THE GREAT NORTHERN MAPLE SYRUP ADVENTURE

PART ONE: CHICAGO

CHAPTER ONE

Detective Ray Vecchio swung the door to the Patrician Grill wide and stepped inside quickly, snow swirling at his feet. He looked around the nearly empty café, spotted his quarry, then moved to a booth in the back. "God, am I starving," he announced as he slid into the booth. "I could eat a hors–." He glanced at the man sitting across from him. "I mean, a lot of food," he amended quickly as he grabbed a tattered, splattered paper menu from the chrome stand on the table. His feet brushed up against an obstruction under the table. He bent and peered under it. "Sorry, Dief," he said, enunciating carefully and got a non-committal lupine grunt in reply.

Constable Benton Fraser, Royal Canadian Mounted Police, (though currently dressed in civilian jeans and plaid flannel shirt) closed the book he had been reading and looked at his companion. "That's not surprising, considering that you've barely eaten for the past few days." He leaned in. "So, how –"

"What'll it be, boys?" the bleached-blonde waitress stood in front of them, slouching tiredly, order pad in her hand.

"Good evening, Rosie," Fraser said warmly, "how are you?"

"Car's in the shop, ex is behind on the support, and my bunions are killing me," she replied. "But thanks for asking."

Fraser reached into the leather compartment on his Sam Browne and extracted a small vial. He held it out to her. "I'm sorry I can't be of assistance with the first two problems but this should help the third."

She took the vial and peered at it curiously. "What is it?" She unscrewed the lid and took a tentative sniff.

"A tisane of lavender and hyssop, stirred into beeswax and lanolin with a bit of powdered alligator claw and just a pinch of sea salt."

As Rosie started to hand the vial back to Fraser, he held up his hands. "No, no. Keep it. I can always make more."

"Thanks," the waitress said, tucking the gift into the pocket of her apron. "I'll try anything at this point."

"You know, Rosie," Fraser said, gesturing at her feet. "bunions are a product of poorly fitting shoes. A problem that, interestingly, the Inuit don't have, due to the fitting of the mukluk to the individual foot. I could recommend –"

"Hey, Dr. Scholl!" Fraser and Rosie looked at Ray. "I'm trying to order here!"

Rosie gave him a sour look. " What'll it be?"

"Double stack blueberry pancakes, two eggs, over easy, double bacon, extra crisp, double hash browns, large orange juice and coffee." He paused. "And apple pie with vanilla ice cream for dessert."

Rosie raised her eyebrows, but jotted down the order without comment. "And for you, Constable?"

"A cup of the soup de jour to start."

Rosie made a face. "Actually, that's the 'soup de last week'. You really don't want that."

"Oh," Fraser said. "Then, I'll have the chili."

She shook her head dolefully. "That was Monday's meatloaf and Tuesdays refried beans."

He bent over the menu. "The chicken and dumplings, then."

"Dumplings!" she scoffed, "more like hockey pucks."

Ray couldn't stand it anymore. "Did I mention that I am actually faint with hunger? Another minute and I'm gonna keel over here."

Fraser closed the menu. "Why don't you surprise me, Rosie."

As she walked away, she muttered, "If I thought you really meant that ..."

"Thank you, kindly," Fraser called after her, then looked intently at his tablemate. "Ray, how is –"

"Where the hell do you find alligator claws in this city?" Ray wasn't sure if he wanted to know the answer, but he had to ask.

"Cajun grocery store." he replied. "Ray, how is –"

"Well, that's a relief! I wouldn't want to think there are wild packs of alligators roaming the city sewers next time we're down there chasing bad guys." Ray shuddered. "And I just know there will be a next ti–"

"Ray!" Fraser said loudly.

He blinked at him. "What?"

"How is your mother!?"

The grin lit Ray's face like the sun. "She's great, Benny! Just great! It was a small blockage. She's gonna be just fine." He sobered, taking a deep breath and letting it out slowly. "Not cancer, thank God."

Fraser smiled. "I'm glad, Ray."

"She'll be in the hospital a couple of days, a couple of weeks of rest at home, and she'll be good as new." Ray sighed happily. "Frannie's trying to convince her to take a couple of months in Miami. Spend the rest of the winter in the sun at her sister's. Since they're talking again."

