CHAPTER SEVEN

Meg fumbled on the coffee table for her glasses. She put them on, then tilted her head back against the settee, as she ran her eyes up and down the man in front of her. Her deputy liaison officer stood stiffly at attention, in full dress uniform, Stetson under one arm. After a long moment, she nodded. "Satisfactory, Constable."

"Thank you, sir, " Fraser said, standing at ease. "I was uncertain about the cosmetics."

"It looks good," she said, squinting at his left eye. "I really can't see anything."

Ray stepped into her office, fussing with the silk kerchief in his breast pocket. Turnbull was on his heels, brushing his shoulders with a small valet's whisk.

"My sister did it," he said, proudly.

It was Saturday evening. The cuff link Mort had found last night had opened a new line of investigation. It had been far too late following the autopsy to start inquiries, so Ray and Fraser had gone to their respective homes to sleep. Fraser had followed the Inspector's orders to the best of his ability. But, he'd had a restless night.

He lay awake for a long time, pondering his lapse in the coroner's lab. He had learned at a very young age how to summon a memory and immerse himself in it. For a long time after his mother's death, he would lie in bed at his grandparents' house and conjure her – face, voice, smell, touch – until her presence enveloped him. Comforted, he would finally fall asleep.

Over the years, he had honed this ability to a razor's edge. It had proved useful as an investigative tool when he became a law enforcement officer. For example, in the case of the kidnaping of a restauranteur's son in Chinatown last year. But always before, it had been a conscious exercise, something he controlled. Ray called it "doing the Zen thing," though it had nothing to do with that Asian philosophy. But this time, the sense-memory had slammed into him unbidden, out of the blue. That loss of control, as much as the unsettling emotions it stirred, profoundly disturbed him.

But, all his tossing and turning was for naught. In the end, he concluded that his well-developed sense of smell and over-active imagination had simply betrayed him. He finally fell asleep, but kept jolting awake every few hours with a feeling that his father was standing over the bed, trying to tell him something. Or, maybe, he had something he wanted to tell his father. Something he should have told him long ago.

But, if Bob Fraser was there, Fraser couldn't see or hear him. Not for the first time, he wondered if the image of his father – the ghost – that had begun appearing last Christmas was also a mere conjuring of the mind, like the childhood summoning of his mother's memory, albeit a particularly solid manifestation of his wishful thinking. Except, that his father usually showed up at the most inconvenient of times, and failed to come when wanted. Like a poorly trained puppy, he thought, before dropping off into uneasy slumber again.

While he may not have slept the full eight hours that the Inspector demanded, he had remained in bed for the requisite time, mulling over the new clue and what to do with it. By the time he had met up with Ray for breakfast, he had pinned down the origins of the cufflink with an early visit to the city room of the Chicago Sun-Times. Basil Thune, editor of the society column, had been happy to open his files to the Mountie hero attending the ball in the place of the wounded commander he had saved. In return for an exclusive interview after the event.

Mr. Thune explained that every guest at the annual Diplomacy Ball received a commemorative gift. While the globe and handshake emblem was de rigeur, the gift itself varied. So far, it had not been repeated in the dozen years of the ball's existence. Last year's token had been cufflinks for the men and earrings for the women. The year before that, money clips and compacts, respectively, and so on, back to the first year's fountain pen and brooch. After swearing Fraser to secrecy, he had revealed that this year's gifts would be tie clasps and scarf clips. The gifts were of superior quality and workmanship, and were considered something of a status symbol among the social set.

Thus, their working assumption was that the killer had been an attendee at last year's ball. Since, according to Mr. Thune, the guest list remained fairly stable, it was possible that their quarry would be attending this year. On the pretext that Fraser wanted to familiarize himself with the names and affiliations of the guests, Mr. Thune had given him tonight's roster. A quick perusal showed Christina Havlek and Margaret Thatcher were on the list. Marta Gunther was not. That was not surprising, as she was a courier in transit not permanently assigned to Chicago. Ray planned to get last year's information from the ball's organizers, but they had decided to wait until the event was over. Alerting anyone to their line of investigation ahead of time might spoil the plan.

