Harding Walsh did not spread the mustard on his morning Hoagie as he had done always. Instead, the knife lay disused and the mustard jar unopened.
"Just leave the case files there, Officer Besbriss," he said devoid of emotion.
Elaine, her warm brown face contorted to sadness, looked at Walsh for a moment, wanting to say something but wondering if it was the right thing. Then, she put the files on the corner of his desk and left his office.
Walsh pulled a burgundy-coloured book from his shelf, reached behind the crevice therein for the illicit bottle of whiskey he had hidden. He hesitated opening the bottle. Paralyzed, he stared at it as though he were a man bereft of all hope in anything. Pushing a shot glass over his blotter, he poured himself a whiskey, then another and then another. The whiskey was making him deaf and senseless to the world. He had no idea how long Ray had been standing in front of his desk.
"Would you like one, Detective Vecchio?" he asked in his gravelly, tired voice.
"No, no," Ray refused, "it's too early for me. Uh..." Ray was concerned. "Are you alright, sir?"
"Is that the reason you came in here?"
"No," Ray tried to evade Walsh's accusation, "I came in to..." Ray's hesitance revealed a motive of which Walsh was painfully aware.
"Please leave, Detective."
Ray closed the door and sat down at his desk. Elaine crouched beside him.
"He's been like that all week," she related, "only today it's worse."
"Ah, it's Valentine's Day!" Ray huffed. "Let him bawl in his office if he wants to!"
"I don't think he's bawling," Huey cut in as he sipped his coffee, "I really think he's depressed."
"Nobody asked you," Ray retorted in a weary way.
"Just trying to help," Huey explained.
Huey walked back to his desk. Elaine joined him.
"So, do you and your wife have anything planned for today?"
Huey shrugged.
"Dinner, chocolates-the same routine."
"Oh, you're romantic," Elaine scoffed.
Diefenbaker jumped up and let his paws rest on the window. Drool escaped his furry lips. The sweet, delicious chocolates called out to him, beaconed him to unparalleled paradisaical joy. The hazelnuts wrapped gently in blankets of chocolate; strawberry fondant cradled in dark chocolate; caramel, oh sweet caramel of the gods!
"Diefenbaker! Get down from there!"
Grumbling, Diefenbaker vowed to make his master pay for what he had done.
But Benton Fraser did not feel guilt for his actions. Diefenbaker was being wilful and glutinous. He had the tendency to do that.
"Really, Diefenbaker!" Fraser scolded. "You and that chocolate! You get madder than a tormented muskox, I tell you."
Diefenbaker growled lowly. Yes, laugh now, Benton. But soon you won't laugh.
Whilst Diefenbaker plotted his revenge (the way all sentient beings do), he did not even notice where he was headed or how he got there, so consumed in his anger. The 27 precinct, Diefenbaker thought glumly. What a foul and pestilent congregation of vapours it was. Yet to his master, it was a brave, overhanging firmament. Strange. And stranger yet...
Elaine, noticing Fraser had come in, rose from her desk and went to his side, mere millimetres from his person.
"Hello, Benton,"she cooed.
"Hello," he returned.
"Today is St. Valentine's Day," she pointed out.
"Yes, so it is."
She continued to look at him with her warm chocolate eyes, biting tensely on her fore finger. He innocently looked back.
"Yes?"
"Do you have anything for me?" she queried.
Still not comprehending her meaning, Fraser was dumbfounded. Then, comprehension payed him a visit. He smiled in return.
"I know," he smiled gently, "I'll get you a new stapler."
Flustered, she was convinced that the Mountie knew nothing of romance.
"Ray!" he cried out. "Just the man I wanted to see. I would like to invite you to lunch."
Too stunned to ask where and why, Ray's green eyes simply popped open.
"Oh, wow! You're buying me lunch! Hey! Wait a minute. Methinks I see strings attached..."
"I assure you, Ray, there are no proverbial strings attached. I will take you to lunch."
"Okay, where?"
Fraser beamed.
"Robbie Burns' Pub and Eatery. Can you believe it?"
Ray was downcast, or rather, let down.
"Can't you just shoot me?"
"Oh, come now, Ray. The food is great and Robbie Burns is the greatest poet whoever lived. In fact, he inspired my forefather, Angus Fraser, to fight valiantly for his freedom."
"No," Ray shook his head, "he inspired Angus to kill people without mercy."
Fraser seemed hurt.
"I'm not going to argue with you Ray. Will you come?"
"Alright," Ray agreed.
"Elaine, perhaps you should come with us, as well," Fraser suggested, "then we may pick out a stapler consistent with your size of hand and frequency of use."
Elaine, not needing to be told twice, put on her jacket.
Walsh came out of his office and refilled his coffee mug. Ray cast his eyes on him.
"Would you like to come, Lieutenant? Fraser, Elaine and myself were getting lunch."
"No thank you, Detective," he responded, "I've got a Hoagie in my office."
Ray jabbed Fraser in the ribs.
"You are more than welcome, Leftenent," Fraser said, "I believe they do have Hoagie-type sandwiches at the establishment we will be haunting."
A look of defeat in his bloodhound eyes gave the trio the response they needed.
"What is this about?" Fraser whispered to Ray.
"I'll tell ya later," Ray whispered back.
