Cut to the Chase	M/F, Humor, rated PG 

 The change of season from summer to autumn in Chicago has brought other
changes with it. With Ray Vecchio out of town on a long-term assignment,
RCMP Constable Fraser has thrown himself into his work to take his mind
off his best friend's absence. Knowing his commanding officer's low
tolerance for inept job performance, Fraser is determined to give her no
cause for complaint. But when Inspector Thatcher returns to work after her
summer holidays, Fraser isn't expecting her to....
 Cut to the Chase by 
 

 Diana Read
 

  

 The new Canadian Consulate offices in Chicago opened the day after Labor
Day. Constable Benton Fraser, Deputy Liaison Officer of the Royal Canadian
Mounted Police, arrived at seven-thirty that morning, eager to have
everything ready for RCMP Liaison Officer Margaret Thatcher's first day
back at work after a month's vacation. 

 As he stood in the anteroom outside the Inspector's office, he looked
around to make sure that the potted plants had been watered, the furniture
polished, the carpet vacuumed. There must be nothing amiss, for Inspector
Thatcher had a sharp eye and a sharper tongue. If she noticed anything
wrong, she would not shrink from voicing her opinion. 

 He only hoped she wouldn't notice how shining with sweat he was this hot
September morning. But it was more than the heat that made him perspire:
nervous as he was about the Inspector's return to the office, he was also
looking forward to it. 

 "Well, she's due in any minute now." Ovitz, the Inspector's secretary,
took a long swallow from his mug of coffee, as if to fortify himself. "Our
time of peace is over." 

 "That will do, Mr. Ovitz." Fraser bestowed a look of reproof on Ovitz,
who gazed back unabashed. "It's bad manners to make such remarks about our
commanding officer. And may I point out that perfect peace can also mean
perfect boredom." 

 Ovitz looked as if he were going to say something else that Fraser didn't
want to hear--a speculation as to Fraser's interest in his superior
officer, for instance--when light footsteps were heard in the hallway and
in the next minute the Inspector herself swept into the room. 

 "Good morning, gentlemen," she said, acknowledging first Fraser, then
Ovitz, with a nod. 

 They gaped at her. Inspector Thatcher hardly resembled the woman who'd
departed on vacation a month ago. Fraser, after staring at her in silence
for a moment, was the first to recover. "Welcome back, ma'am. You--you've
cut your hair!" 

 "Yes, Constable, I have." 

 The dark hair that once had been brushed into a chin-length style was now
cut in a sleek, shining cap level with her ears. Her light tan contrasted
with her brown eyes and bright red lipstick: she must, he thought, have
spent some time out of doors. She looked refreshed, cheerful, and--his
heart began to beat faster--prettier than ever. 

 The Inspector smiled slightly, then looked down at Dief, who had come
forward to rub his head against her knees. She bent down to pat him.
"Hello, Dief, you're looking fit. Stayed away from jelly doughnuts, have
you? Well, I'll see you presently, gentlemen." 

 She opened her office door and went inside, leaving both men staring
after her. 

 "Well, that's different," Ovitz said, seeming to find his voice at last.
"She's never done anything but complain about your wolf before. She was
always bitching--I mean, er, commenting--on how he left white hairs on
everything." 

 "I wonder where she went on vacation," Fraser said. "She seems
so...changed." 

 He disliked change. In fact, one of his first interactions with Inspector
Thatcher had involved his resistance to changing to the new RCMP uniform.
The consequences had not been pleasant. 

 Inspector Thatcher's office door opened again and she poked her head out.
"Constable, will you step in here, please?" 

 Fraser felt jolted all over again: her new hair style made her look so
different that she almost seemed like another person altogether. He
followed her inside and paused in front of her desk, while she went around
it and sat down to face him. He couldn't stop staring at his commanding
officer. The short hair made her look...well, jauntier, somehow. Less
stern than he remembered. He regretted that she'd cut it: he liked long,
dark hair on women. This morning the Inspector was wearing a black suit,
the severity of which was softened by the bright red of her blouse. The
blouse exactly matched the lipstick she wore, and he wondered how many
hours she'd spent matching the two: which had come first, the blouse or
the lipstick? 