Such as it was.

They had formed the tentative scheme over breakfast at the Patrician Grill before reporting the new development to the Inspector. Despite the early hour, she was dressed and in her office when they had arrived. She was still staying in the Queen's bedroom, with Dief remaining on site overnight as bodyguard. She had heard their plan, played devil's advocate, and ultimately agreed to its implementation.

Of course, there were many ways that the killer could have obtained the cufflink, without being one of last year's guests. And, even if the murderer was a former guest, there was no guarantee that he'd be in attendance this year. But, as Fraser had pointed out, he would be attending the ball in her place, anyway. Putting Ray on the guest list meant an extra pair of professional eyes in the crowd of four hundred, while adding an under-the-radar police presence to the prestigious affair. It was a hasty plan and one unlikely to succeed. But, if it failed, according to Ray, it was a case of "no harm, no foul." He would have only given up an ordinary Saturday night for an evening of champagne, hors d'oeuvres and dancing at the Waldorf Astoria. Free. He didn't even have to rent the tux.

So, an hour ago, Fraser had sat on a wooden chair in the Vecchio kitchen, a large towel draped over his dress uniform. As Mrs. Vecchio puttered at the stove, Frannie had laid out her equipment on the kitchen table. It was a mysterious array of bottles, vials, creams, powders, brushes and sponges. She was mixing something in one of her mother's small ramekins, holding the little dish up to Fraser's face from time to time for comparison. Meanwhile, Ray and Fraser discussed the non-confidential aspects of the case. A pot of tomato sauce simmered on the range, filling the kitchen with a delicious aroma.

"Tall, clean-shaven, well-built white male, in his mid-twenties to mid-fifties, with a scratch on his face," Ray mused. "Hmmmm." He rubbed his chin. "Where have I seen someone that matched that description?"

Fraser's hand automatically went to his left eye.

"By the time I'm done with you, nobody's gonna see that cut or the black eye," Frannie assured him. "But, the bad guy could cover it up, too, you know," she pointed out. "You'd have to get pretty close to tell." She sat up, eagerly. "Maybe I should go with you. I can get a lot closer to a man than either of you can."

"No!" Ray and Fraser chorused.

"Thank you, kindly, Francesca," Fraser added. "But, this man has killed one woman, possibly two, and may have attempted to kill a third. It's too dangerous."

"Ri-ight," Ray added, quickly. "Too dangerous." The last thing he needed tonight was Frannie underfoot, cramping his style.

"But, how are you going to spot one guy in a crowd that big?"

"Not everyone there will be white, Francesca," Fraser pointed out. "And, only half the guests will be men," he added. "We can ignore the women."

"Speak for yourself," Ray muttered.

"You're so right, Benton," she said, nodding solemnly. "Ignore the women."

"Also, the perpetrator at the airport saw me, however briefly," Fraser continued. "Thanks to the news media, my name and position as a Canadian law enforcement officer have been well publicized. It's possible that my presence at the ball could provoke a reaction."

It was Ray's personal opinion that his presence was going to provoke one hell of a reaction. Just not from the men. That damn red suit. It drew women like moths to a flame.

Mrs. Vecchio set down her wooden spoon. "Raimundo, please give me a hand upstairs. I want to get something from the shelf in my closet."

"Sure, Ma," he said.

"Caro, keep an eye on the sauce, please."

"I will, Ma," Frannie said, as they left the kitchen.

She dabbed a finger in the mixture in the ramekin and spread it on the back of Fraser's hand. Holding his hand to the light, she turned it this way and that. "That might do," she said, critically. She wiped it away with a moist towelette, then pulled her chair around to face him. "Let's see how it looks on your face." She dabbed a streak under his good eye, and studied it. "You really have beautiful skin, Benton," she murmured. "Any girl would kill for it." Before he could reply, she snapped, "Stop that!"

"Stop what?" he blurted. He hadn't moved a muscle.

"Turning red. I can't tell if this matches if you keep changing colors on me," she complained. "God! Can't you take a compliment without blushing?"

"No."

"Oh."

