The Life of Riley	  THE LIFE OF RILEY

 I'm not a big fan of the third season of Due South, and so have created
my own alternate universe season in which Ray Vecchio never left on any
bizarre -- dare I say *stupid* -- undercover missions. This "faux" third
season represents my take on how the season *should* have gone and include
not only stories I've written, but stories friends have written that fit
the criteria for an episode of the show (for instance: a crime committed,
Fraser & Ray solving said crime, a plot, a sub-plot, humour, emotional
sub-text, etc.)

 You will find My Alternate Universe Due South Third Season at:
http://www.trickster.org/ds3

 Comments? Please e-mail me at vecchio@trickster.org

 "The Life of Riley" is dedicated to Riley Levy, Seah's cat, as well as to
my own gray tigers, Max and Indy. All three cats inspired me to write
this....

 The Life of Riley 

 By Celeste Hotaling-Lyons

 It had been a long, hot, sweltering Friday in the city of Chicago, with
no lessening of the heat as the sun went down. With the twilight, a cat
burglar entered the building by way of a window, which had been propped
open with a stick in order to welcome in any sultry breeze that might be
wafting by--the tenant of the apartment having the need but neither the
desire nor the where-with-all to purchase air-conditioning. The thief
perched a moment on the sill, allowing his eyes that moment to adapt
themselves to the relative darkness within, then dropped lightly to the
floor, soundlessly. Like all good professional house-breakers, he didn't
wander around unfamiliar territory--on the contrary, he knew exactly what
he'd come for, and went to it directly. There, in the kitchen, next to the
refrigerator.... a tin dish holding The Food of the Gods... 14.75 ounces
of BumbleBee Alaskan canned salmon. As the label promised, it was, indeed
"America's #1 Salmon"; used in the lower 48 to make salmon burgers, salmon
salad, and 'safe' sushi. Of course, in Alaska, it was generally referred
to as "dog food." The thief bent to the battered dish and began to take
large gulps of the pink, fishy-smelling glop, purring loudly as he did so.

 I did say right off this was a _cat_ burglar, didn't I? Allow me to
clarify: the thief was a small, sleek, elegant, brown-and-gray furred,
two-year-old, mackerel tabby cat with a red-rubber-eraser-coloured nose;
small, rounded, black ears; and whiskers entirely too large for his face.
He had four neat, white paws and a white muzzle, a ringed tail, and the
traditional tabby-cat "M" on his forehead. His eyes were green and tilted,
betraying a Siamese great-great-great-etc. grandfather who'd been slumming
way back in the mists of time, and right now those eyes were dilated with
wordless, seafood-induced enjoyment as well as with the darkness of the
apartment. A cat burglar.

 But this cat was no run-of-the-mill burglar--truly, thievery was not
merely his work, it was his vocation. A thief didn't define what he
did--it was who he was. He had a stash of smash-and-grabbed items in his
basket at home to put any jackdaw to shame. How he loved to curl up on his
plaid blanket and paw idly through his treasures--the Soft-Fluffies, the
Round-Rollies, and best of all, the Pretty-Shinies. Once, in his youth,
despite the fact that he weighed only about twelve pounds soaking wet (not
that he'd ever allow himself to become soaking wet,) he'd tried to drag
home a two-year-old child because he liked the way the wind ruffled
through her blonde curls. Her keepers had come along and taken her away
from him, and he'd run off in embarrassment when they tried to pet him.
That one fiasco aside, he generally got and kept what he stole. His name
was Riley.

 The sound of a key in the lock, a hand on the knob, and Riley levitated,
as all cats can do, to the open window. He disappeared from sight in a
heart's-beat. The lights came on in the room he'd just vacated.

 "Well, that was certainly... productive," spoke a human voice. "I'd thank
you, Diefenbaker, for your unaccustomed efficiency with regard to
'walkies' tonight, but I know it's all in aid of your getting back to your
favorite, once-a-week salmon dinner."

 A whine answered the voice... it was the whine of A Hated One. Riley's
ears pricked and he lifted his nose, breathing in the scent so deeply his
eyes crossed. One of Those Who Did Not Wash Themselves, and a big one at
that. Riley hated the kind of furred, four-legged people who didn't cover
up their own excrement--it seemed such a boastful, unnecessary thing, to
leave it lying around for just anybody to sniff.

 Riley flickered down the fire escape. He would remember this place and be
back.

 The passage of not very many minutes found the cat clawing his way up a
gnarled oak tree. He tippy-toed along one outstretched branch to a small
window, entering a brick, three-story residence unnoticed by its
inhabitants--or by anyone else, for that matter. Slipping between several
glass jars of scented salts decorating a shelf over the sink, he bounded
lightly to the floor. After a brief scratch in the box of kitty litter
next to the toilet bowl, Riley poked an inquisitive nose around the
bathroom door. He sniffed, taking stock of his house--for that was where
he was, in his own home.

 The Two were here, as they generally were. He didn't like The Two--well,
the Male One would give him a half-hearted scratch about the ears now and
again, but the Female One was, to put it mildly, not a cat person. And
since One and One made Two, Riley found himself disapproving of the Male
One on principal. He scampered to the top of the hall stairway and assumed
the meatloaf position, ears erect and forward, listening. The Two were
downstairs in the kitchen, arguing with one another, their voices not so
much raised in anger, but hissing, with an undertone of growl. A ridge of
fur raised itself along Riley's back.

 "Vivian! Are you out of your mind?"

 "Shuttup, Jeep!"

 "Why? She's at the store and none of the windows are open, no one can
hear me."

 "I can hear you! Just shut up. She'll never notice, Jeep."

 "Hurry then! Oh, why the hell do you have to always make everything so
complicated?""

 Riley's ears quirked at a rustling sound, crinkley paper being one of his
hobbies. Only the unpleasant rrrrip! of shipping tape unspooling kept him
from racing down the stairs to investigate. But moments later, the cat did
race down the stairs, because the front door had opened and His Person had
entered--and she was carrying a bag! He wound about her ankles sensuously,
enjoying the smell of sweaty feet and
raw-chicken-in-brown-paper-and-plastic.

 "Viv! Jeep! I'm home!" His Person reached down and scratched him behind
the ears, just where he liked it.

 The Female One came into the hall. "Aunt Emmy! Oh, give me that--you
shouldn't be out shopping in this heat, let alone at this hour! You should
have sent Jeep!" The Female One kissed His Person on the cheek and took
the bag from her. He batted at it and she pulled it out of his reach.

 "I'm going to splash my face with water--it's terrible out there! This
heat wave's just not letting up. This air-conditioning is a mercy." His
Person went up the stairs, leaving him alone with the Female One. The
instant His Person was out of earshot, the Female One aimed a kick at him,
spitting, "Scat, you little bastard!", but he was too smart for her and
danced out of her reach, tail straight up in an ironic salute. He ran up
the stairs to The Two's room. He felt a hairball coming on, and knew just
where he wanted to heave it.

 ***

 Diefenbaker was behaving very oddly tonight, mused Fraser to himself, but
aloud he merely said, "Oh, go on, it couldn't possibly have gone bad in
the ten minutes we were out." The wolf just whined at him, hovering
protectively over the half-eaten mound of salmon without touching it.

 "I know, Diefenbaker, it is quite a bit hotter than we're used to. I'm
not that hungry, myself." The Mountie threw himself into a kitchen chair
and had to fight to keep from slumping, wilting with the heat. It had to
be at least 85-degrees-plus in the apartment. And it was not a dry
heat--the curling pages of his library book, Charles Dickens' "The
Chimes," bore testament to the humidity.

 There was a knock at the door, a bit tentative. If he'd had his TV on,
he'd have missed it--that is, if he had a television set. He peeled
himself off the plastic seat and went to the door.

 It was Inspector Thatcher. Despite the fact that she'd knocked on the
door, obviously expecting someone to open it, she blinked, apparently
surprised to see him. She had on a light-weight, white silk summer shift
with a matching jacket, that odd green garnet brooch of which she was so
fond attached to the lapel.

 "Inspector?!" he was certainly surprised to see her, and found he was
rather pleased. He held open the door to invite her in, but she held up
her hand.

 "Oh, no, I wouldn't dream of intruding!" she rushed to assure him, a
panicked look in her eye. "I just stopped by to give you this...." 'This'
turned out to be a medium-sized, red-metal fan, its carry-strap clutched
in the hand not held up in placation.

 The door opposite Fraser's opened up, and the round, cherubic face of
Mrs. Coolidge poked out, her many necklaces and bracelets clinking
musically. "Oh, Mr. Fraser, I thought I did hear your voice," she said,
her curious eyes taking in the stylish form of Inspector Thatcher framed
in the doorway. In fact, Mrs. Coolidge looked as if she were a tailor
rather expertly measuring the Inspector for a suit. "And is this your
little girlfriend, Mr. Fraser? We've all of us in the building been so
wanting to meet her!" The building's grapevine would be buzzing tonight.

