It is well known that I am very fond of cats--specifically, Kat Fox and Cat Dudka. My thanks to Katherine for letting me use her as a sounding-board for this story idea as it developed, and to Catalina for drawing my attention to the possibility of this story in the first place. Kit Kats to both for their contributions, and a whole box of Milk Duds for ma chère amie France Cartier, who helped me with the French words.

Perfect, Meg Thatcher said to herself as she surveyed the results of the afternoon's work. In the foyer of the new Canadian Consulate building in Chicago, the various gifts presented to the Consulate on the occasion of the opening of the new offices had been arranged so as to show them off to greatest advantage. To the right of the front door reposed a bust of ex-Prime Minister Lester Pearson; on the wall along the staircase, a brand-new portrait of Her Majesty, Queen Elizabeth the Second, gazed benignly into the distance. Inuit sculptures of polar bears and killer whales sat on free-standing half-pillars placed at random throughout the foyer, and various watercolors and oil paintings rendered by Canadian artists covered all the available wall space.

What was not apparent to the casual observer, however, was the fact that every single gift presented to the Consulate for this, the opening night gala, had been inventoried, marked with the Consulate's seal of ownership, and registered in a secure electronic database of the property of the Government of Canada. Moreover, the foyer itself was protected by an electronic security system with motion sensors that detected intruders. RCMP Inspector Thatcher and her assistants, Constables Fraser, Turnbull, and Cooper, had worked for a week to catalogue all the donations, and this afternoon Constable Fraser, recognized as possessing artistic ability, had helped Meg to arrange the display. He'd even set up spotlights for the more important pieces.

At the moment, however, he was conducting a final security check of the building and its environs, so Meg was giving the foyer a last-minute once-over before the festivities began. Starting in a few minutes--she glanced at her watch, yes, it was nearly seven p.m.--Mr. Talbot, the Consul-General, would begin his speech. Then the Mayor of Chicago would speak. After that the guests would be invited to go to the dining room, where refreshments would be served, and to inspect the gifts in the foyer where she was standing now.

Perfect, she thought again, looking at the newly papered walls, the newly painted door frames and lintels, color-coordinated with one of the shades in the wallpaper pattern. To her great satisfaction, she had been consulted as to the interior decorating and furnishings of the new offices, aided by a blond Swedish hunk named Sven. She recalled the look on Fraser's face when he observed his superior officer's hand resting lightly on Sven's well-muscled arm: she'd only done it to make him jealous. And it worked, because the very next day he'd asked her to accompany him to a concert by the Chicago Philharmonic on Friday evening. That was a mere three days away. Already she was wondering pleasurably how the events of Friday might advance their relationship. Fraser's interest in her appeared to have stalled after the Incident of the Kiss on the Train on that cold day last winter, and she knew she had only herself to blame--after all, hadn't she ordered him to forget the incident? But for a while, she had worried that he would never even ask her out, let alone kiss her again.

But it was all right now, she reassured herself as she turned to go into the other room. They would attend the concert; she would make clear, on that occasion, that in her private life she was nothing like the Dragon Lady Detective Vecchio seemed to think she was, and the relationship would progress. And oh, how she wanted it to progress! She wasn't getting any younger, and if things didn't start happening pretty fast the battery in her biological clock was going to fade out completely. A year, she calculated as she sailed into the next room, from now until the wedding: another year until the twins were born--yes, it would have to be twins, she didn't have unlimited time to create a family; then, back to work when little Robbie and Caroline were old enough for nursery school.

But that was looking too far ahead, she thought as she smiled and accepted a glass of sparkling water from a white-gloved servitor.

Looking around her, she observed that the guests glittered like Christmas tree ornaments in the newly refurbished reception room. Her secretary, Ovitz, stood against the wall, ready to make himself useful to the guests; Fraser, her deputy liaison officer, was walking slowly around the room, eyes alert for any sign of trouble; Turnbull, on door duty tonight, was handing the guests out of their various limousines, taxis, and cars; and Cooper, stationed at a desk at the top of the stairs, had been instructed to ensure that none of the guests ventured into forbidden territory.

