone to come by a couple times a month and do some light cleaning. Just
enough to keep him out of sty-territory.
The next vending machine yielded more dust and two
quarters. Five more cents, and he could buy some Twinkies. When he'd mentioned
his big maid decision to Fraser, he'd gotten a lecture about the merits of
cleaning up one's own messes followed by a sermon on the virtues of not making
a mess in the first place, and he'd ended up forgetting the whole thing. He
wondered now if what's-her-name, O'Grady's maid, could recommend someone.
The last vending machine yielded another score: two
dimes. Ray whooped in triumph.
"You found it?" Fraser was at his side in a
moment. He looked so hopeful, Ray felt a twinge of guilt.
"No, sorry. But I found enough change to get me some
nutritionally lacking sustenance."
"Congratulations."
"Your day will come too, my friend. Hey, remember
how I was thinking of hiring a maid? You think what's-her-name, the vic's maid,
could recommend someone? I was thinking of asking her when we go back. There
isn't some kind of maid, uh--what do you call that? Like they got in
"Levels of people?" Fraser repeatedly
blankly. He looked up at Ray--from beneath the table he was currently crawling
around under--like Ray was the one
that was unhinged.
"Don't be looking at me like I'm the crazy one in
this partnership. You know what I mean. The different levels of people. Who can
talk to who and have what kind of job and marry certain people and
whatnot."
Fraser made a face, like he was engaging his own
translator. Ray to English. "...caste system?" he finally supplied.
"Yeah! There ain't some kind of maid caste system
is there? She's not gonna have some kind of nervous breakdown if I ask her
about cop-type maids when she's a high-society-type maid? She looked ready to
faint if someone said 'boo' to her. Poor kid. Why's she even working for that
bi--uh, woman. Someone treated me like that, I'd quit. And kick 'em in the
head."
"I believe Cecelia is a very troubled young
woman. I suspect her mother--"
"Who's Cecelia?"
Fraser sighed. "The maid."
"Oh, yeah. Nice name. Go on--Celia's mom...?"
"Cecelia.
I suspect Cecelia's mother was abusive and controlling. She shows all the
classic signs. She seems to have recreated that relationship with Mrs. Hayden. She loves her and seeks her
approval, desperately trying to please her, at same time she--"
"Fraser.
I am way too tired for a lecture on Psychology. Can you just answer my question?"
"I don't know what a 'cop-type' maid is."
"It's a maid that a cop can afford. Who only
works a couple times a month instead of living with the boss like Cecily."
"Cecelia."
"That's what I said."
Fraser sighed again,
then resumed his search of the break room. Ray took that to mean it was safe to
ask Cecelia--hehe, Fraser was so easy--about
his maid situation.
He turned back to his own search. He was ostensibly
looking for Fraser's hat in the cupboards, but really he was hoping to find
where Frannie had hid Welsh's fig newton stash. No luck so far, and Ray was
still starving. The Twinkies he'd purchased with the dust-covered coins were a
distant, chemical aftertaste.
The break room was the only room he and Fraser had
been in while looking for the hat that actually had a decent number of places
to hide a hat--if someone had hidden it, but Ray really didn't think anyone had.
Fraser must not have thought so either, or he wouldn't be restricting them to
just rooms that he'd been in.
Then again, maybe this was just the starting point.
Ray froze. Shit. When tracing Fraser's steps didn't pan out, he was planning to
expand the search. He'd insist on searching the entire station and then expand
outward block by block until Ray found himself trawling
"Fraser. I am not searching
"Of course not, Ray. You're not a trained police
diver."
* *
They completed their search of the break room, then
returned to the bullpen sans hat. Despite the dejected slope of Fraser's
shoulders, Ray knew he hadn't given up. Ray, however, had already mourned,
eulogized and buried the hat. The hat was dead to him. It was time to take care
of the living. Ray. So that he could get some sleep and take care of the dead.
Mrs. O'Grady--not the hat.
"Sorry, Frase. I have got to get a few hours of
shut-eye. I'm sure the hat will turn up." He gave Fraser a consoling pat
on the back.
"I understand," said Fraser. His shoulders
drooped even lower. "You go home and get some rest. I'm going to try
self-hypnosis. The key to finding my hat is very likely--"
Ray tuned him out. Something he'd said rang a faint
bell. The key. "The key!" he shouted. "The fucking key!"
"Are you having a seizure?"
Dief yipped from under Ray's desk. Ray snorted. Deaf, my ass. "No--you said someone
snuck into Hayden's house and planted the knife. If it wasn't a break-in--and
your super Mountie senses are saying no--then it had to be someone with a key,
right?"
"I suppose. Are you suggesting Mrs. Hayden is the
perpetrator? Her alibi seemed quite solid."
"Yeah, no, not her. The maid."
"Cecelia." Fraser looked doubtful.