 Meg Thatcher gulped, but it was Fraser who answered. "Uh, no, ma'am;
actually, this is my superior officer."

 Mrs. Coolidge dismissed his protest breezily. "Oh,
sweetie-pie--'girlfriend', 'significant other', 'superior officer'--in the
end, they're all just a euphemism for the same thing, ain't they?" She
held out a brown paper sack. "Here you go, m'dear; one of the freezers at
Rudy's Ice Cream Palace broke down in the brown-out we had this afternoon,
so he was givin' a special offer; buy-one, get-one-free. I got you
vanilla."

 Fraser reached past Thatcher and took the package. "Thank you kindly. How
did you know that was my favourite flavour?"

 She laughed a great, rolling laugh. "Well, I don't know, sweetheart,
somehow I just figured vanilla'd be your favorite. Guess I must be
psychic! You and your little girlfriend enjoy that ice cream. You be good
now!" Still laughing, she shut the door on them.

 Fraser's eyes met those of the Inspector's. He noted a muscle twitching
in her cheek. "In the 1960's, Mrs. Coolidge was on the stage," he offered
by way of explanation, "...in a group called 'Peggy-Lee and the
Shirdelles'. He shrugged. "She was, ah, a Shirdelle."

 Much to his relief, the outburst foreshadowed by the twitching cheek
muscle was one of laughter, not rage. It was that kind of suppressed,
silent laughter that inevitably builds and breaks into noisy, high-pitched
giggles, so he grabbed her by one white silk sleeve and pulled her into
the apartment, shutting the door behind her before Mrs. Coolidge could
hear and possibly be offended.

 "W-where do you want it?" she gasped out between giggles, and the look on
his face must have betrayed him, because it set her off again. Wordlessly,
she held up the red fan she'd brought over.... Oh. Oh, dear.

 "Here?" he indicated the top of a chest-of-drawers.

 Her giggles dying down at last, she examined the place he'd chosen
critically. "No, not there--we're attempting to set up some
cross-ventilation." She looked around the room, her eye alighting at a
point near a window. "This would be a good spot." She put the fan down,
swinging the electrical cord in her hand. "Outlet?" she inquired, eyebrows
raised.

 There was an electrical outlet behind a chair, which he pulled away from
the wall for her, and she plugged the fan in. Once she switched it on, the
difference in the room was almost immediately noticeable. Diefenbaker left
the dish he'd been protecting in the kitchen and threw himself bodily in
front of the artificial breeze, panting extravagantly.

 Fraser nodded in approval. "Thank you kindly, but won't you be needing it
yourself?"

 She shook her head. "My apartment is climate-controlled. Besides, this
isn't my fan. I remembered seeing it in the storage basement back when I
did The Inspection."

 "Ah," Fraser nodded. Yes... The Inspection. The complete, top-to-bottom
going-over of the Consulate the Inspector had performed when she'd first
assumed command; he'd heard about it. He had missed The Inspection, as
he'd been in the hospital at the time, but it was still whispered about
amongst the junior staff of the Consulate in tones of horror. It almost
made Fraser glad Ray had shot him in the back.

 She smiled, no doubt at the memory of the subsequent thirty-six-hour-long
spit-and-polishing her entire staff had got down to after The Inspection.
The fan certainly looked clean enough. "I see no reason why one of my
staff shouldn't borrow it," she said.

 "As soon as this heat wave breaks, I assure you, I'll have it back in
storage immediately," he promised her.

 "Somehow, from you, I'd expect nothing less, Constable," she said
formally. She looked at the brown paper sack in his hand. "You're
dripping."

 It was the ice cream Mrs. Coolidge had given him, which he'd forgotten to
put away. He brought it over to the kitchen counter, and pulled out two
bowls. "This ice cream was meant for you as well as for myself, will you
stay?"

 Abruptly, she reverted to the uneasiness she'd exhibited upon her
arrival. "Oh. No, thank you, but no--actually, I'm on my way to a charity
banquet at the museum."

 "Understood." He filled both bowls with ice cream.

 She looked at him suspiciously. "If you understand, why are you still
dishing out two bowls?"

 Carefully turning his back so that the deaf wolf basking in front of the
fan couldn't read his lips, he said, "For Diefenbaker. I have no room in
the freezer, it's full of buffalo meat left here by, well--never mind, the
freezer's full and I'll never finish this by myself. He pushed a bowl
along the counter towards her. "...last chance to change your mind."

 She smiled. "Now that I think of it... the food at these banquets is
generally pretty inedib--"

 Someone pounded a brief tattoo at the door; loud, brash and confident.

 "Come on in, Ray, it's not locked."

 The Chicago cop threw open the door, then bent to pick up the large fan
he'd brought with him. "Vecchio to the rescue--heeeell-ooo?" upon seeing
Thatcher.

 "Good evening, Detective Vecchio; I'm here in an official capacity only,"
she answered back primly, "...and I was just leaving. Good evening,
Constable."

 "Was it something I said?" Ray asked after the door shut behind her.
"What is it with The Dragon Lady--she has to bring the office home with
her, even when she's in someone else's home?" Fraser silently pushed the
second bowl of ice cream towards him. "Rudy's Ice Cream Palace ice cream?"
the cop enthused, seeing the name on the brown paper bag. "Just in time
for ice cream--is my timing great, or what?"

 Fraser sighed. "Your timing is, as ever, impeccable, Ray."

 "Didja have to get vanilla? It's so boring."

 The Mountie just stared at him.

 "What?"

 "Nothing, Ray." At that moment, a green glint caught his eye. "...oh,
dear." Hoping it wasn't what he thought it was, Fraser went to the chair
by the window, the one he'd moved to allow the Inspector to plug in the
fan. There it was--her brooch, where it had undoubtedly fallen when she'd
bent over. He held it up for his friend to see.

 "Oh, jeez, not that damned thing again," Ray moaned upon seeing it.

 "It would appear the Inspector has not yet gotten the clasp fixed. That
was very remiss of her."

 Ray snorted. "Well, it's pretty ugly--I think she's tryin' to lose it,
myself."

 Fraser looked out the window to see the Inspector's car pulling away.
"I'd better call in to her voice mail and leave a message. I'll try to get
through to the museum, too; she's heading over for a banquet they're
holding there." He went to use Mr. Mustafi's phone.

 "I'll put your ice cream in the... hey! What's all this meat doin'
wall-to-wall in your freezer?"

 *****

 As all thieves are said to do, so this one returned to the scene of the
crime. A true master of the 'four-toed' discount, Riley once again
infiltrated by way of the still-open window. He stood motionless in the
darkened room, nose up and sniffing. There was something different about
the apartment. For one thing, the salmon was gone, darn it. But more
importantly, a great hum filled the room, and a wind moved his whiskers
and the fur on his back. It was a bit confusing because it was so loud, he
couldn't hear anything else in the apartment, which he didn't like. But he
had unfinished business with this place. He had not come away with
anything tangible to commemorate the original break-in, and that had to be
remedied.

 The little gray-and-brown tabby nosed about a bit where the salmon had
been, but found only a bowl of water, from which he drank, then levitated
himself to the kitchen table for a quick look-see. And there it was... the
Pretty-Shiny of his dreams. It was beautiful, it sparkled even in the dim
light of the street lamp outside. It was heavy, yet compact, in his mouth
when he picked it up, just the way he liked his Pretty-Shinies....

 Suddenly, an enormous shape launched itself at him out of nowhere,
frightening him out of his wits and nearly knocking him off the table.
Riley sprang to the window, jumping over a large fan as he went, the
creature crashing into it behind him, slowing his attacker down long
enough so that the little cat made good his escape.

 The best part was--the best part other than escaping with life and limb,
of course--the best part was, he'd been so terrified, he hadn't even
opened his mouth to yowl. He still carried the Pretty-Shiny of his dreams
with him!

 Riley disappeared down the fire-escape.

 "Great Scott!"

 Fraser had been deeply asleep when calamity struck and, let's be fair,
was also a bit groggy with the summer heat. He reached out for the reading
lamp next to his bed, and managed to knock it over. He tried to sit up and
found that there was a book lying on his chest, and that fell to the floor
with a clatter, too. He sat up in bed and tried to collect his wits, but
was not helped one bit when Diefenbaker threw himself onto the bed and
into his face, worrying at him with a cold, doggy nose. Since all the
Mountie wore was a pair of starched boxer shorts, wolf-fur stuck to bare
skin where ever he'd been sweating, which was pretty much all over.