"That would be a nice change for her," Fraser concurred. He was thoughtful for a moment, trying, unsuccessfully, to picture a winter without snow. "I've never been to Florida."

"What a news flash," Ray jeered. "You've never been south of the 49th Parallel."

"Yes, I have," Fraser protested.

"Sorry," he corrected, "the 48th."

"Now, Ray. You know very well that Chicago is situate on the 42d parallel." He amended, "Well, 41 minutes, 59 seconds, to be more precise."

"Oh, right. I forgot."

Rosie returned, setting down a huge glass of orange juice in front of Ray, water for Fraser, and filled their coffee cups.

Ray leaned back in his seat, stretching a kink out of his neck. He leaned in and lowered his voice. "I don't mind telling you, Benny, I was a little worried."

"Of course you were, Ray. She's your mother."

Ray raised his juice glass in a toast. Fraser followed suit with his glass of water. "To my Ma. Cent anni." At Fraser's puzzled look, he translated. "May she live to be a hundred!" They clinked glasses. Ray took a large gulp of juice and smacked his lips. Fraser sipped his water.

"Are you sure you want to work tonight? You must be tired."

"No, no, I'm too wired to be tired." Ray grinned. "Hey, I'm a poet and I don't know it. But my feet show it." He stuck out a shoe. "They're Longfellows!" He giggled and drank more juice.

Fraser hid a smile. Lack of sleep and a poor appetite combined with the massive relief his friend was experiencing was making Ray a little punchy. Well, tonight's stakeout would probably be as uneventful as the last few nights. If need be, he would cover for Ray if he took a nap.

Rosie returned. Fraser leapt to his feet and held the heavy tray as she distributed the plates. Ray's plethora of dishes crowded the small table. Diefenbaker poked his head out from under the table, a hopeful expression on his face. At Fraser's stern look, he retreated with a resentful whine. Fraser resumed his seat as Rosie gestured at his food. "Nick made it special, just for you."

Fraser eyed the green and pink-flecked omelet and sniffed appreciatively. "Smoked salmon. Artichoke. Green onion." He looked up at the waitress.

She gestured at the toast points. "I made him cut off the crusts."

Fraser ignored the sight of Ray simultaneously chewing and rolling his eyes. "Thank you kindly, Rosie." He smiled. "And thank Nick for me. It looks delicious." She looked at him expectantly. He picked up a fork and dug in. "Mmmmm. Yummy." That seemed to satisfy her and she moved on to another customer.

Ray spoke around a mouthful of food. "If you could bottle that, you'd make a fortune."

"Salmon and artichokes?" Fraser asked, puzzled.

"Nah, the effect you have on women. Rosie's old enough to be your mother."

"I don't know what you're talking about," he said automatically. They had had this conversation before.

"Yeah, yeah," Ray shoveled in more food. "Pass the maple syrup." When nothing happened, he looked up. Fraser was looking at him, eyebrows raised meaningfully. Ray shook his head and sighed. "Fraser, please pass the artificially- flavored, caramel-colored high fructose corn syrup."

Fraser handed over the little metal pitcher and went back to his omelet. Ray poured a copious amount of the golden brown liquid over his pancakes. At that, Fraser's head jerked up and he inhaled deeply. To Ray's surprise, he took the syrup pitcher and poured a small amount on a corner of his own plate.

"I thought you hated that stuff," Ray commented.

Fraser dipped his little finger into the puddle of syrup and licked it. To Ray's utter astonishment, he closed his eyes blissfully and emitted a sound of pure pleasure. Then, he did it again.

"Hey, get a room ..."

"Eat your pancakes," Fraser said, flatly.

Ray gave him a look but did as instructed. Nick's blueberry pancakes were the specialty of the house, but they were especially good tonight. He tucked in with abandon.

"See! That's not corn syrup, Ray," Fraser explained. "That's premium grade, plus plus select."

"What?" Ray asked around a mouthful of pancake, "like extra-virgin virgin?"

Fraser nodded. He took another taste of syrup and rolled it around on his tongue. "Quebecois Dark Reserve ... from red maples - no, no ... ," he took another taste and closed his eyes, "black, definitely black maples ... first tapping, if I'm not mistaken."