 "Constable, I'm afraid you're daydreaming. Could you come back to earth,
please?" 

 "Oh, certainly, ma'am. Sorry." 

 "What were you thinking about, Fraser?" 

 "I--I was just wondering where you spent your vacation, ma'am. I'm sorry
if I seem impertinent." 

 "Well, Fraser, just to satisfy your curiosity, I was at a kind of camp.
One of those, er, outdoor experiences." 

 "Ah," he said, feeling that he now understood. "Hiking in the woods,
bonfires in the evening..." 

 "There were bonfires, to be sure," Inspector Thatcher agreed. "Constable,
reading through my E-mail just now, I see that we're to host the opening
day ceremonies for our new offices." 

 "Yes, ma'am. I've already drawn up a security plan for your inspection.
It's in the blue folder on your desk." 

 "Thank you, Fraser. Now, I have an errand for you. I apologize for adding
to your burdens, but you're the only person I can trust to do what I'm
about to ask." 

 Fraser drew himself up even straighter, if possible, delighted that she
thought well enough of him to entrust him with a special task. 

 "It seems that the Honorable Jean-Luc Bedard will be here tonight to make
the speech and cut the ribbon at tonight's ceremony. It's quite
unnecessary--since we're obviously already open for business--but Ottawa
is footing the bill, so we're going along. Now M. Bedard, besides
representing Quebec at Parliament, is a well-known gourmet, so I've been
asked to procure some of the finest Russian caviar for tonight's cocktail
buffet as a special treat for him. I'd like you to take care of it,
Constable." 

 "Yes, ma'am." Fraser's heart sank, although he kept his face impassive.
He'd hoped for an assignment that called for a little more use of his
intellect, or his talent for detection. Now she was sending him out to buy
caviar. Remembering the incident of the Glendorlan Scotch whisky, he was
at least grateful that caviar didn't come in breakable bottles. "I'll
start on it right away, Inspector." 

 * * * * * * * * 

 "Oh, dear." 

 The phrase seemed inadequate even to Fraser when he learned that all cars
belonging to the Consulate--including Inspector Thatcher's personal
car--were being deployed on various errands in preparation for the
celebration that evening. That left two options: he could try to persuade
his new colleague, Detective Stanley Kowalski of the 27th Precinct, to
drive him to the places he needed to go, or he could use Consulate funds
to hire a taxi. In view of the fact that the taxi might be needed for
hours, he decided to try asking Stan first. Sighing, Fraser summoned Dief
and set off for the 27th Precinct Station. 

 Every time he entered the police station these days, Fraser experienced a
moment of profound depression, knowing that Ray would not be there. Four
weeks ago the Powers had sent Ray under deep cover to break up a narcotics
smuggling ring: he would be gone for months, possibly even a year. Fraser
missed Ray every single day, from early morning, when he left his
apartment building to walk to work, until early evening, the time that Ray
used to drop him off at home. Not to mention the weekends, when he and Ray
had gone to sports events or eaten dinner at the Vecchio house. 

 Entering the familiar bullpen area, Fraser looked for Stan and found him
sitting at his desk, apparently writing a report. 

 "Good morning, Stan." 

 "Morning, Fraser. What's up?" 

 "I wonder if I might ask your assistance on a matter involving the
Canadian national interest." 

 "Sure. What is it? You need an escort for a visiting dignitary, or extra
security around the Consulate, or what? 

 "No, Stan, I need caviar. Several pounds of it." 

 Stan stared at Fraser as if he'd just stepped off a spaceship. In fact,
Fraser was uncomfortably aware that Detective Kowalski regarded him
somewhat in the same light as a madman. "I've never met anyone like you
before," he'd said bluntly, when they worked on their first case together
a month ago and Fraser had used his nose and tongue as instruments of
detection. "You're some kinda weird, you know?" 

 Now, however, Stan simply blinked. "Sure, Fraser. I owe you one for
helping me catch that counterfeiter. After all, it's not everyone who
would have thought of licking each counterfeit twenty-dollar bill to
detect the kind of dust on it, and who would have figured out from the
composition of the dust that it was from some rowhouses that were being
remodeled, down by the river. And then matching the dust to the dust on
the clothes of one of the guys we collared for questioning." 