 "Diefenbaker--Diefenbaker! Get off me! I am not a salt-lick!" he pushed
the wolf away and cast about next to the bed for the lamp. Finding it, he
turned it on and placed it back where it belonged, on the table next to
the bed. He remembered that he couldn't sleep, and had tried reading his
book, the subject of which was a cold New Year's Eve in London, in the
faint hope that it would distract him from the reality of a hot summer
night in Chicago. It had worked, and he'd managed to switch off the lamp
just before he'd fallen asleep. Then an ungodly noise had awakened him....

 Righting Ray's fan, which seemed undamaged, Fraser found the kitchen a
shambles. The wolf beside him bristled and growled. "Diefenbaker, for
heaven's sake, have you been having nightmares again? There's nothing
here. See? There. Is. Nothing. Here." Fraser straightened the table and
picked up a kitchen chair that had been knocked over, then re-filled
Diefenbaker's water bowl. He was about to get a mop, when he realized how
correct his last statement was--there was nothing there. Inspector
Thatcher's brooch was not on the table where he'd left it. It had not
fallen on any of the chairs. It was not on the floor. It was not under the
refrigerator or the stove.

 There was a glistening pawprint on the melamine tabletop. No, two
pawprints. Wolf spoor. Oh, God.

 The wolf whined. He appeared to be... drooling.

 "Diefenbaker? You didn't... did you...? Did you eat Inspector Thatcher's
pin?

 ***

 It was shortly after dawn, and Riley watched His Person make breakfast
from an excellent vantage point--the top of the refrigerator. He stared
hard and hungrily at the sizzling bacon, but kept his distance. A good
thief bides his time and waits for the perfect moment to make his move.

 The Female One entered the kitchen, closely followed by her mate, who
carried a large box. "Aunt Em? Up so early?" The Two did not notice him on
top of the fridge.

 "Yes, dear. Are you two hungry? Would you and Jeep like me to throw on
some more bacon and eggs? It's no trouble."

 The Male One looked hopeful, but the Female One's words caused his face
to fall. "No, we never touch pork. We're trying to avoid animal fats."
Foolish humans.

 "Up to you," said His Person genially, dropping the sizzling bacon strips
onto a dish lined with paper towel. She expertly slid her sunny-side up
eggs onto a plate, arranged the bacon around the two orange yokes, then
made herself comfortable at the kitchen table. Pulling her reading glasses
from her housecoat pocket, she perused the front page of the morning paper
as she ate. Riley's stomach growled.

 "Um...," said the Female One. "I suppose you're wondering what we're
doing with this box?" 

 The Male One turned to look at his mate as if she had suddenly gone mad,
but His Person didn't even take her eyes off her paper. "Hmmm? What did
you say, Vivie, dear?" she spoke absently, following the story to page
three with a rustle of newsprint.

 "This box? It's... a gift. Yes, a gift for a friend of mine. Someone I
knew in college. She's getting married," continued the Female One, staring
defiantly at the older woman who sat engrossed in the news. "...we're
going to go over to UPS later and ship it out to her. She lives in, um,
Kansas." 

 The Male One looked as if he were about to pass out and held the box
tight to his chest like drowning man clutching a life preserver.

 "That's sweet, dear," said His Person, nibbling a crispy bacon strip.
Oblivious, she was paying attention to neither her irritating relative,
nor to the feral jungle beast who lay in wait on top of the Frigidaire.
The fearsome Riley crouched, readying himself for the leap, his backside
and tail twitching with anticipation.

 "Yes, Crate & Barrel was having a sale," continued the Female One. It
seemed she was beginning to enjoy herself; as she got more engrossed in
her own tale, her voice took on a ring of confidence. "I got her a crystal
ice bucket. Hand-blown in Romania. Very simple and classic, I'm sure
she'll love it. She always did like giving parties when we were in college
together."

 With a little sigh, His Person finally looked up and away from her
breakfast, to smile at the Female One, saying, "It sounds as if it's the
perfect gift for your friend, then, dear...." 

 She never finished the sentence, because it was for this precise moment
that Riley had been laying in wait. He dove from the top of the fridge to
land squarely on top of the box the Male One held tight around the middle,
using it as a spring-board to the kitchen table, scattering plates and
snatching a strip of bacon as the box shot through the Male One's arms to
the floor like a watermelon seed squeezed between thumb-and-forefinger.
The crash-tinkle of shattering glass, the high-pitched scream of the
Female One, and the inarticulate bellow of the Male One followed the
little cat burglar as he raced from the kitchen to a hiding place on the
second floor, where, with little moans of pleasure, he devoured his prize.

 Back in the kitchen, the humans cleaned up the debris. Or, at least,
Riley's Human cleaned up the debris. The other two stood dazed; Jeep
white-faced, half-holding his arms before him as if in memory of the
package he once clutched; Vivian shaking the box to hear the sound of many
bits of glass shifting around inside.

 "Don't worry, Viv," sighed her aunt, sweeping up a broken teacup. "I'll
stop by Crate & Barrel today and pick up another ice bucket for you. But
honestly, dear, it's obvious you didn't pack that gift properly. A lot
worse than just hitting the floor happens to a box once it's in the UPS's
clutches, you know. In fact, why don't you give me your friend's address,
I'll have the professionals at the store wrap up an ice bucket and ship it
for you."

 Blink. Blink. Vivian slowly came to her senses. "That's all right," she
stated in an unnaturally calm voice. "I'll take care of it. Nothing for
you to worry about at all, Auntie Em. Come along, Jeep." She turned as if
in a dream and left the kitchen, box in hand, her mate in tow.

 'Auntie Em' stopped sweeping long enough to stare after the departing
pair. "Now what are those scamps up to this time?" she asked herself.
She'd been paying a bit more attention to what was going on around her
than was immediately apparent to the casual viewer. She'd definitely keep
her eyes open from here on in.

 ***

 Fraser's early-morning call to Ray was just frantic enough to motivate
the cop over to the apartment at what he considered an ungodly hour on the
one Saturday morning in the month of June he had off. Even at its lowest
point, the temperature in the night had been unbearable--and it had shot
up yet another ten degrees with the sunrise. Ray, as cool as he could
manage in a multi-colored Hawaiian shirt and shorts, threw himself bodily
onto Fraser's couch and cracked the top of the iced coffee he'd bought
along the way for a long drink of that healing, caffienated beverage. He
looked at his Mountie friend and had to suppress a laugh--the closest the
Canadian could come to dealing with the heat was a gray tee-shirt with
"Property of the R.C.M.P." stamped on it in red and a pair of
jeans--full-length jeans, not even cut-offs. Well, at least, for once,
Fraser was actually sweating--good enough for him. Ray snorted in
heat-weary disdain and relaxed into the couch, letting the
cold-and-caffeine combination work its magic.

 Fraser took the opportunity of his silence to explain in full what had
happened the night before and his fears that Diefenbaker had swallowed the
Inspector's pin.

 Ray threw back his head and laughed. "What, you never heard the old
saying, 'This, too, shall pass'?"

 "That is a most amusing pun, Ray, but it won't help me explain to
Inspector Thatcher that her beloved brooch is even now making its way
through Diefenbaker's digestive tract."

 "So, don't tell her."

 "Ray! That would be dishonest! Besides, last night I left a message for
her on her voice mail that I'd found it and would give it to her when next
I saw her."

 "So, she can't get in touch with you until you walk into work first thing
Monday morning--I begin to see a method to your madness, this
not-having-a-phone thing, which, in case I haven't mentioned it before, is
generally pretty annoying."

 The two law-enforcement officers stared at the wolf in question, who sat
on a pile of newspapers, whining unhappily.

 "C'mon, Fraze; a watched wolf never... well, you know."

 "Understood. Besides, it's 9 o'clock. The veterinarian's office should be
open now." The Mountie got up to go to Mr. Mustafi's, only to find Ray's
cellular phone being held in his face. He took the phone. "Thanks, Ray."

 "I can't believe you're over-reacting like this."

 "I'm not over-reacting, Ray. It's just it only now occurred to me that
the pin, with its loose clasp, could open inside of Diefenbaker."

 Ray sat up at that. Apparently this unpleasant possibility hadn't
occurred to him until now, either.

 ***

 Two hours and seventy-five American dollars later, Diefenbaker had been
thoroughly X-rayed and was found to be free and clear of any brooch-eating
wrong-doing. They took him home.

 "Well, you might have said something!" complained the Mountie to the back
of the angry wolf's head once they got back to the apartment. "Ray, you
talk to him."

 "Whaddaya mean, 'Ray-you-talk-to-him'? What makes you think I'm talkin'
to you? I can't believe I just spent $75 to X-ray this animal and that
stupid pin wasn't even inside him."

 "Yes, I've been thinking about that. Diefenbaker was upset yesterday.
Indeed, as I said, he knocked over a chair and your fan at around three in
the morning--I assumed it was one of his nightmares, there were no
indications that anyone else had been in the apartment. It would appear I
might have been wrong about that. I might well have had a thief in my
apartment last night."

