CHAPTER TWENTY THREE

Inspector Thatcher jumped out of the cab, dashed up the steps and entered the Consulate. As she turned to pull the door shut behind her, she nearly tripped over the white wolf that was in her path. She swatted irritably at the animal, pushing him out of her way. She was late. Dinner with the Costa Rican attache had extended into breakfast. She had dashed home to shower and change before coming in to the office. It was after ten. She didn't have time to play with Fraser's pet.

He followed her all the way up the stairs to her office, tugging on her pants leg at one point.

"Shoo, shoo," she said, shaking her foot, then pushed the door shut with the wolf on the other side. He whined and scratched at the door.

She went to her desk, took a look at what was on it, then strode back to the door. She flung it open and bellowed, "Turnbull!"

Diefenbaker scooted into the room.

"Turnbull!"

"Yes, ma'am!" he said, breathlessly, screeching to a halt at the door.

"What is all this?" She gestured at her desk. Diefenbaker was up on his hind legs, front paws on the desk.

"A request from Constable Fraser, ma'am."

Diefenbaker whined, then put his head back and howled. It was an unearthly sound in the enclosed space that made the hairs on the back of Thatcher's neck stand up. It also ratcheted up her headache several levels of intensity.

"Stop that!" she snapped. The wolf cut off mid-howl and looked at her. "Do that again, and so help me, Diefenbaker, I'll have you crated up and shipped to Baffin Island before you know what hit you."

Dief cringed and got down. He slunk under the desk.

She turned back to Turnbull. "Tell Fraser to come get his wolf-"

"He's not here, ma'am. I haven't seen him since yesterday morning."

Neither had she. Not since their conversation in the Consulate library. "Oh, when did he call?"

"Uh, he didn't, ma'am," Turnbull explained. "He sent a note."

"A note?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"What does he want all this for?"

"He didn't say, ma'am." He stood at attention. "I assumed a breakfast meeting."

"Here? With whom is he meeting?"

He cocked his head in confusion. "I assumed that you were the one having the meeting, ma'am."

"Am I?" She rushed to her desk to check her schedule.

"It wasn't on your calendar, ma'am." He lowered his voice conspiratorially. "I assumed it was a secret meeting. Need to know only."

She stared at him. "Let me see the note."

Before Turnbull could fish it out of her wastebasket, Diefenbaker had it in his mouth and was offering it to her. She took the slightly damp paper from him with a little moue of distaste, then smoothed out the crumpled sheet on her desk. She squinted at it, then reached into her pocket and retrieved her eyeglasses. She perched them on her nose.

"This does not look like Constable Fraser's handwriting, Constable."

"No, ma'am. But, its authenticity is undeniable."

She sighed, pushed up the glasses, and rubbed the spot between her eyes where the headache was centered. "From the beginning."

"Yes, ma'am." He took a breath. "When I arrived at the Consulate at 0800 hours, Diefenbaker was waiting on the front stoop. He had this note in his mouth." He paused. "Well, actually, he had Constable Fraser's notebook in his mouth."

"Let me see."

Turnbull dashed to Fraser's office and retrieved the item from his desk. He handed her the small leatherbound notebook. The initials "B.F." were tooled on the front bottom corner in a simple script. She had seen Fraser use the notepad on countless occasions. There were toothmarks on both sides of the leather. Diefenbaker's, no doubt. She flipped through the pages. They were blank.

"I removed this note from the pad. It was the only page with writing."

She squinted at the note again.

"It is rather sloppy, ma'am," he looked pained at the criticism of his fellow officer, but continued, "and unlike Constable Fraser's usual meticulous hand, but considering the source, I could not doubt its provenance." He continued. "I proceeded immediately to the HeavenScent Bakery and obtained the requested items." He looked chagrined. "I had to use my own discretion as to quantity. But, then, I figured, you can never go wrong with extra fiber."

Thatcher looked at the two dozen bran muffins arranged prettily in the basket lined with a linen napkin.

"And this?" She pointed to a large silver carafe.

He looked proud. "I brewed the bark tea, myself, ma'am. From Constable Fraser's stores in the kitchen here." He explained, "The local coffee shops don't carry it."

"And these," she said, pointing to the small box.

"There is no one more conscientious when it comes to dental hygiene than Constable Fraser."

Thatcher looked at the note again, frowning. This barely legible scrawl was so unlike Fraser. She thrust the note into Turnbull's hand. "Read it," she ordered. "Aloud."

"Well, I had to make a few intuitive leaps, but let me see." He cleared his throat, and intoned, "'Bran muffins. Bark Tea. Toothpicks. Napkins.'"

She blew out a breath, riffling her hair. She grabbed the note and squinted at it. "I don't think this means what you think it means." She straightened and took off her glasses. "Get the car." As he rushed to comply, she looked down at Diefenbaker. He was sitting with his head cocked, looking intently at her.

"This note is not about breakfast, is it?" she asked, speaking slowly and directly to the animal.

He woofed in confirmation, then looked longingly at the muffins.

Her own stomach rumbled. She'd skipped breakfast in her haste to get to work. She took a muffin and divided it. She gave half to Dief.

"Just this once," she said, then took a bite of her half. "Mmmm. Good muffin."

Dief yipped enthusiastically. Thatcher ate hurriedly, then wiped her hands on the floral napkins stacked on the desk. She heard the toot of the horn of the Consulate car, grabbed the note and the basket of muffins and herded Deifenbaker out ahead of her.

"Where to, ma'am?" Turnbull asked, as she climbed in the back.

"Twenty-seventh precinct," she said, before splitting another muffin with Dief.