"Yeah. You said that she said she'd known the vic
for years, ever since she started working for Mrs. Hayden. Not Mrs. O'Grady--she
was the daughter's maid. But the daughter lived with her husband, until they
separated a year ago. She would've worked at his house. Known him. Known all
about his arrests. And she'd have keys to his house. Or at least access to Mrs.
Hayden's keys."
Fraser nodded thoughtfully. "But what motive
would she have?"
"Other than the vic being a dried-up old biddy
who probably treated her like crap, same as the daughter? You said it
yourself--she wanted to please Mrs. Hayden. Nothing would please her as much as
getting her hand's on mom's money and sticking it to her ex." Ray could
feel it in his bones. He was right.
"Hmm," said Fraser. "Someone that
psychologically damaged is essentially a time-bomb waiting to go off. The
combination of Mrs. Hayden & Mrs. O'Grady together may have finally been
too much."
"Yeah! And remember how she was scared to death
when we were there? I thought it was just the way she always was--who wouldn't
be jumpy with that stuck-up cow always barking at them? But if she was always
spilling tea and making mistakes, no way Mrs. Hayden wouldn't have fired her by
now."
"Indeed. She struck me as neither forgiving nor
compassionate. It's a compelling theory...logical even."
"Logical my ass. That was all intuition." Ray did a little 'I figured
it out and you didn't dance.
Fraser wasn't impressed. "I'm afraid a judge
won't accept your intuition as cause to issue an arrest warrant."
"They won't accept your logic either."
"Granted. We need evidence. Perhaps the lab will
find hair or fibers that we can trace back to her. Chemical cleaning agents. And
we still have the problem of--"
"Was Mrs. Hayden in on it?"
"No, the problem of where my hat is."
"Fraser! Forget the damn hat. We've looked
everywhere you were at. Someone must've taken it in which case it's gone and
you gotta start the mourning process or else you just misplaced it, and it'll
turn up."
"I suppose..." Fraser trailed off. He looked
around the bullpen one last time, before sitting down and staring at the wall dejectedly.
Ray, on the other hand, was feeling energized now by
his brilliant theory of the crime. Forget sleep. He was ready to go have a
little talk with Cecelia the maid. He went to his desk to grab his jacket. Dief's
tail was sticking out from under the desk, wagging merrily. Ray looked back at
Fraser, communing with the wall. Damn. Ray was going to have the bribe the
wolf. It was his only chance of diverting Fraser from sulking about his hat
when he should be concentrating on solving this case.
"Dief," he called. "Yo, fur-ball. Why don't you cut
Fraser some slack and sniff out the hat for him, huh?"
"He can't hear you," muttered Fraser.
Ray didn't believe that for a moment. Of course he
also didn't believe Dief could understand him and yet here he was, trying to
reason with the wolf.
"Dief." Ray got down on the floor and stuck his head
under the desk in order to talk to him face-to-furface. Dief's furry face,
however, was mostly obscured by Fraser's hat, sitting atop his wolfy head at a
jaunty angle. Only Dief's snout was visible and even Ray couldn't deny he was
smirking.
You
can never do a tango with an Eskimo
No,
no, no - oh dear no
If you do, you'll get the breeze up
And
you'll end up with a freeze up
You
must never do a tango with an Eskimo
Harding Welsh certainly never expected to set foot in the
Canadian consulate again, especially once Constable Fraser had returned to the
great white north. He isn't entirely certain why he's come.
Scratch that - he knows exactly
why he's standing on
The irony of such thoughts as he knocks wood - beefy knuckles drumming a tattoo
against solid mahogany - pleases him.
Turnbull nearly bounces with glee as he fervently welcomes Welsh to
Welsh is momentarily startled by the offer of coffee; tea had nearly always
been Constable Fraser's drink of choice. Harding just can't picture the
cop-house black sludge he's accustomed to being served in the fine porcelain he
knows Turnbull keeps for the Queen's service. "Uh, thank you,
Constable. I'll take coffee, if it's strong and black."
Turnbull's eyes bulge slightly, and Welsh won't swear to it but it sure as hell
sounds like someone giggles, and then Turnbull nods and scampers off to
the kitchen as only an unusually tall and gawky, accident-prone Mountie can.
"Ah, Lieutenant Welsh. Bienvenue au
The Inspector is small and rotund with short-cropped salt-and-pepper hair, his
exuberance a stark contrast to Fraser's stoically polite reserve. "I'm John Major." He solicitously indicates an armchair for
Welsh's use, hovering nearby until he is seated.
Welsh shifts his bulk more comfortably in the overstuffed
chair. "Uh, likewise. Pleased to meet you." He's still not entirely sure why he's in
Major beams. "Oh, it is I who am at your disposal,
Lieutenant." There is a clatter of
crockery in the hall; Major falls silent, laying a finger alongside his nose
with great significance.