 "Something else to apologize to Dief about."

 "Please, don't give him any ideas. Diefenbaker! Look at me! We're going
to track the thief!" the Mountie held the deaf wolf's head and enunciated
the words very carefully in hopes that the hunt might focus his attention
on something other than his hurt feelings. "We need to find the piece of
jewelry that was on the kitchen table last night. Find the one who took
it, Diefenbaker. Please."

 "Yeah, come on, Dief--Lassie would do it, even if Timmy had just dissed
her," added the Chicago cop helpfully.

 Grudgingly, Diefenbaker turned to the kitchen table, sniffing. He trotted
over to the window, and jumped out. Fraser followed.

 Ray ran for the door, muttering, "Oh, yeah. I hate it when this happens."

 By the time Ray had dashed down three flights of stairs, Fraser and
Diefenbaker had made their way down the fire escape and were halfway up
the block. As Ray had wanted to see how the wolf would negotiate the fire
escape ladders, he was disappointed, but still game, and he charged up the
street after them.

 Their first stop was the Lincoln Street Fish Market--or, more precisely,
the dumpster in the alley behind the Lincoln Street Fish Market. Dief
executed a perfect leap into the dumpster and began rustling amongst the
black-plastic garbage bags, several of which had been ripped open,
exposing day-old fish guts to the hot June sun.

 "Now, that is disgusting!" yelped Ray, rather predictably. This time even
Fraser wasn't climbing into the dumpster. Diefenbaker nosed about a bit,
then jumped out the other side, racing pell-mell around the corner, the
two law enforcement officers in close pursuit.

 They ran a brief tour of almost the entire neighborhood, but Diefenbaker
never showed enough interest in anything long enough to stop. Through back
alleys, over cars, around playgrounds they went, until Ray thought that
heat-stroke was definitely in his future, and soon. "There are twenty-four
bars and sixteen liquor stores in this neighborhood! What, this guy never
stopped for a beer?" he complained, puffing wearily. No one listened.

 The next place they stopped at was the front porch of a shabby-looking
private home. Two boys in tank tops, baggy shorts and high-top sneakers
sat in the shade on the stoop, looking too tired to play even though it
was only early afternoon. One of them had a super-soaker water rifle held
loosely in his hands. Diefenbaker ran up the stairs and nosed at the
front-porch railings for a bit, ignoring the boys' calls to him. Ray
staggered up to the porch, leaning one hand on it, the other hand holding
the stitch in his side. "I'm dyin'!" he moaned.

 "Hiya, Mr. Fraser," the boy holding the water gun greeted him. "Watcha
doin'?"

 "Diefenbaker is tracking someone who took something out of my apartment,"
the Mountie told them. "Have you seen anyone suspicious hanging about,
Ramone?"

 "Jus' this guy here," said Ramone, pointing at Ray. "Is he a weirdo or
somethin'?"

 "No, he's a police officer," said Fraser, and the two boys glanced at
each other with a 'that explains it' look in their eyes.

 "Kid," gasped Ray, "What is it--Ramone? Ramone. I will give you five
bucks if you shoot me with your watergun. Repeatedly."

 Ramone's eyebrows shot up at this. "We need six bucks for both of us to
get into the matinee at the Cineplex," he said, cannily.

 "What's playin'?" asked his friend.

 Ramone snorted at the foolishness of the question. "Who cares?"

 "Yeah, I getcha--air-conditioning," Ray said. "Wait a minute. There's
just water in that thing, right?"

 "Yeah, there's jus' water, what else would there be?" the boy looked
outraged at Ray's suggestion that there might be anything but water in his
water gun.

 "When I was a kid, we used to spike our waterguns with soap or perfume
or, better yet, grape juice," Ray smiled at the old memory, even gave a
chuckle at the thought of Frannie's face that one time.... of course, he'd
been grounded for a week and had had to buy her a new blouse out of his
allowance when Ma couldn't get the purple stains out of the old one, but
it had been worth it. "Oh, yeah, grape juice. We were totally rotten
kids."

 The two boys looked as if they'd had an epiphany. Apparently doctoring
the water in the gun had never occurred to them before, and they looked as
if they were considering the endless possibilities that lay before them.

 "Now, Ray; I really don't think--" began the Mountie, but the boys
excitedly cut him off.

 "Thanks, mister!" Ramone pulled the super-soaker gun site up, aimed it at
Ray's loud Hawaiian shirt, and let loose a volley of blasts, soaking him
thoroughly. "Bye, Mr. Fraser; bye, Diefenbaker!" They ran into the house,
slamming the screen door behind them.

 "Oh, that was great! I think I'm gonna live," said Ray, throwing himself
down on the stoop the boys had just vacated. His shirt was plastered to
his body, but he didn't care. "Hey, they forgot the six bucks."

 "I don't think they're going to spend the afternoon in the theater, Ray,"
said the Mountie, a worried look in his eye. "Juvenile Hall, possibly, but
the theater?" He shook his head 'no.' "I really wish you hadn't 'shared,'
Ray."

 The cop ignored his friend, looking over his shoulder at the wolf who
waited in the shade, his tongue lolling out of his mouth with the heat.
"Okay, Big Bad Wolf. You look like you been huffing-and-puffing on the
brick house. Where to next?"

 Diefenbaker went down the stairs at a more sedate pace, and crossed the
street to another private house directly across the way. It was a genteel
brick building only beginning to go to seed; there were lace curtains in
the windows, which were sparkling-clean, but the wooden frames hadn't been
painted in quite a while. A small, decorative window of white-and-green
stained glass stood open on the second floor at the side of the house, and
the wolf paced back and forth beneath it, whining and barking sharply.
There was a tall, old oak tree next to the house, and both men could see
that a branch curved around to the window, forming a natural bridge. The
window looked too small for an adult to squeeze through, but a child? A
possibility. They went to the front door.

 "There's only one name on the doorbell, Ray," said the Mountie. "E.A.
Kinsella."

 "E.A. Kinsella?" echoed Ray. "I know that name!"

 "Ah. Someone you've arrested in the past?"

 "No! My eighth-grade English teacher!" Ray said, ringing the door-bell.
"She'd be, what, in her sixties or seventies by now."

 "I hope you are not going to accuse your eighth-grade English teacher of
petty theft, Ray!" said the Mountie in scandalized tones, but the cop just
waved him to silence. Someone was peering at them through the small
stained-glass window inset into the front door at about eye-level.

 ***

 The woman who opened the door did look to be in her late sixties, a
vigorous-looking older woman. She had sharp, faded China-blue eyes; short,
white hair that curled around her ears, and wore a sleeveless housecoat.
She peered at them through the screen door. "Yes? Can I help you boys?"

 "It is you!" cried Ray. "Erminia Antoinette Kinsella!"

 "Heavens!" said the woman, "No one's called me 'Erminia' since my mother
died; oh, my--could it really have been fifteen years ago?" She shook her
head sadly at the thought.

 "It's me! Raymond Vecchio! Do you remember me, Mrs. Kinsella?"

 "Remember you? Of course I remember you--you were a terrible student!"
she laughed at that, either to show she was just kidding, or more likely
to show she didn't hold a grudge.

 "I'm a detective in the Chicago P.D. now," Ray said proudly, pulling out
his badge to show her.

 She looked properly impressed. "Good! Always go with your strengths, and
there's not much creative writing to be done in police work--one would
hope!"

 "Yes, ma'am. And this is a friend of mine, Fraser...."

 "Constable Benton Fraser of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police, at your
service, ma'am." Ray could almost swear the Mountie had clicked his heels,
despite the fact that he was wearing running shoes.

 "Oh, you're the young man who lives a block over in that apartment
building, aren't you? One of the neighborhood boys who cuts my grass spoke
of you, with reference to your coaching his softball team." She nodded her
head at him approvingly. Apparently whatever had been said was
complementary. "You two get yourself out of this heat! I have a pitcher of
sun-tea in the 'fridge, you come in here and tell me what's going on."

 "Ma'am? We have a wolf with us," interrupted Fraser, indicating
Diefenbaker, who sat at his feet, fretting. "He's usually better behaved
than this, something seems to be bothering him."

 "I shouldn't wonder. He probably smells my cat. I'm afraid he can't come
in here," she said regretfully. "Can you trust him to 'stay'? I can get
him a bowl of water and I have some tuna, if he likes that."

 Fraser looked down at Diefenbaker. "Tuna," he enunciated clearly, "you
will get tuna if you just stay here." The wolf sat. Apparently, it was a
deal.

 "He doesn't always do as he is instructed, but I think for tuna, he'll
stay in the general vicinity."