"If you could refrain from ... uh ... complimenting me, I think that would be best."

"OK," she conceded. "I'll just stir the sauce while you ... do ... whatever."

"Thank you," he said. He took a deep breath, centered himself, and thought of the Yukon.

When she sat down again, his complexion had returned to normal. She pulled her chair closer, fitting herself between his legs. She squinted at his face. "OK, I think that's a match." She wiped the streak of foundation from his cheek with a towelette, then blew on it to dry. Fraser concentrated on the breathing techniques and mantra that he used for meditation and managed to maintain his skin tone to her specification.

"Close your eyes," she ordered.

He closed the blackened eye.

"Both of them, Benton," she said, impatiently. "Otherwise, your face scrunches up." She added, "I promise I won't bite."

"Sorry," Fraser murmured and obeyed.

He heard her putter at the table, clinking bottles and vials together. "First, we start with concealer," she said, as she dotted the cut on his forehead and under and over the left eye with her finger. She gently rubbed the substance in. "There!" He heard her set down the container. "Next, the foundation." She repeated the dotting motion over the same area, then smoothed her concoction on his skin with delicate motions. Fraser found himself relaxing, despite himself. Her touch was very soothing.

She talked as she worked. "A little powder to set it. Then, another layer of foundation, I think," she said, as she patted and dabbed. "But, not too much. You don't want to look 'made-up.' That's the secret, you know. Makeup should enhance a girl's natural features, without taking it over the top." He started to agree with her, but she shushed him. "No, don't talk. It moves your face." He heard her set the ramekin down on the table. "A little shadowing under here ..." She continued to talk as she gently applied the cosmetics.

"Not everyone can pull off that shade of red, you know. But with your coloring, you can wear anything," she mused. "I imagine most of the men at the ball will be in black, like Ray. You're gonna really stand out." His breath hitched, but she didn't notice. "Well, you always stand out, Benton. But, tonight, you'll be the belle of the ball. Or, is that beau?" He obeyed her prior admonition and didn't answer, but she saw the pulse in his neck beating erratically. Her mouth snapped shut, realizing for the first time how truly apprehensive he was.

She was silent for a moment, then continued in a soft voice, explaining the products she was using, and why. As she went on, his breathing evened out, his hammering pulse slowed. "A little more powder. And, a little more foundation." She assessed. "Now, I have to feather this carefully so you can't see the seams." She lifted his chin with one hand, while working with the other. "Purse your lips a little. Yes, just like that. Don't move." She continued to stroke his face, leaning in close.

Her lips on his were warm and soft. He didn't respond, but neither did he pull away. The kiss was tender, sweet. And brief.

"May I open my eyes, now?"

"Yes," she whispered.

Their eyes met. The open, kind expression in his surprised Frannie. She had expected the usual shy, stammering awkwardness that she found so endearing. The lack of it threw her. She turned away, fumbling at the table. "Here," she said, handing him a mirror.

He took it, but kept it on his lap. She brushed her hair away from her flushed face, still not meeting his eyes, and fussed with bottles and jars. He put a finger under her chin and turned her face toward him until she raised her brown eyes to his blue.

"Thank you kindly, Francesca," he said, softly. "I think I needed that tonight." His lips quirked. "That was for luck?"

"For luck," she said, nodding.

He dropped his hand and brought the mirror to his face as Ray came bounding back in the room. He was holding a piece of white silk in his hands.

"Frannie, gimme a hand with this." He glanced at Fraser, then did a double-take. "Wow! You look great." He stepped closer, peering at his right eye. "I can't see anything at all."

"It's the other eye, Ray," he said, amused.

Frannie busied herself with folding the fabric into a square, then tucked it into the breast pocket of the tux. "Isn't this Pop's?"

"Yeah, Ma gave it to me." He was peering over her shoulder at Fraser as he stood, removed the towel and folded it neatly over the back of the chair. "Damn, Frannie. He looks great."

She patted his breast pocket. "I'm only responsible for the eye, Ray. The rest is all Benton." She smiled shyly at the Mountie, before straightening Ray's tie. "You both look very handsome."