Meg stifled a yawn as Mr. Talbot, the Consul-General, finished his speech, and wondered how long the Mayor would talk. The occasion was turning out to be every bit as boring as she had hoped; excitement was all very well, but not at diplomatic functions like this one. But wait, something was ruffling the dullness in the room; there was some disturbance in the atmosphere. Turning to the doorway with a frown, she heard a few words spoken in a deep voice from the hallway beyond. Then, as the speaker entered the room, her mouth fell open in dismay. She watched in extreme disquiet as Henri Cloutier, the senior RCMP attorney from Headquarters in Ottawa, made his ponderous way up to the front of the room to apologize for his lateness.

"I beg your pardon, Mr. Talbot, the plane from Paris was delayed because of fog...yes, we circled above the airport for an hour...afraid I would be too late...please allow me to present this in honor of the opening of the new Consulate offices with my very best wishes..."

Just as smarmy as ever, she thought in disgust, staring in Cloutier's direction. He seemed to feel the force of her gaze, because his bushy eyebrows rose slightly as he returned her look.

"How very kind of you," Mr. Talbot murmured as Cloutier placed a large rectangular package in his arms. Meg judged from the size and shape of the package that it was yet another painting, and sighed. "Inspector," Mr. Talbot said, "could you, er, unpack this, please, and arrange it with the other gifts on display?"

"Certainly, Mr. Talbot." Meg moved forward to take the package from him, but Cloutier stepped nimbly in front of her.

"Allow me to carry it for you, Meg," he said. "And I'll help you unpack it. It was wrapped very carefully in Paris, because it's unique. Irreplaceable."

Gritting her teeth at the familiarity of that "Meg," she threw Cloutier a glance that would have withered anyone else, but which slid over him with no apparent ill effect. He followed her into the other room, where she searched for shears to cut the twine that held the wrapping in place. Cloutier never took his eyes off her, she noticed, and felt vaguely disturbed by it. When at last she lifted the wrapping away from the flat wooden box and removed the painting, Cloutier smiled.

"Remember this painting? You should," he said, and if a voice could contain a leer, his did.

Puzzled, Meg glanced down at the picture. The next minute she felt as if all the blood had rushed from her head into her heels: she almost swayed, she felt so dizzy. For she did remember this painting. "It's Marguerite en Après-Midi," she said, and her voice sounded faint to her own ears. "Meg in the Afternoon."

The painting, about the size of a child's toy blackboard, depicted sunlight streaming through a latticed window, patterning the cream-colored wall of the room in gold squares. And in the window seat was a 20-year-old Meg Thatcher lying on her side, resting her chin on her left hand, wearing a dreamy smile and not a stitch else. From a critical standpoint, the painting had a certain quiet charm; if the execution was somewhat naive, the subject was certainly classic enough. In fact, Meg in the Afternoon had won first prize in the Sorbonne's École des Beaux Arts Exhibition the year it was painted.

"Your boyfriend painted it, didn't he, Inspector?" Cloutier's smile was nothing less than triumphant.

Meeting his gaze defiantly, Meg thought how the ugliness of his soul had manifested itself on his features. His jowls resembled a bulldog's dewlaps and his eyebrows resembled nothing so much as twin caterpillars about to mate--on the very bridge of his nose, at that. "Gaston LeFevre," she agreed.

She had been so mortified to see Gaston's painting of her on public display--a painting she'd believed he would keep for his own pleasure, never to show anyone else--that she had raced home to Vancouver on the next Air Canada flight. (Her mother, alarmed at her unexpected appearance back in Canada, had discreetly inquired whether Meg was pregnant. "No, just embarrassed as hell," Meg replied, and proceeded to erase all thoughts of Paris, art, and nude modeling from her mind by joining the Royal Canadian Mounted Police.)

"I'm sure the subject of this painting will be of enormous interest to Mr. Talbot and all your colleagues," Cloutier went on. "Especially Constable Fraser."

So that was what this was all about. Clearly, Cloutier had never forgiven her for spurning his advances during the Egg Affair, when he had flown from Ottawa to Chicago to represent the Canadian Government's interests against the lawsuit brought by Lyndon Buxley. Buxley, an egg farmer, charged that the interference of a Canadian (Fraser) with his business had caused him serious business losses and anguish of mind. Meg, whose heart had sunk right into her shoes when she realized that Cloutier would be the one to work on the legal defense, had found the courage to defy him and his assumption that she would bestow her favors on him as a price for advancement in the RCMP. She had deserted him in the middle of dinner to go off with Fraser, and together they had arrested the evildoers, saved Lyndon Buxley from drowning, and rescued the Canadian Government from its predicament when Buxley withdrew his suit.