 A few moments later, the two law-enforcement officers found themselves
ushered into Mrs. Kinsella's sitting room. Fraser made himself comfortable
in a corner of the sofa, but Ray perched on the edge, trying to make as
little contact with the cushions as possible. His shirt had stopped
dripping but was still soaked through. Scrutinizing his surroundings with
great interest, Ray pulled the garishly-colored fabric away from his body
and shook it, trying to hurry the drying process along. He could hear the
hum of an air conditioner doing its job in the window behind the couch and
appreciated the wonderfully frigid blast of air it generated.

 The Kinsella sitting room was pleasant, though the furnishings were a bit
old-fashioned--overstuffed, tufted chairs, a marble-topped coffee table, a
side-board table, and heavy drapes in a Florentine rose-on-white
brocade--in other words, exactly what he would have expected in the home
of his ex-schoolteacher. But the feature that he found most remarkable
about the room was an arresting array of an even half-dozen antique
electric lamps set in what were obviously carefully chosen places of
honor. And what incredible lamps they were!--the lampshades crafted of
exquisitely-pieced-together stained glass and bronze in a pleasing
geometric pattern, the body of each lamp made of fine, hand-carved wood
and worked bronze. None of the lamps were lit, yet the jewel-like colors
glowed with an inner fire. Ray was impressed, even though when it came to
furnishings, he didn't know a... well, pardon me, but he didn't know a
hawk from a hassock.

 Mrs. Kinsella came in with a tray bearing glasses and a full pitcher, as
well as a plate of chocolate-chip cookies. She set about serving her
guests, fussing at them. "I see you've noticed my lamps--beautiful, aren't
they? My father was a craftsman for the designer and architect Frank Lloyd
Wright from 1915 through the early 30s--in fact, Daddy was one of the
finest stained-glass artisans of his time. Indeed, the Costello Glass
Company once rivaled Tiffany as the country's premiere art-glass
lamp-and-window shop." Her eyes narrowed when she finally got a good look
at her ex-pupil, peering at him through the glasses that hung on a chain
about her neck. "Good heavens, Raymond, do you need a towel? However did
you get so wet?" She clucked her tongue at him and handed him a tea-towel.
"Here, dear. You know, I'm not a bit surprised you became a police
officer--I remember how proud you were when you managed to find out what
my first name was--a proper little detective you were already! You behaved
as if you thought you actually had something on me after that!"

 "Well, why do you teachers always think you have to hide stuff like that
from us kids?" Ray complained as he mopped ineffectually at himself.

 "'Stuff like that'? You mean personal 'stuff' that isn't any of your
business?" parried the retired teacher good-naturedly, placing a few
cookies on his plate.

 "Mrs. Kinsella," began Fraser, trying to bring them back to the point of
the visit politely, "...do you, by any chance, have a relative staying
with you? A young person, perhaps?"

 "'Young' is a relative term, Mr. Fraser," she said. With a resigned air,
she made herself comfortable in a chintz-covered arm chair. "Oh, dear, I
didn't think this was just a visit with your old English teacher, Raymond.
Are Vivian and Jeep in trouble?"

 Ray noticed Fraser avoided answering her question directly. "Something
was taken from my apartment late last night, a large green brooch
belonging to my superior officer, by someone who climbed in at the window.
We tracked the thief to... well, I'm sorry, ma'am, but Diefenbaker led us
here. And he's quite a good tracker, ma'am. Are we speaking of two
children?"

 Mrs. Kinsella looked quite relieved. "Oh, no! Though goodness knows,
sometimes they behave as if they're children. No, Vivian is my niece, and
Jeep Rosado is her husband. They went to the store, to Crate & Barrel, I
think. They came up from Minnesota, they've lived with me for about six
months now, ostensibly to take care of me since I had my hip replacement.
They're in their thirties and both are quite out-of-condition--heaven
knows, they eat enough of my food, they must have put on twenty pounds
apiece since they moved in with me. The very thought of either of those
two climbing in somebody's window to steal a piece of jewelry is utterly
laughable!"

 Fraser nodded, apparently satisfied, but Ray would not be put off so
easily. "Pardon me, Mrs. Kinsella, but can you think of any possible
reason why your niece and her husband, well, might have had some sort of
contact with the thief?" He didn't feel comfortable advancing a theory as
to why they might have done this, however.

 His eighth-grade schoolteacher shook her head--but what she said next was
not at all what he expected her to say. "No. I wouldn't believe they'd be
that foolish. If they'd stolen something, it wouldn't have been from some
stranger's apartment, it would be from me. And if they stole something
from me, they certainly wouldn't have a thief drop by to pick it up from
them, they'd seek out a fence or a pawnbroker as far away from here as
possible." 

 Ray found himself rather shocked by the line of defense she chose for her
relations, and found himself hoping that if someone ever had to defend him
from charges of thievery, they'd find a nicer way to put it. Even
"Vecchio's a weasel, but he's always been a stand-up weasel," sounded like
enthusiastic praise next to this. He would definitely be having a word
with the Rosados when they surfaced. He posed another theory. "Mrs.
Kinsella, you mentioned a kid who cuts your lawn? You said he knows
Fraser, so there's a connection. That's a possibility."

 She looked doubtful. "Mario Gamez? A thief? I shouldn't think so.
Ridiculous."

 Ray threw up his hands--small world, wasn't it?--but he had to agree, the
idea of little Mario climbing through a window, let alone his hero
Fraser's window, to steal, was ludicrous.

 Fraser apparently dismissed the possibility without a second thought.
"You said you had a cat, Mrs. Kinsella. I know this sounds far-fetched,
but is it possible your cat might have wandered into my apartment?"

 "Oh, my, no!" she laughed at the idea. "Riley? Why, he's even more of a
stodgy homebody than my niece and her husband, I certainly don't let him
out. He's practically a paper-weight, he sleeps twenty hours a day and
spends the rest of the time begging for tid-bits from me! Which, I'm sorry
to say, I give him, I'm such a soft touch. He's getting quite pudgy."

 At that moment, there was an uproar outside so loud it could be heard
even over the hum of the air conditioner; barking, some snarling and
shrieking, and what sounded like yelling from a small mob of children.

 "Diefenbaker!" said Fraser, leaping to his feet, but before he could go
to the front door, there was a crash from upstairs, then something could
be heard clattering down the stairs in the hallway outside the sitting
room, and a small brown blur flew through the door and under the chair
Mrs. Kinsella sat in. 

 "Riley?!" gasped the ex-school-teacher.

 "Riley," said Fraser to Ray, who simply nodded in return, then went to
the window. Pulling aside the curtain, he saw Ramone and his friend
jumping up and down, the super-soaker in Ramone's hands, Diefenbaker
barking and dancing in excited circles around them.

 Fraser joined him at the window, quirking his chin towards the sight of
the two boys and the wolf. "Reminds me of the dance of victory Inuit
warriors perform when they slay a walrus," he said.

 Mrs. Kinsella was on her knees by her arm chair, reaching under it. She
pulled the terrified ball of brown fur from under the chair and held it to
her protectively. "Riley? Oh, my poor little baby kitten-cat, what's
wrong?" she said in tones that strayed dangerously towards baby-talk, much
to Ray's amusement. "Why are you so damp, Riley?" She looked up, worry in
her eyes, the hand not holding the cat against her out-stretched to the
two men. "He's... all wet and sticky," she said, then looked down at her
housecoat. "...and now, so am I."

 She seemed to be having difficulty rising, so the Mountie helped her to
her feet, Riley ducking his head under her arm when Fraser approached.
"May I?" he held her hand to his nose, then sniffed the only part of Riley
that showed, which was his back.

 Ray let the curtain drop. "Don't you dare lick my teacher--and I don't
wanna see you licking that cat, either!" he moaned.

 Fraser lifted an eyebrow at Ray, but obligingly rubbed his hand on the
cat's damp back. He sniffed at his finger, then licked it. "Grape juice,"
he announced authoritatively.

 "Why, yes, it is grape juice," confirmed the retired school teacher.
"White grape juice."

 "White grape juice?" Ray shook his head at the folly of today's youth.

 "And good thing, too," said Mrs. Kinsella, annoyance in her voice. "If it
were purple grape juice, it would have stained my housecoat quite badly,
you know."

 "Yes, Ray," said Fraser. "They liked your suggestion, but they seem to
have misunderstood the gist of the essential concept."

 "This is your fault, Raymond? Has nothing changed in over twenty years?"
she 'tsked' at him.

 "NO, this is not my fault! I didn't tell those kids to go shooting grape
juice at your cat!" yelled Ray, ignoring Fraser's look of disapproval.

 But after over forty years teaching in the Chicago Public School system,
Mrs. Kinsella didn't need the Mountie to protect her. "Don't you dare
raise your voice to me, young man," she said in a low, chilling tone of
voice that only nuns and schoolteachers can truly master. "Besides, you're
scaring Riley!" The animal huddled in her arms as if trying to physically
meld with her.