 Fraser smiled. "Thank you kindly. If you can spare the time, I'd really
be grateful for your help." 

 Three hours later, over coffee and sandwiches in a South Side diner,
Fraser stared glumly across the table at the Chicago cop. "I can't believe
it. Marshall Field's. Carson Pirie Scott. The Magnificent Mile Grocery.
Every single gourmet store in Chicago has sold out of caviar because of
Elizabeth Taylor's ninth wedding at the Four Seasons Hotel tonight!" 

 "Why does she need caviar for it?" Stan asked. He blew a strand of
bone-straight hair away from his face, glistening with sweat on this hot
September day. "What has caviar got to do with getting married?" 

 "It's a theme wedding. Apparently she's wearing Black Pearls, her latest
fragrance, and a necklace of actual black pearls that she's borrowing from
a Chicago jewelry store. And as far as the refreshments are concerned,
caviar does look very like black pearls." Sunk in gloom, Fraser stared at
his teacup. Then his brow cleared. "I've had an idea! Let's go to the
Russian Consulate and ask them if they have any caviar." 

 Stan gave him a long look. "Okay, Frase. Whatever you say." 

 The Second Trade Officer at the Russian Consulate was most helpful, once
he managed to stop giggling at Fraser's request. By the time the two
police officers emerged from the building, Fraser's face was nearly as red
as his tunic. "Do you know where this is, Stan?" he asked, passing him the
slip of paper on which the Trade Officer had written the name and address
of a store. 

 "Heck, yeah. That's the neighborhood I grew up in. This is a Finnish
grocery store. We had everything where I lived--Polish for a couple of
blocks, Ukrainian the next block, Finnish the block after that--you name
it." 

 By three o'clock Stan was delivering Fraser back to the Canadian
Consulate. Fraser picked up his shopping bag, turned to summon Dief from
the back seat, and prepared to leave Stan's car. "Thank you, Stan. I'm
sorry I've led you on such a wild goose chase." 

 Stan shrugged. "No problem, Fraser. It happens." 

 Ray would have said, "Yeah, Frasier, a Canadian goose chase!" And he,
Fraser, would have felt impelled to point out that the correct term for
the bird was Canada goose, not Canadian goose. And Ray would have said,
"All right, Mr. Encyclopedia, catch me out, why don'tcha?" And Fraser
would have said, "You mean, ' Mr. Dictionary,' don't you?" And then Ray
would have sighed in exasperation as he started the Riv. "You are the most
irritating man in the world!" 

 He missed Ray terribly. After all, the man was not only his best friend
in Chicago, but his best friend anywhere. One day Ray would be back, and
everything would--please God--be the same as before. For now, Stan was a
good person to work with. Fraser hoped in time to convince him that he,
Fraser, was not in fact a madman, but merely a police officer who scorned
no method (however unorthodox) in his search for the truth. 

 "See ya later, Frase. Bye, Dief." 

 With a wave Stan sped away and Fraser, hefting the bag--which contained a
plastic bucket with three pounds of caviar sitting on a bed of
ice--stepped through the door onto Canadian soil where he would, he
feared, be subject to immediate retribution. 

 * * * * * * 

 "I'm terribly sorry, ma'am. I've searched everywhere for Russian caviar,
but I could only find this." Fraser pointed to the bucket on Inspector
Thatcher's desk. 

 "So what is it, Fraser?" 

 "It's Finnish caviar, ma'am. As a matter of fact, the Trade Officer at
the Russian Consulate told me that's what they	use. With the breakup of
the former Union of Soviet Socialist Republics, they can't afford real
Russian caviar themselves. I thought this would be better than nothing
a-tall, ma'am, although I apologize profusely for letting down the
Government of Canada, and of course, yourself, ma'am. Not to mention M.
Bedard--" 

 "Enough, Fraser!" Inspector Thatcher held up a restraining hand. 

 He couldn't help noticing that her hands were tanned, too, and the polish
on the nails matched her lipstick and blouse. Was she tanned all over? He
felt himself going beet-red at the thought. 