It was a brisk walk to the eatery. Ray and Diefenbaker brooded steps ahead of everyone. Fraser purchased a red rose for Elaine, somehow trying to capture the spirit of the occasion he did not understand. So touched was she that she pulled the Mountie to her and forcefully kissed him. Only Walsh lagged behind, whistling some unknown tune.
Once in the eatery, Ray ordered a pint of Guinness while Fraser tried to explain the origins of St. Valentine's Day to him. Elaine, still touched by the novelty of the rose, blew unseen kisses to the Mountie. Walsh cast his wandering gaze over the dimly-lit restaurant. The booths were dark oak and set up in circular fashion so that those who haunted the restaurant could sense the camaraderie of Camelot. Everything about the place reflected the Caledonians of the past. Axes over the door and the portrait of Robbie Burns just above them. A depiction of the Battle at Culloden on the wall of one booth, tartans of various famous Scotsmen everywhere, claymores and yet more battleaxes. Hardly a romantic place, yet it must depend on what one found romantic, Walsh thought. Perhaps Fraser found it romantic.
Over the voices, the clinking of wine glasses and through the wafts of cigarette smoke, one euphonic set of pipes carried itself to the unseen reaches of Walsh's heart. As before in his office, he was devoid of sensory perception except for one thing- he could hear that solitary voice above the waves of the chatter around him and its memorable harmonic phrases carried him away. The way you smile at me..the way you sing off key..the way you haunt my dreams..no, no, they can't take that away from me...
Ray sipped his Guinness and saw that Walsh was not across the table from him.
"Where's Walsh?"
"I assume he went to the washroom," Fraser replied.
"Isn't the washroom that way?" Ray pointed to the far right.
"He left?" Fraser asked.
"That's odd," Elaine remarked. Suddenly, she went pale. "You don't think he's gone to...do himself in, do you?"
"Oh, Elaine, you're jumping to conclusions!" Ray scolded her. "He's not going to kill himself."
"Why would he do that?" Fraser asked. "Has he experienced bouts of depression?"
"Well-" Ray hesitated, "kind of."
"What was he doing when you walked into his office this morning?" Elaine queried.
"Drinking Scotch,"Ray answered. His eyes popped open. "The Scotch he pulls out when things are really bad. I should know. I'm the reason why he does that! Oh my God! We've got to find him."
Fraser's brow furrowed.
"Where could he go and what set him off?"
"I don't know," Elaine answered, "anywhere. Let's go."
It had been three hours since Walsh disappeared. Ray leaned his head back against the headrest in the Riv and shut his eyes.
"No word of him," he uttered. "God, I feel bad. He's probably on the bridge waiting to jump off. Why didn't I see it coming?"
"Don't blame yourself, Ray," Fraser consoled, "sometimes it is hard for a man to see the forest for the trees. I'm sure you did everything you could."
"Well, apparently not enough."
Silence fell between them.
"He is not at his home nor has he contacted relatives or friends. We must think of what could have set him and deduce where he might have gone from that," Fraser suggested.
"He's on the bridge contemplating suicide because he's depressed," Ray said finally. "That's it, that's all."
"No, Ray," Fraser countered, "something in the restaurant. But what? Think."
"I don't know," Ray threw up his hands, "a smell, a sound. A song?"
"That's it, Ray!" Fraser proclaimed. "Drive."
"Where to?"
"Just drive!" Fraser ordered.
Evening had come. The blue dusk of eve accompanied with the cold like a blanket covered Chicago. Candles were lit, wine drunk, all in the warmth of everyone's homes. But Walsh felt cold. He wrapped his coat around him. His feet rested in the slush. He hung his head and tried to attain the loss of senses as he had done before. Yet, he could not. As much as he tried, he could not ignore the cold or shut out the light emanating from the decrepid apartment buildings across from the old dance hall he sat in front of. The cold, hard cement itself was a deprivation not only to his body but mind. A weight had been set on his heart. This only dulled what was around him.
The tall young man sat next to him. He was wordless. His face lacked the cracked-heart sympathy he had seen all day.
"What a day it's been, Constable," Walsh stared straight ahead of him. "Everybody handing out chocolates to their girls, flowers....Me- I'm just stuck in my office dropping back shots of whiskey as fast as I can pour 'em."
Walsh looked at the stars as they started to appear.
"Have you ever tried to forget, Constable, but you've been plagued by memory? Hhmm? This day is what makes memories yet I can't shake this one. This long, lingering, happy memory."
Walsh took a picture from his wallet. It was faded and old. A young woman, no more than twenty, smiled for the camera so many years go. The minute holes in the corner indicated that the photograph graced the locker of her man.
"That's my Mary. She was really pretty. Still was, still is. The tenses have no meaning now, I suppose. We were saps, yeah. Getting married on St. Valentine's Day and all. My God, she was my very own heart. We would come here for our anniversary every year, it would be a good forty years, I guess. And we would dance to Gershwin, boy, did she love Gershwin. Even when it wasn't our anniversary, she would dim out the lights, put the records on and we'd dance. Slowly. It was always Rhapsody in Blue then. I would hold her close and she would tug me like she would never, ever let go. And that was how we were, like two spoons in a teacup."
He put the photograph away.
"Now the memory of her is all I have." Walsh was distant, quiet. "It's funny what a song can do."
Fraser's face was now etched with a sorrow brought on by the sweeping romance over the years. Walsh laughed to himself. He wondered if the man had any idea at all. They rose from the curb.
"Let me buy you a drink, Constable. Maybe I can teach you the finer points of Gershwin."