 Ray somehow managed to look grudgingly contrite. "And anyway," he said in
a much quieter tone, "I thought you said he didn't go outside--this proves
he does!"

 She seemed honestly confused. "But that's impossible. How could he?"

 A trip to the upstairs bathroom, and the answer was obvious. The small
window was open, several of the glass jars of scented salt that had
apparently once stood in the window lay dashed to bits on the tile,
rose-scented bath salts in heaps all over the floor.

 "Oh, dear, I suppose I shall have to get shutters," said Mrs. Riley
peering in from the hallway, still clutching Riley. He struggled,
obviously wanting to get down. Fraser stepped around the broken glass and
shut the window.

 "I would suggest iron bars, for that 'prison' motif," said Ray.

 "Now that I think of it, he was quite a clever kitten!" mused Mrs.
Kinsella. "Do you know he actually used to fetch? Like a little dog?"
Riley finally wriggled free of his mistress' arms. He jumped to the floor
and disappeared down the stairs.

 "Where's he goin'?" asked Ray.

 Mrs. Kinsella shrugged. "Oh, probably to hide out in his basket to sulk
amongst his toys."

 "Fraser--you check out the basket. I'll sweep up the bathroom."

 The Mountie looked surprised that his friend had opted for the physical
labour. "That's uncommonly good of you, Ray."

 "Not at all. I may get my finger cut by a piece of glass, but at least I
won't get savaged by a cat defending its turf." Ray felt a momentary stab
of guilt at the worried look that elicited on Fraser's face, but, hey, it
was The Dragon Lady's ugly green pin! As far as he was concerned, that
made it a Canadian problem. Not his.

 Mrs. Kinsella shot him an exasperated look. "Oh, don't you listen to
Raymond, dear;" she consoled the Mountie, "Riley is a marshmallow and
won't give you any trouble whatsoever...."

 Yeah, right. He knew from cats. Let the battle scars be on his best
friend, where they belonged. Ray bent to start picking up bits of broken
glass.

 "...come along, I'll show you his basket." She led Fraser away, like a
warden leading a convict to the electric chair.

 ***

 The Mountie lay on the floor on his stomach, his long legs poking out
from under the side-board table in the sitting room, peering into the
cat-basket that held Riley and, Fraser hoped, the object of the his
desire. The cat-basket was a woven wicker affair, with only one circular
opening. A pair of green, slanted eyes peered back at him from the
darkness within, reminding him of the pin he sought. 

 "Grrrrrrrrrrrr...."

 It was a menacing sound that did not leave the emotional state of the one
who uttered it to the imagination. It really was quite amazing that such a
small animal could make such a threatening noise, Fraser considered to
himself. Hmmm... that growl must bounce around in the animal's tiny chest
cavity to give it that deep-throated, almost echoing vibrato. He wondered
idly if the sound quality was in some way related to the purring noise
felines made as well.

 "Grrrrrrrrrrrr...."

 In civilization's long history, felines were the last of the animals to
be domesticated, and were, in fact, only semi-domesticated--he remembered
reading that in the Encyclopedia Britannica in his grandmother's library.
It would appear, at least anecdotally, to be true.

 "Grrrrrrrrrrrr...."

 Mrs. Kinsella had told him to wait a moment while she got a broom and
dustpan for Ray, that she's be right back to check out Riley's hideout for
him, but he couldn't let a senior citizen who had had a hip replacement
done sometime in the last six months or so get down on the floor and brave
the teeth and claws of this angry creature, now could he?

 "Ahem; here, kitty, kitty," Fraser stated in a clear, authoritative
voice. He reached out a tentative hand to the opening and was rewarded
with a snarl and a swipe of claws that narrowly missed his knuckles. Good
job he'd pulled his hand back so swiftly, he didn't have a great deal of
experience with felines and....

 "Hey! Who the hell are you?!" An angry female voice broke into his
ruminations. 

 Realizing how foolish he must look, he backed out from under the
sideboard carefully so as not to tip over the lamp upon it, banging his
head sharply on the drop-leaf for all his caution, then climbed to his
feet, rubbing the sore spot on the back of his head. A short, chubby woman
wearing pink shorts and a striped tank top stood there belligerently,
hands on hips, her lips compressed in a thin, angry line. "Well?" she
said, obviously waiting for his explanation.

 "Ah! Ma'am. Constable Benton Fraser at your service. I'm here with
Detective Vecchio of the 27th district. You must be Ms. Vivian Rosado. We
need to have a word with you, ma'am, and your husband." It occurred to him
that it might be a good idea to explain what he'd been doing on the floor,
so he gestured vaguely at the table the cat basket was under and said,
"I'm investigating a theft."

 Much to Fraser's astonishment, Ms. Rosado's face crumbled at his words,
and she wailed, "Oh, my God; oh, my god! Jeeeeep! The cops are here!"

 A stout little man with lank, black hair and a mustache, also dressed in
shorts and a tank top, came stumbling into the room from, Fraser assumed,
the kitchen--indeed, he still clutched a large club sandwich, a single
bite taken out of it, in his hands. The man stared at him with round,
frightened eyes, the crumbs clinging to his bristling mustache giving him
the look of a startled beaver caught in the act of chewing through a tree
by an angry woodsman.

 "Y-y-you a cop?!" gasped the little man, his face turning red.

 "Um, well, yes, sir, but I don't have any juris--" began Fraser.

 "Vivian!!! This is your fault! You couldn't just do the old switcheroo;
nooo--you had to make up some big story about it!" The little man actually
shook his sandwich threateningly at her.

 Ms. Rosado immediately ceased her incoherent histrionics and launched a
counter-attack upon the man Fraser quickly inferred was her husband,
though they had yet to be formally introduced. "You're the idiot who let
that cat break the lamp! We could have just returned it and maybe she
would of let us off the hook, but noooo! It's in pieces!" ...and she took
up her wailing again.

 "Excuse me, sir, ma'am; if you would only allow me to exp--," Fraser
began, only to be interrupted yet again, this time by the arrival of Mrs.
Kinsella, a ceramic jar tucked in the crook of her arm. "That's enough of
that now, young lady!" the ex-teacher spoke sharply to her niece, her
years in the Chicago Public School System coming to the fore. She dropped
the jar onto the side-board table with a definitive thunk of anger,
causing the lamp to jolt.

 A very annoyed-looking Ray came clumping down the stairs to see what the
altercation was about. He held the tea towel he'd used earlier to dry
himself tightly wrapped around his right hand. The towel had minute
streaks of fresh blood on it, so the Mountie was able to quickly deduce
Ray's prediction he would cut himself on the broken glass had proven
correct. His friend looked over the miniature riot gathered in the living
room, then threw back his head and bellowed, "SHADDAP!"

 The hysterical woman shot Ray a very dirty look, then hiccuped at her
aunt, "I can't believe you would call the cops on your own
flesh-and-blood!"

 "Good Lord! You mean you two really did steal this young man's brooch?"
said Mrs. Kinsella, honestly surprised.

 Ms. Rosado's face echoed that surprise, and Fraser, putting two-and-two
together, rushed in to clear the matter up as best he could. "No, ma'am,"
he said, "I think your niece is trying to tell you that she and her
husband stole one of your lamps." He held the electrical cord of the lamp
that stood on the side-board table up so they all could see. "This is a
modern cord, not the sort of cord used in the early 1900's, when this lamp
was supposed to have been created."

 Ray sighed. "So, so what? They replaced the cord when it got frayed! Big
deal."

 "Well, Ray, there's also this small plaque identifying this lamp as a
genuine reproduction sanctioned by the Frank Lloyd Wright Architectural
Foundation." Fraser tilted the lamp to the side so that all could see the
etched-brass plaque on the bottom.

 "OK, that I'll buy," nodded Ray. He smiled in a somewhat insincere
fashion at Ms. Rosado, who gulped at him, alarmed. "So, lady. Allow me to
read you and your husband over there your rights." The married couple
clutched at each other, both looking as if they'd faint at any moment.

 Mrs. Kinsella gave an embarrassed little cough. "Oh, dear; Raymond, that
won't be necessary."

 "Whaddaya mean, 'that won't be necessary'?" Ray spoke in exasperated
tones, "I'm guessing these lamps are probably worth a mint, right? I seem
to remember you always telling us kids that we had to shoulder our
responsibilities and pay the piper when we got caught doing wrong--this
woman here, a blood relation to you, just robbed you. And you're gonna let
her off just like that?"

 "As a policeman, Raymond, I shouldn't have to teach you that you cannot
judge a case without first ascertaining all of the facts. I'm certainly
very angry at her--I'm angry with you both," she turned on the two, whose
faces revealed an even mix of relief, fear, and guilt. "But they've
replaced what they stole with a lamp of equal value... you see, the lamp
they took was not, in fact, an original."