"How did you get hold of this?"

"I bought it," Cloutier said. "The School of Fine Arts gave it back to LeFevre, and he was quite happy to sell it to me. He has fond memories of you."

I'll bet, Meg thought. Aloud she said, "You went all the way to Paris just to buy this picture from Gaston?"

"I was attending an international conference there. It took only a little extra effort to track him down. I'll bring Mr. Talbot over to show him this charming scene of you, Meg," Cloutier went on. "Even though a few years have passed, you haven't changed that much--have you?"

Ignoring the question, Meg tried to shrug off Cloutier's threat. "Mr. Talbot has never given the faintest indication that he's interested in art of any kind, abstract or representational."

"Oh, he'll be interested in this. And possibly will ask for your resignation, since he can't have a woman of questionable morals on his staff."

"It's not immoral to pose for an artist," Meg said, refusing to yield the high ground.

"No, but the circumstances in which the posing took place were highly questionable, not to mention fascinating," Cloutier said, almost purring. "LeFevre told me all about it." He turned on his heel and stalked off.

Meg stared after him, her face burning with rage and embarrassment. She knew him well enough to feel certain that he would carry out his threat. He must have really been furious when she'd run out on him in the middle of dinner all those months ago, to pursue justice in the company of Fraser. Cloutier must have investigated her background to try to find something he could use to ruin her reputation, and discovered that she'd failed to complete her year at the Sorbonne. Imagine his going all the way to Paris to get something on her!

That reminded her of the cause of the trouble. How maddening to think that horny little frog Gaston was messing up her life again! Make one mistake and it comes back to haunt you, she thought bitterly. She could not possibly allow Mr. Talbot to see this picture. Nor could she allow Constables Fraser, Turnbull, and Cooper to see it, let alone her gossipy secretary, Mr. Ovitz. She shuddered as she pictured them clustered around the painting, gazing at it in fascination,and...discreetly looking over their shoulders, perhaps, to see if there was still a resemblance? Not that they'd have much of a basis for comparison, since for the last 14 years she'd invariably kept all her clothes on during the daytime. But she hadn't worn clothes after class with Gaston in his Paris flat, all those years ago. Meg could not repress a shudder of anticipatory humiliation as she visualized her colleagues taking in the implications of the title of the picture. They would all know exactly how she and Gaston had spent those afternoons!

Even if by some curious chance Mr. Talbot failed to denounce her as the original Scarlet Woman and followed it by a demand for her resignation on the spot, she would never be able to keep order in her little fiefdom again. Fraser would, of course, be disgusted with her. He'd make an excuse to break their date--he'd say that his wolf Diefenbaker was having nightmares, so he had to stay home with him and hold his paw. Or he'd pretend that Detective Vecchio was sick in bed and needed someone to play "This little pig went to market" with his toes. Fraser was so utterly decorous in his own behavior, he'd never be able to understand this evidence of depravity on her part. Why, she'd never even seen him flirt, although the women who worked in the Consulate would have hung around his neck like so many leis had he given them the slightest encouragement. Not only were Fraser's morals impeccable, but he did not drink, smoke, or use bad language. Only a woman of equally impeccable moral standards was fit company for a man like that, and there was no way he could hold her in high regard after this.

And as for discipline, how would she ever be able to maintain it? Cooper would gaze at her with worshipful eyes and a far-off look that meant he was mentally trying to visualize his imperious commanding officer as a nude model, and that simpleton Turnbull would rush out to buy an entire artist's kit--beret, palette, and all--and beg her to pose for him. Ovitz would make sure that everyone in the entire Consulate office knew about this embarrassing situation and, through E-mail, the entire Headquarters staff in Ottawa as well. Recalling the scanner she'd ordered for Ovitz' work space only a month ago, Meg shuddered again. This was, by far, the worst situation of her entire career. Even Fraser's past shenanigans involving egg farmers, nightclub strippers, and cross-dressing as a female art teacher in a girls' school paled into insignificance by comparison.