"Oh, c'mon, Benny ! I am not falling for that."

Fraser was offended. "I've made it a point to familiarize myself with as many varietals and grades of maple syrup as possible," he protested. "Well, Canadian anyway. I'm not as proficient with the American varieties, though I have some passing familiarity." He took another taste. "Of course, this quality I've only been fortunate enough to taste once, when Inspector Thatcher procured it specially for the Assistant Deputy for North American Trade Relations last year. I'm afraid it's a bit beyond my budget." He looked thoughtful and glanced around the small restaurant, taking in the somewhat careworn decor. "I wonder ..."

"How much?"

"Eh? Oh, commodity prices fluctuate greatly, Ray. I really don't know what the current price would be. Typically, though, a gallon of maple syrup is ten to fifteen times more expensive than a gallon of oil."

"Olive oil?"

"Petroleum, Ray."

Ray gawped. "So, I just ate how much?"

Fraser shrugged. "I didn't measure your consumption, Ray."

"Ballpark."

Fraser thought. Perhaps half a cup, converted to partial liters. He gave Ray the figure. "Canadian dollars," he added.

"What's that in real money?"

He calculated the exchange rate automatically and told him.

Ray whistled. "Nick must have won the lottery."

"Unlikely. The Quebecois Dark Reserve is not sold outside the province. The Inspector had to ship it in via the diplomatic pouch." He stiffened abruptly, then said in a low tone, "Ray, you didn't hear that."

It was too late. Ray was grinning from ear to ear. "Get out! The Dragon Lady's a smuggler!?"

"Shhhh!" Fraser looked quickly around the café. "Please, Ray!"

"OK. OK. My lips are sealed." A chuckle escaped him. "But you owe me."

"Thank you." He swallowed and tugged at his collar. "That's not important. What is important is why a tiny Chicago café has even the smallest quantity of Quebecois Dark Reserve at all, much less is dispensing it willy-nilly to unappreciative Americans as 'pancake' syrup."

Ray thought he should be insulted by that remark, then decided it was merely the truth. "Maybe Nick vacationed in Quebec and brought some home with him."

"Perhaps. But considering that the chili is Monday's meatloaf and Tuesday's beans, and factoring in the price he would have had to pay for the Reserve, can you honestly see him sharing it with his customers?"

"I don't know, Benny." Ray took a bite of bacon. "And I don't care." He dipped the bacon into the puddle of syrup and licked it off. "Mmmmm. See, I am not unappreciative."

Fraser frowned at him. They finished their meal in silence. When Fraser excused himself to use the restroom, Ray took the opportunity to scrape the remains of the meal on to one plate, then slipped it under the table to Diefenbaker. He felt the wolf's wagging tail lash against his leg. After a few minutes, he spotted Fraser coming out of the mens room.

"Hurry it up, Dief. He's coming back." He got a woof in acknowledgment. But Fraser had detoured to the kitchen before heading back to the table. By the time he slid back into the booth, Ray had eaten his pie and ice cream and surreptitiously retrieved the empty plate from under the table. He looked innocently at the Mountie.

"What's that?" He gestured at the small plastic vial Fraser was holding.

"A sample of the Reserve." Fraser tucked it into the inside breast pocket of his jacket. "Nick has never been in Quebec, nor have any of his family and friends. He procured the syrup from a ...uh ... a vendor." He cleared his throat. "An unlicensed vendor."

"You mean, be bought it off a guy selling maple syrup out of the back of a truck?"

"Yes."

"How much?"

"Five gallons."

"No, how much did he pay for it?"

Fraser told him.

Ray laughed. "Now, I've heard it all. A black market in maple syrup."

"It's not funny, Ray."

"No, I get it. This is serious! Call out the FBI! Or is it the FDA? No wait, this is a job for Martha Stewart!"

"No, Ray," said Fraser, standing. He set his Stetson firmly on his head. "This is a job for the Mounties." He turned smartly on his heel. Ray shouldered into his coat and followed. After several paces, Fraser returned, lifted the tablecloth, and bent down. "Care to join the stakeout, Dief?"