 "WHAT?!?" chorused the married couple.

 Fraser moved about the room. "And neither is this one, nor this one," he
confirmed, checking two of the lamps closely. "Are they all merely fine
reproductions, ma'am?"

 She shrugged. "Each time I sold a lamp, I stipulated that it be replaced
by a copy as part of the sale. I do so enjoy how very pretty they are,"
she said. "I sold my first lamp when I got married in the early 50s, and
we bought this house with the money. The last one went some twelve years
ago." The retired teacher gently brushed the top of the nearest lamp with
her finger, as if checking for dust, smiling. "Ironically, it wasn't until
after the last sale that father's lamps increased in value up to six
figures at auction houses like Sotheby's and Christie's."

 Mr. Rosado collapsed gracelessly onto the couch, his sandwich forgotten
at his side, crumbs all over the upholstery.

 "S-s-six figures?" stuttered Ms. Rosado, who had apparently gotten over
her fear of arrest. "That's a fortune! You sold my legacy, Aunt Em? How
could you?!" Ray snorted his disgust at this, and Fraser surmised he was a
bit put off by the young woman's presumptuousness. The Mountie was a bit
put off by her behaviour as well, which was why he kept his council about
a second revelation he quite suddenly gleaned from the surrounding lamps.

 But the retired teacher was having none of that from her niece. "This
isn't yours until I'm dead, dear. Until then, it's my property, to dispose
of as I will," she said. "Besides, the last lamp was sold to pay for your
college tuition, books, rooming costs. Self-sufficiency was supposed to be
your legacy."

 "Good one, Mrs. Kinsella," praised Ray. "So, you sure we can't do
anything with these two for ya?"

 The retired teacher shrugged. "Unnecessary. They were just leaving."

 "Leaving?" Ms. Rosado looked stricken. "You mean you want us to leave
your house, Auntie Em?"

 "I'd like you to leave my city, if you would be so kind, dear," confirmed
her aunt.

 "Jeeeep!" wailed the young woman, "what are we gonna do?!"

 The little man on the couch looked blank a moment, then blinked and
pulled his tattered sandwich lovingly to his chest. He spoke. "Well, I
dunno about you, Viv, but first I'm gonna get a coke to go with my
grinder. Then, I'm goin' back to Minneapolis. You wanna come, good. You
don't wanna come--well, that's okay, too." He got up and tottered back in
the direction of the kitchen. After a brief, panicked look around the
room, finding no sympathy in the faces that surrounded her, his wife
followed closely after him.

 ***

 Mrs. Kinsella smiled. Fraser's worry was somewhat alleviated at the sight
of that smile--she looked relieved at her relations' imminent departure.
He knew they were sneak thieves, but he didn't like the idea of the old
woman, alone in the house except for her cat. Yet she seemed at ease with
the turn of events.

 Waiting a few moments to make certain the Rosados were well-and-truly out
of ear shot, Fraser leaned in the ex-teacher's direction. "What are you
planning on doing with that last, genuine lamp, Mrs. Kinsella?" he
inquired confidentially, indicating an elegant blue-and-yellow stained
glass lamp tucked into the most shadowy corner of the room. His 'second
revelation' had been that only five of the half-dozen lamps were, in fact,
copies.

 Ray caught on quickly. "You mean you fibbed, Mrs. Kinsella?" he
whispered, disbelief that his ex-teacher would lie warring with delight in
his voice and on his face. Delight won out. "Cool."

 She was unmoved by her ex-pupil's teasing. "Not at all, dear--when I made
reference to 'the last sale,' I meant just that. It was the last lamp I'd
sold, not the last lamp I owned. Yes, I still have one of daddy's lamps
left. Very observant, young man."

 "What will you do, ma'am?" pursued Fraser, interested. "Will you leave it
to Ms. Rosado as her legacy?"

 "No, dear. I was going to, but not any more. So, you see, Raymond, there
will be a measure of punishment for Vivian. Though I wouldn't want to be
around when she finds out, I don't think my ear-drums could take it." She
sank into her armchair, as if tired by recent events, and took a cookie
from the platter she'd brought in earlier, nibbling it. "I don't know. I
suppose I'll investigate the possibilities of selling it at one of the
auction houses in New York City after all. This house really is too much
for me to handle, and the neighborhood has become rather dangerous for
someone getting on in years. Besides, all of my friends have moved to
places like Arizona or Florida. I suppose I shall follow them to where
it's warm 365 days of the year." She sighed.

 Fraser knelt next to her chair. "I'd say the proceeds from the sale of an
original Frank Lloyd Wright lamp would be more than adequate to fund such
a life-choice," he confirmed. "Please remember that I live one block away
and am available to help you, whatever you decide to do. And I'm sure
Mario and the rest of the lads on the softball team would be pleased to
aid you in your packing effort, should you decide a move is in your best
interests."

 Ray nodded in agreement. "And I think we oughta stick around a bit until
a certain dynamic duo is off the premises, their house keys outa their
pockets, and in your hand," he said, "...if you don't mind putting up with
us hanging around a couple of hours, I mean." He peeked under the towel
wrapped around his hand and seemed pleased by what he saw, despite the
multitude of iodine markings. Apparently the bleeding had stopped, because
he folded the towel up and dropped it on the side-table with a satisfied
air.

 "Oh my goodness!" said Mrs. Kinsella at a sudden thought. "I almost
forgot in all the excitement! You wanted to check Riley's basket for your
brooch, didn't you! That's why you're here, after all."

 "Well, admittedly, it's something of a long-shot, ma'am," said Fraser.
"But one likes to be thorough. I think if Ray would just pull that table
away from the wall, giving me clear access to where the animal's gone to
ground; I can just grasp it by the back of the neck with a swift motion,
and--"

 Mrs. Kinsella picked up the ceramic jar she'd brought in earlier, upon
which Fraser could see the words 'Cat from Hell' printed in bright red.
She shook it, a noise like a maraca resulting from this action.
"Riiiii-leeeee!" she called out in a light, musical voice as she shook the
jar.

 "Prrrrrrrt?" came from under the side-board table, and an inquisitive,
whiskered face popped out, green eyes wide.

 "Crunchies, Riley," she said invitingly to him. The rest of the cat
followed the face and soon Riley was winding his way around and around the
retired teacher's ankles. "I put Hill's Dry Diet for Felines in this jar,"
she explained. "He'd sell his soul for dry cat food, but I prefer he eat
canned, so I use this as a treat. Also to get him to come when called. No
mean feat, that; he is a cat, after all."

 Fraser raised his eyebrows at Ray, who merely made an 'after you' gesture
towards the table. The Mountie dropped to his knees, reached under the
table and pulled out the wicker cat basket. Soon, he had the contents of
the basket spread out over the floor. It was a considerable haul.

 Riley's loot included: a blue baby bootie; a plastic hoop earring; a
knitted brown-and-orange snowflake-patterned glove, size 8; a cut-crystal
decanter stopper; the daisy-wheel off a printer; a lipstick in Ravishing
Red; a metal box of 'curiously strong' peppermints; a porcelain doll's
head, no hair, one eye; a toothbrush; a short, thick length of chain,
three links; a heart-shaped cookie-cutter; a teapot lid; a miniature jar
of marmalade of the sort you get in restaurants; a naked G.I. Joe with
bendable knees and sure-grip hands; an ornate pair of sterling silver
sugar tongs ("Oh! I wondered where my grandmother's sugar tongs got to!"
exclaimed Mrs. Kinsella); a desiccated cicada that Fraser mistook for a
carved scarab for a moment; an empty saltshaker in the shape of a
flamingo; a pom-pom off a ski cap; a 3-inch tall figurine of a shepherdess
holding a lamb; a silver key ("Honda Civic, 1993, if I'm not mistaken,"
said Fraser knowledgeably; "Oh, yeah? Then what color was it, smart guy?"
asked Ray); a child-proof capped bottle of prescription motrin, three
months past expiration date; a TV remote; a striped bow-tie; a battered
Ray Steven's 'The Streak' CD disk; a Bigelow tea bag, Earl Gray, still in
its foil packet; a 'Godzilla for President' button ("There's something you
don't see everyday," said Ray, appropriating it for his nephew); a
refrigerator magnet in the shape of a tiny bagel with 'googly' eyes and a
felt hat glued to it; a Visa card belonging to a Mr. Wayne P. Teitelbaum;
a small, plastic starship Enterprise, one nacelle broken off; a spool of
purple thread; a black chess piece, the rook; a pocket flashlight, still
working; a red Styrofoam Christmas tree ornament ("Jesus! Look at all this
crap!" said Ray, "how the hell did he fit himself into that basket?); a
Lucite bangle-bracelet; a small, unidentifiable metal object; a poker
chip; and a yellow plastic wind-up toy in the shape of a duck... and that
was it, apparently. 