Fraser thanked her again and, after final inspection by the entire Vecchio clan, they were in the Riviera heading to the Consulate. Ray turned on the radio. Steppenwolf's Born to be Wild was playing. He cranked up the volume, grinning at Fraser. "Cheer up, Benny. We're going to a party. And, we look damn good!" he shouted over the music, then gunned it to make the light. Fraser refrained from his usual lecture on the rules of the road, returning the grin with a sickly one of his own.

Now, from the settee in her office, Meg peered up at Fraser's face. "It's a very professional job, Detective." She realized she was still wearing the glasses, and snatched them off.

Fraser noted with approval that the Inspector appeared much better today, looking rested and refreshed and moving less stiffly. Her foot was still grossly swollen and propped up on pillows, but dressed casually in black leggings and cranberry mohair sweater, she made a very attractive picture. Red suits her, he thought, but he kept that to himself.

"Turnbull, stop fussing," she snapped, as he now advanced on Fraser with the whisk. She reached for an envelope on the coffee table and handed it to Ray. "This will get you into the ball."

Ray removed the security badge. His image, superimposed over the logo of globe and clasped hands, smiled back at him. "Any problem getting this at the last minute?"

"No, Detective." With a straight face, she added, "I merely explained that you were Fraser's date." At their startled looks, her lips quirked. "Just joking"

Turnbull tittered and Ray shot him a dirty look.

Meg gestured at the badge in Ray's hand. "I had to give the security firm your real name and citizenship. But you're listed as a guest of the Canadian Consulate. You're posing as a major maple syrup importer for the Midwestern United States." It was the best identity that they could come up with on short notice. Ray figured he could fake his way with the maple syrup details if anyone probed. After hanging out with Fraser, he had absorbed more information about the Canadian commodity than he ever cared to know. But, he needed a cover. No one would talk to him if he went to the party as a cop.

"Sweet," he said, with a twinkle.

Turnbull giggled.

"Get the car, Turnbull," Meg ordered.

"You look dandy, sirs!" he gushed. "Have a wonderful time!" Then, he turned on his heel and left the room.

Meg had to agree with Turnbull's assessment. Tall, straight, impossibly handsome Fraser was all spit-and-polish, the epitome of manly virtue in red serge. Vecchio, cool and sophisticated in his Armani tux, gave off an entirely different vibe. One that implied a little vice was good for the soul, and fun to boot. She'd had her doubts about his presence at the ball when Fraser had proposed it. Certainly, she'd seen enough of Vecchio's rough edges to give her pause. But, looking at him now, she was beginning to think it would be alright.

Her scrutiny made Ray self-conscious. He fussed unnecessarily with his tie and kerchief. He knew Thatcher was worried about the plan and his role in it. To say they had never gotten along was an understatement. They were like oil and water – no, more like gasoline and a match. But, despite her misgivings, she had added him to the guest list. As she continued to stare at him, he winked, intending it as a friendly, reassuring gesture.

But, Meg saw it as a smirk. She stiffened. "All frivolity aside, Detective, this is a very important event with very important people. Not the type of people that you're used to."

He looked offended. Belatedly, she realized how that had sounded. She soldiered on. "I mean, you must conduct yourself with the utmost decorum. Remember, your actions will reflect on all of Canada."

"I'll try not to embarrass the whole country, lady."

"I only meant – "

"It's just that I've never gone that long without picking my nose or scratching my butt."

"Ray," Fraser began. "I think the Inspector means – "

"I know what she means, Benny," he retorted. "Just because I don't have a stick up my– "

"Detective!" she said, sharply, before this got out of control. She really hadn't meant to insult him. That little voice inside snapped, Then, tell him so! She took a deep breath and said, stiffly. "That was a poor choice of words on my part. I ... uh ... apologize. " The last word was barely audible.

Ray goggled at her, then exchanged a disbelieving glance with Fraser.

Their incredulity irritated her, but she swallowed it. "What I meant to say was ... these are not the usual caliber of people you encounter in the performance of your duty."

Her qualification mollified Ray. "I know that."