Something would have to happen to that painting before the crowd in the other room surged through the door, champagne glasses in hand, to admire the display. As a police officer sworn to uphold the law, she could not do anything illegal to prevent the potential disaster. She could not simply remove the painting from the room, because Cloutier would inquire loudly as to its whereabouts and suspicion would naturally fall on her. People might even think she had stolen it. And when she was subsequently forced to produce it, they would know exactly why she had removed it in the first place. No, although disaster must be averted at all costs, she could not afford to have it known that she had anything to do with it.

Various scenarios, all horribly illegal and each more improbable than the last, ran through her mind. She'd release a sleeping gas into the room so that everyone would be too groggy to remember what they were looking at, and then she'd heave them all into taxis and send them home. Or she could arrange for the lights to go out and stay out, and everyone would be so busy running around looking for candles they'd forget to look at the gifts. She would flood the room with a garden hose so as to damage everything in it, including the painting. She would rub a jelly doughnut over Meg in the Afternoon, and then summon Diefenbaker to slobber all over it so that the subject would be completely obscured.

Could she brazen it out, pretend it wasn't her at all? But what if Cloutier went around telling everyone that she was, in fact, the woman in the picture?

She had only a few minutes. Desperately, she looked at her watch, then glanced at the doorway to see Constable Turnbull proceeding sedately down the hall. Two ideas hit her at once: both caused her mouth to turn up at the corners. Perhaps the situation was not, after all, completely lost.

It took five minutes to neutralize one of the dangers, that of the painting. Now it was time to dispose of the other. Knowing that every second counted, she moved briskly to the other room in search of Constable Turnbull.

She saw him standing near the only exit to the room, and plucked his sleeve. "Turnbull, I must see you immediately."

"Ma'am," he said, coming to attention.

"Follow me."

Out in the hallway, Meg fixed him with her most authoritative gaze. "Constable, I need your help."

Turnbull drew himself up even more stiffly inside his stiff red serge tunic. "Anything I can do, ma'am."

"At ease, Turnbull. I need you to help me make an old man feel comfortable and happy. Are you familiar with Mr. Cloutier?"

A slight frown marred the smoothness of Turnbull's forehead. "I don't believe so."

"He's in there...see? The old man with the bushy eyebrows standing near Mr. Talbot?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"In a few minutes they'll be coming to this room to look at the display, and I'll introduce you to Mr. Cloutier. I want you to stick to him like a leech, Constable. On no account let him leave your side. Even if he tells you to get lost, stay with him--he's lonely but he doesn't like to admit it And make him talk about his work--his job is his whole life, he loves to talk about it. Keep the conversation firmly on his job. Can you do that for me, Constable?"

Turnbull's eyes glowed. She could see that she'd appealed to his instinct to be a hero. He was probably imagining that the old man would be so grateful for his company that he would come to look on him as a son, might possibly even wish to adopt him. Whatever. "Certainly, ma'am."

In the next minute the crowd from the other room surged through the door and around them, chatting animatedly and sipping champagne. Meg saw Cloutier hovering near the Consul-General, evidently bent on steering him toward Meg in the Afternoon. Placing her hand firmly on Turnbull's elbow, she steered the Mountie toward Cloutier, who started in surprise as she approached him.

"Henri, I'd like you to meet Constable Turnbull, one of my staff. Constable, this is Henri Cloutier from Legal Affairs in Ottawa."

Turnbull beamed. Cloutier nodded. Meg withdrew, positioning herself discreetly behind a tall man and his equally tall female companion.

"You're from the Department of Legal Affairs in Ottawa, sir?" she heard Turnbull say.

"Yes."

"But affairs aren't legal in the RCMP. Regulations specifically state that parties discovered engaging in liaisons of a romantic or possibly of a sexual nature are to be dismissed from the organization. So affairs are by definition illegal, wouldn't you say?"

"Not that kind of affair, you idiot!" Cloutier's voice was curt.

In her hiding place, Meg grinned. The renowned Turnbull Effect was beginning to make itself felt.

"Then what kind of legal affair do you refer to, sir? Would a marriage qualify as a legal affair? Grammatically speaking, that should be "Department of Legalized Affairs," meaning properly authorized marriages, wouldn't you say, sir?"