 "That can't be it!" protested Ray, hovering.

 Fraser shook out the plaid blanket that lined the basket. There was
nothing else.

 Ray threw his hands in the air in frustration. "Man, I was so sure, once
you started pulling that old junk outa there!"

 Sighing, the Mountie wound up the duck and set it free--Riley instantly
stopped rubbing his face on Mrs. Kinsella's ankles and attacked the toy
viciously, sending it out of the room with one swipe of his paw, then
following it at a run. They could hear the cat skittering about the
hallway's parquet floor, bouncing the duck off the walls.

 "Well...," said Fraser rather forlornly. "It was a good try, Ray."

 "Whaddaya mean, 'it was a good try, Ray'! Look at all this junk, Benny!
Proof positive that that damned cat took that stupid brooch!," his friend
pointed out.

 "I tend to agree," said Mrs. Kinsella, shaking her head. "I had no idea I
had so many thieves under my roof! Oh, don't worry, dear, I'll keep my
eyes open and I'm sure, eventually...."

 Riley came roaring back into the room, chasing his toy and sending it
swooping across the floor at warp speed, flinging his body after it in an
orgy of destructive energy....

 Fraser looked down at the flurry of activity... and saw, out of the
corner of his eye, the cat batting at something green-and-silver, which
slid across the floor and disappeared under Mrs. Kinsella's arm chair....

 "Hey! Didja see that!" yelped Ray.

 The two men dove for the chair, almost overturning it in their enthusiasm
and frightening Riley, who leapt to the back of the couch, his tail and a
ridge of fur along his back fluffed. They ignored him and scrabbled about
under the chair's dust-ruffle.

 It was Fraser who, quite rightly, found Inspector Meg Thatcher's green
garnet brooch first. He pulled it from the darkness and liberated it from
the dust-bunny that held it captive, then held it aloft in triumph for all
to see.

 "Oh, my! That certainly is ugly, isn't it, dear," said Mrs. Kinsella,
'tsking' in dismay.

 "No, ma'am," disagreed Fraser, smiling with the joy that comes with a
heavy weight being lifted from one's shoulders. "No, I assure you, it is a
very attractive brooch, indeed. Thank you, ma'am!"

 ***

 By the time the Rosados had packed their belongings and been seen off the
premises, night had fallen; and with the darkness came a cool front,
breaking the heat wave that had held the city of Chicago in its grip for
days. A steady pitter-patter of rain hit the pavement, which steamed
gently.

 "Thank God," said Ray, pulling up to Fraser's apartment building. "This
saves me a couple a bucks. I was on the verge of gettin' the Riv
hand-waxed. Nothin' like waxin' the Riv to make it rain."

 "Interesting, Ray," Fraser said, checking the integrity of the plastic
wrap on the plate of cookies Mrs. Kinsella had given him while fending off
Diefenbaker, prior to a dash through the rain to his front door. "Is this
part and parcel with the belief that when you run out of a personal
product like toothpaste or mouthwash, you will have luck in the lottery?"

 "Well, see? That worked out pretty good last time, didn't it?" asked Ray,
purposely ignoring the fact that though he'd won $25,000 in the Illinois
State Lottery, a chicken had eaten his ticket before he could collect. He
peered mistrustfully out the rain-streaked windshield at the sky and
changed the subject. "Ain't gonna let up any time soon. You two gonna make
a run for it or what?"

 "Yes, Ray, in a moment...." The Mountie licked his lips, as he always did
before broaching a tricky subject. "Ray?"

 "What, Benny?"

 "What ever are we going to do about Mrs. Kinsella?"

 The cop shrugged. "We'll check in on her on a regular basis--I'll even
get Ma to have her over to the house once in a while. We'll help her move
to the Sun Belt if that's what she wants. You'll get in contact with that
auction house in New York and help her pack up that old lamp nice an'
tight for shipping." He pulled a cookie from under the wrap on his own
plate and ate it carefully, trying to minimize the amount of crumbs
scattered on the Riv's upholstery.

 Apparently something was still bothering Fraser, because he wouldn't let
it go. "I know we'll do all that, Ray; it's just that... it doesn't seem
enough. Here we have a woman who gave her life over to looking after other
people's children, and she has nobody upon whom to rely now that she is
the one who needs looking after. Given that two of her relations have
already attempted to take advantage of her, and in a particularly
scurrilous manner, how can we send her on her way knowing that her most
dependent years lie ahead of her?"

 Ray slumped in his seat. He was just not up for this, not after the day
he'd had. "Look, Benny, we can't do the things for her that her family
should be doin' for her. It's not our responsibility and it's not our
place to go beyond 'good neighbor'-type help. You can't choose your
relatives. But you can choose your friends, and she has good friends in
us. She'll be okay in the short run. In the long run? Hell, I can't
guarantee anyone's long run, not even my own."

 The Mountie nodded ruefully. "I suppose that will have to do."

 "Look on the bright side, Fraze. Worse comes to worse, the cat'll keep
her in stolen credit cards and jewelry."

 At the mention of 'jewelry,' the Mountie quickly patted his shirt, where
he'd pinned the Inspector's brooch. He had been unwilling to chance
damaging it by shoving it into his jeans pocket and had attached it just
over the 'P' in R.C.M.P. on his tee shirt, much to Ray's amusement.

 "Don't worry, it's still there. And might I add, looks just lovely,"
nodded Ray, straight-faced.

 "Thank you kindly, Ray. Diefenbaker? Shall we?" The Mountie flung open
the car door and he and the wolf ran up the steps into the apartment
building. 

 "Fraser! Don't forget! Two o'clock, my place; Ma's makin' brasciole! You
don't show up for Sunday dinner, Frannie's gonna break my trigger finger!"
followed them through the raindrops.

 *

 Monday dawned, the weather seasonal for early June: warm, sunny,
pleasant. Fraser got to work early, as usual, but did not make the same
mistake he'd made the last time he'd found the Inspector's stolen
brooch--he did not leave it on her desk. Which is why at 9:04 AM
precisely, a very harassed-looking Meg Thatcher burst through the door of
Fraser's office, a wild look in her eye. A stream of questions flowed from
her, with no space left in between for him to answer. 

 "Where the hell is it? Why didn't you leave it on my desk?! Did you lose
it, Fraser!? So help me, if you try to hand me one of your bizarre tales
on why you don't have my brooch, I'll...."

 He simply opened his desk drawer and drew the pin from its resting-place
atop a pile of paper clips, placing it gently on his blotter. It glowed in
the light of his desk lamp like a smooth, green chunk of Kryptonite. A
slight smile played around his lips and eyes; indeed, so cool was his
demeanor, one would never guess he'd been compulsively checking and
re-checking that desk drawer every five minutes to re-confirm the
existence of the brooch since he'd put it in there at 7:45 AM.

 "Oh!" was all Thatcher could think to say for a moment. She picked the
brooch up and studiously checked the fastening in the back, apparently
unwilling to meet his eyes. "When I didn't find it on my desk, I naturally
assumed the worst. Why didn't you just leave it there like the last time?"

 "I believe at that time, you left standing orders that I never penetrate
your inner sanctum...." The Inspector lifted a knowing eyebrow at this and
he realized with horror what that had sounded like. Blushing, he rushed to
clarify, "...which is, uh, to say, never to go into your office... in
future. Sir."

 "Oh!" Thatcher repeated herself. She tilted her head in a semi-shrug for
a moment, pursing her lips as if she were trying to say something she
found rather difficult to express. "Yes. Well. That seems rather... rather
unnecessary; in fact, it's downright silly, isn't it, to bar a member of
my staff from my office. We're a team; we all work together here. You
might need access at some future, um, date...." She finally, slowly,
looked up and met his very blue, very understanding eyes. "...to... to my
office."

 "Yes, ma'am."

 She smiled, a smile as clear and sunny as the June morning, softening her
sharp features. "Good!" she nodded at him in relieved approval and held
the brooch up between thumb and forefinger. "I'll just go and send Ovitz
out to get this fixed now, shall I?"

 "That would be a very good idea, ma'am."

 She nodded, suddenly all correct again. "As you were, Constable."
Performing a perfect about-face, she marched to the door, stopping there
for a moment without turning around. "Thank you... Benton," she said.
"Thanks. For everything. Always." Squaring her shoulders, she slammed the
door behind her, waking up Diefenbaker, who had been snoozing under the
desk all this time.

 Fraser looked down at the confused wolf, who whined up at him
questioningly.

 "It's nothing," the Mountie assured him. "She's quite fond of... of that
brooch, you know."

 The End

 Please e-mail me at vecchio@trickster.org