"Good." She continued, "We don't know that the murderer will be present tonight, but regardless, you cannot treat the guests at the ball as 'the usual suspects.' You must be subtle."

"Moi?" Ray said, his eyes wide and innocent. His cell phone rang. "Subtle is my middle name." He excused himself to the hall to take Welsh's call.

Meg watched him go, with narrowed eyes.

"Actually, it's 'Eduardo,'" Fraser confided.

She sighed, deeply. "I should be the one going with you." Disappointment flooded her and her eyes went to the dress hanging from the bookcase.

"Perhaps next year, sir," he said, kindly.

Her eyes snapped back to him. He realized that he had unintentionally invited himself to accompany her to next year's high profile event, and backpedaled. "I mean, you could go. Next year. Alone. Unless, of course, you'd rather not. Go alone. Because you could go with ... someone. Someone else, I mean. A stranger, perhaps." He dug himself in deeper. "Not that you're in the habit of picking up strangers on the street. I mean, you're not a – a date, I meant, a ... uh ... date ... – or perhaps, you'd prefer not to go a 'tall." He stuck a finger under his suddenly tight collar and pulled it away from his throat. "Unless – "

She took pity on him and put an end to his verbal contortions. "Unless Vecchio gets us struck off for life," she said, drily. "He will behave himself?"

"Yes, sir."

"I hope you're right." She lowered her voice. "A private word, Constable, while we have a moment."

"Yes, sir."

"Tonight is more than a social event cum investigation."

"Sir?"

"It's also an opportunity." At his blank stare, she said, "A personal opportunity."

He drew himself up to full attention. "I will endeavor to represent our country– "

She interrupted him, waving a dismissive hand. "This is your first exposure to the movers and shakers of this city, both in and out of the diplomatic community." She settled herself more comfortably and adopted a tone of benevolence. "From time to time, Fraser, you will be called upon to stand in for me. While I was in Washington, I hope you saw that there is more to my job than talking on the phone or reviewing reports."

Fraser, who had spent the entire week in her office doing just that, said, diplomatically, "Of course, sir."

But, she was on a roll. "Administration, public relations, diplomacy ... One might say that as the Chief Consular official, I am Canada personified." She added, modestly, "In Chicago, that is."

"Yes, sir."

"But, in my absence, you are."

"I understand, sir."

"You're not getting any younger, Fraser."

Belatedly realizing she expected a response to what he had taken as a rhetorical statement, he replied, "No, sir. I'm not."

"It's time to look to your future."

"My future?"

"Your career. You can't just drift along, Fraser, and hope to advance. You have to make things happen." She raised her fists and shook them at him. "Take the bull by the horns."

"I ... uh ... I'm not sure if I know how to do that, sir." He shifted his feet. "I mean, I have wrestled the occasional bear – "

She sighed. She should have had this conversation long before now. Her deputy was utterly clueless when it came to career advancement and workplace politics. She had tossed him into this particular lion's den on a whim, but it was a genuine opportunity. Part of her duty as a commander was to groom her junior officers. She had neglected this responsibility when it came to Fraser, initially preferring to fire him or force him to resign. But, his separation from the Service was no longer her goal. It was difficult to pin down when that had changed. But, the important thing was that it had. It was time she acknowledged it.

She looked up at his earnest face and imparted what wisdom she could. "Perhaps, we should start small and build."

"Yes, sir," he said.

Fraser had given no thought to his future career other than to serve out his indefinite term of exile in Chicago as best he could before, hopefully, returning to a posting in the far North. Did she think he harbored serious ambitions for a career in diplomacy, or worse, the bureaucracy of the Service? He suppressed a shudder at the thought. Still, the fact that she was concerned about his future warmed him. That implied she thought he had a future. The thaw that had begun when he recovered her heirloom brooch seemed to be continuing.

She was still thinking aloud. "You should play to your strengths, Fraser."

"Yes, sir." He frowned, not sure how his tracking skills applied to a formal dance.

"First, see and be seen." She eyed him with approval. "You make a very good appearance, Constable," she said, formally.

He colored slightly. "Thank you, sir."