 "You did your best to carry out the assignment I gave you. That's good
enough for me. I know you well enough by now to know that you would have
gone over and above the call of duty, anyway." 

 "Thank you, ma'am. Er, ma'am..." 

 "Yes, Constable? 

 "Ma'am, ever since you cut your hair you seem so different!" 

 The Inspector shrugged. "When I first came here, I had to prove I was
serious. Very few people take women seriously, especially in such a male
bastion as the RCMP. I didn't know anyone here, so I decided to be stern.
But to avoid appearing too threatening, I tried to look as traditionally
feminine as I could, and the hair was part of it." She threw back her head
and laughed. "That's no longer necessary. I think everyone under my
command knows who's boss by now." 

 "Yes, ma'am," Fraser assured her. 

 "While I was on vacation I had a lot of time to think. And I decided not
only to cut my hair, but to cut to the chase. Cut the crap, in other
words. You've proven yourself to be an exceptionally loyal, dedicated, and
intelligent police officer, and I'm thoroughly familiar with the
capabilities of the other people I manage. I've decided that I can afford
to start being more...human." Inspector Thatcher smiled. "I'm well aware
that your friend Detective Vecchio calls me 'the Dragon Lady.'" 

 Fraser blushed again. "I don't allow him to use that phrase in my
hearing, ma'am." 

 "I know now that I can rely on you. That's why I'm going to ask you to
help me organize a softball team for the Consulate. I think it would
promote team spirit, don't you?" 

 "Yes, ma'am." He tried to restrain his pleasure that she preferred his
help to that of anyone else. "I'd like very much to help you organize a
team." 

 "Excellent. If you have no other plans, would you care to go out for
pizza after work and talk about it? We could ask some of the others to
join us, if you like...Constable Turnbull, Constable Cooper..." 

 "Er, with respect, ma'am, I think we'd accomplish more if we restricted
the first few meetings to just the two of us. Later, when we're ready to
present the idea to the staff, we could include them in a joint meeting." 

 Inspector Thatcher nodded, but the gleam in her eye told him that she
knew what he was up to. "Fine, let's do it. We have to police the cocktail
party tonight first, but we should be able to get away by seven-thirty.
Okay?" 

 "Yes, ma'am. Permission to take the caviar to the kitchen now, ma'am?" 

 "Permission granted." 

 Glowing--and not just from perspiration--he hurried away. 

 * * * * * * * 

 The French doors of the Consulate reception room were wide open to the
humid September night, and the air drifting through the room from the
garden outside carried the intoxicating sweetness of late roses. The
guests filled the room with the buzz of conversation, the clink of
glasses. Fraser made his way to the cocktail buffet, where a smiling
Inspector Thatcher, in a black cocktail dress--the plunging neckline and
thigh-high side slit of which left no doubt that her tan was indeed the
all-over kind--was chatting with the Honorable M. Jean-Luc Bedard. As
Fraser drew near enough to hear their conversation, he saw a waiter
approach with a tray of caviar sandwiches. 

 The glistening black pearls of fish eggs were piled in neat pyramids on
triangles of whole-wheat toast, garnished with wedges of lemon dipped in
chopped parsley. "Caviar, Monsieur Bedard?" the Inspector purred. 

 M. Bedard cast a regretful glance at the contents of the silver tray.
"Oh, thank you very much, but my doctor has forbidden me to have it. It's
very salty, you know, and my blood pressure is so high that I have to be
careful..." 

 Fraser caught his commanding officer's eye. The Inspector Thatcher of old
would have grimaced and gazed pointedly at the ceiling. 

 The new, improved Inspector Thatcher looked right back at him and winked.


 In that moment Fraser realized that his superior officer hadn't merely
cut her long, dark hair, she'd also cut the humorless attitude that had so
sorely tried himself and the rest of the Consulate staff. If this was what
change meant, he was all for it. 

 He could hardly wait for seven-thirty to arrive. 

 The End 

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 *Copyright April 1997 by Diana M. Read on all original story content. Not
meant to infringe on copyrights held by Alliance Communications, or any
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