Satisfied that Turnbull was more than a match for Cloutier, she moved away.

"Well, ma'am, I would say from the comments of our visitors, that the occasion has been a success."

The gala opening was over; the guests had departed, Mr. Talbot and the most of the Consulate staff had gone home, and only she, Fraser, and the catering staff were left to take care of the loose ends.

Meg silently congratulated herself that her worst fears had not been realized. Turnbull had only with difficulty been dissuaded from escorting Cloutier back to his hotel; he had talked to the lawyer all evening, although as the evening wore on Cloutier's face turned a rich plum shade and he seemed on the verge of an apoplectic fit.

Aloud she said, "Yes, Fraser, you're right. The guests did seem to enjoy themselves."

They had nearly finished checking the inventory, except for the far wall. Fraser went up to it. "This is a fine painting, ma'am, number 42--" he consulted the computer printout he was holding--"in our inventory."

The almost window-sized painting, hung at eye level and lit by a small spotlight, depicted an Inuit hunter in the middle of an ice floe, about to harpoon a walrus.

"But this one," Fraser continued, bending to study the painting beneath, "Marguerite en Après-Midi,, doesn't appear in the inventory at all. How strange."

"Never mind, Fraser. I don't want it listed in the inventory."

But Fraser had turned the spotlight so that the painting, previously so shadowed as to be almost indecipherable, was fully illuminated. He knelt to look at it, studied it for a long moment, then raised his eyes to meet Meg's expression of dismay. There was no mistaking the intelligence in those eyes. The man knew.

"Oh, all right, I admit it," she said, although he hadn't asked her to confess anything. "It's me."

Fraser got to his feet, still eyeing her thoughtfully.

"I was young," she said. "Naive." In a few brisk sentences she told him what had transpired between herself and Cloutier that evening. "I suppose," she ended, "you won't want anything to do with me after this." She turned away, not wanting to see the expression on his face.

"Oh, Inspector!"

Behind her, his voice sounded amused, not at all disgusted. Turning to face him, she saw that his face was alight with one of his rare smiles.

"How can you think I would be so judgmental?" He reached for her hand and she let him take it: his own large hand felt warm over her small, cold one. "Surely you can forgive yourself for this. We all do things when we're young that we regret in later life."

A slight shadow clouded his expression and she wondered if he were thinking of the Woman Metcalfe. She knew all about that, of course, it was in his files. Wanting to dispel the sudden wariness in his eyes, she said, "You know, I was so embarrassed when I left Paris that when I got home, I wanted to repudiate the whole art world and everything that went with it. I decided from that point on there would be no more nonsense. It was really because of that painting that I joined the RCMP."

"I'm glad you did. Otherwise we might never have chanced to meet."

"Really, Fraser?"

"Yes."

How could she ever have thought he would blame her for a youthful mistake? There was no mistaking the sincerity in his voice, the warmth in his blue eyes.

"Well..." she heaved a sigh. "What am I going to do with this thing? I can't let it be hung anywhere in the public rooms. My reputation would be ruined."

"Inspector, with all due respect, if I may point out something..."

"Yes, Fraser."

"Even supposing some visitors to the Consulate might know that Marguerite en Après-Midi, means "Margaret in the Afternoon," not many of them would know that your first name is Margaret. And you look different from the girl in the painting--she has long hair and yours is short. As for the rest, I'm not qualified to judge, but then, they would have no basis for comparison either."

"I suppose you're right." She contemplated the painting. "But I still don't want it hung anywhere in this building. I suppose I'll stash it somewhere in my office."

"I'll keep it in my office, if you like. In the closet."

"Will you really? Why?"

"To spare you embarrassment."

She glanced at him: suspicion was ever present in the mind of a police officer, but Fraser's expression was devoid of guile. With anyone else she might have doubted his intentions, but Fraser was so good that chances were he actually did mean what he said.

"Let me take it." He picked up the painting, tucked it under one arm. "I'm looking forward to that concert Friday night."

So he didn't despise her! He did want to see her outside the office, still. Suddenly all her cares fell away until she felt so light-hearted she could have danced out of the room.

But all she said was, "So am I, Fraser. So am I."