"Never underestimate the power of appearance," she lectured. "Looking good and being charming has taken a lot of people a long way in life. Sometimes, to the very top."

"Yes, sir."

She detected the faintest note of disapproval in his tone. "It's not fair, Fraser, but it's often true," she said, primly.

"No, sir. I mean, yes, sir."

"As for tonight, I want you to extend yourself." She said, sternly, "Don't disappear into the background. Mingle. Work the room."

"Y–yes, sir."

She frowned. "And, none of those long-winded Inuit stories of yours. Stick to small talk."

"Small talk, sir?"

"You know, the weather, the view, the orchestra, the food. For God's sake, stay away from money, religion or politics!"

"Yes, sir," Fraser said, belatedly fumbling for his notebook. He should have been writing this down from the beginning. "Would you repeat that, sir?"

She ticked off points on her fingers. "Look good, be charming, stick to small talk. That's it, for now. Clear?"

He scribbled frantically. "Clear, sir."

"Oh," she said, "and dance, of course." She frowned as a disagreeable thought struck her. "You do know how to dance?"

He looked up from the notebook. "Sir?"

"It's a simple question, Fraser. Do you know how to dance?"

"I'm assuming, sir, you mean the form of dancing that will most likely take place at the ball tonight –"

She rolled her eyes. "What other kind of dancing could I possibly mean?"

"Modern, jazz, tribal, belly – "

She cut him off. "I meant the kind of dancing that will take place at the ball tonight."

"I have studied that kind of dancing, sir."

"Good," she said, relieved. On second thought, she ventured, "Just to be clear, Fraser, what type of dancing do you expect to occur tonight?"

"The waltz, tango, foxtrot, samba, polka, cha-cha, rumba, Charleston ..."

She was nodding in approval, but stopped abruptly. "Charleston?"

"Yes, sir."

She frowned in suspicion. "Where exactly did you learn to dance?"

"From a book, sir."

"You learned how to dance from a book," she repeated, as her heart thumped erratically in her chest.

"Yes, sir."

She swallowed. Her mouth had gone dry. "Have you had opportunity to put what you learned from this book into practice?"

"Yes, sir."

"Good," she said, then compulsively, albeit reluctantly, asked the follow up, "How exactly?"

"Dief and I used to practice when we were snowed in back home, though he found it somewhat difficult to keep time. Because of his deafness – " He stopped at the incredulous look she gave him. "Oh. Did you mean with an actual woman, sir?"

She closed her eyes and leaned back against the settee as a vein throbbed at her temple.

Ray leaned in the door. "You ready? Turnbull brought the car around."

Fraser waited to be dismissed. But the Inspector was silent. "Sir?"

She didn't open her eyes. "Go," she said, numbly.

"Understood. Good night, sir." He turned on his heel.

"G'night, Inspector," Ray called from the hall. As they trooped down the steps, he asked, "What's wrong with her?"

"I don't know, Ray. But, I'm sure it's my fault."

The Consulate car, festooned with little maple leaf flags, was at the curb with the engine running. Turnbull exited the driver's seat as they approached and trotted to open the passenger door for Ray.

"Shall I move your vehicle off the street, Detective?"

"Yeah, thanks," Ray said and handed him the keys. Then in a mock-stern voice, he warned, "I know the exact mileage on the odometer, Ferris. No joyriding."

"I- I wouldn't dream of it!" he spluttered.

"Ray is just pulling your rope, Constable," Fraser reassured him.

"His chain." At Fraser's blank look, Ray repeated, "I'm just yanking his chain."

"Oh, sorry." To the junior officer, he said, "Ray is 'yanking your chain.'" At Turnbull's uncomprehending stare, he explained, "It's an American idiom. It means he's joking."

"Oh." He smiled, weakly. "Very funny, sir."

"It was," Ray muttered.

'I'll leave the keys on the kitchen table."

"Thanks."

They climbed into the vehicle. As Fraser adjusted the mirrors, he saw Turnbull wave goodbye in the rearview. He nodded grimly in return, before putting the car in gear and heading uptown.