Hell Hath No Fury	M/F, Humor, Rated PG. Season 3 spoilers for
"Burning Down the House." 
 

 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. 

  Everything was oh-so-right in Inspector Meg Thatcher's world: she had
firm control of her mission as RCMP Liaison Officer at the Canadian
Consulate in Chicago, her choice of wallpaper in the new Consulate
offices, and the possibility of a closer relationship with Constable
Fraser, her fellow Mountie and Deputy Liaison Officer, who, after months
of shilly-shallying, had finally asked her out. In short, she had
everything in the world to look forward to--until her past came back to
haunt her one never-to-be-forgotten evening. That's when she learned
that... 

  Hell Hath No Fury    (like a lawyer scorned!)    by	  Diana Read  

  

 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." 

  The End   *Copyright November 1997 by Diana Read on all original story
content. Not meant to infringe on copyrights held by Alliance
Communications, or any other copyright holders for due South. Please do
not reproduce for anything other than personal reading use without written
consent of the author. Comments welcome at scribe@his.com.