Chapter Text
Chapter 1: A Head Trick
Francesca sat in her brother’s chair at the 2-7, bare legs exposed beneath the hem of her black and magenta cocktail dress, sparkling silver heels dangling from her toes. Between her fingers ran the broken chain of her sequined clutch purse. Only the dim glow of distant streetlamps reached the station’s windows. Only a few lights—the necessary ones—were still on. The ones illuminating Ray’s desk. The ones at Elaine’s station. And the ones in Lieutenant Welsh’s office, where the Mounties and the detectives had gathered after they finished taking everyone’s statements.
Finally, Lieutenant Welsh emerged. He leaned against his door, nursing a cup of coffee, while everyone else filed past him.
“We done here?” Ray asked his boss.
“Almost.”
Earlier that night, a pair of carjackers fleeing the PD had leaped a fence and broken into a building they thought was empty. Instead, they found themselves in a room full of Mounties at the Consulate’s Canadian Thanksgiving cocktail party. After a tussle, one perp tried to steal Francesca’s purse and escape through the front door. Diefenbaker had brought him down and retrieved the stolen goods, while Fraser took out the other with a well-placed right hook. When a short conversation about prisons in Winnipeg proved too chilling for these crooks, they were allowed to “escape” right into the arms of the Chicago Police.
It was easier than extradition paperwork.
Meg Thatcher followed Fraser and Turnbull from Welsh’s office. Like Francesca, she was still in her party dress. But her purse didn’t have bite marks in it.
“Excellent work, Constable. Now, can you focus on finding us another player for the bonspiel?” Meg said.
“Bonspiel?” Francesca asked. The three Mounties snapped their heads towards her as though they hadn’t known she was there.
“A curling tournament,” Fraser said.
“Oh. I’ve heard of that. That’s the one with the cards and the board and the pegs, right?” Francesca kicked off her heels and stood.
“Nah, Frannie, that’s cribbage. Curling’s one of those crazy Canadian ice sports.” Ray tossed a file on his desk and took his chair back. “They throw a bunch of rocks around and try to be the first to pass ‘go’.”
“I can see why they didn’t ask you,” Francesca said.
“Actually, we didn’t ask him because we need a her. The tournament rules require two women per team,” Meg said.
“I could do it!” Francesca tiptoed across the linoleum until she was in the Mounties’ breathing space. “Ma always said I was too good at throwing rocks.”
Ray laughed. “Curling? You? Frannie, you know it’s on ice, right?”
Meg frowned. “This is a very important tournament. Perhaps—” She spun, seeing the light hanging over Elaine’s desk. “Ms. Besbriss, you have a certain natural athleticism that would transfer well to curling.”
Elaine glanced at Francesca. “I think I’m busy that day.”
“I didn’t say what day it was,” Meg said.
Elaine scratched the back of her neck with a ballpoint pen. “Didn’t you? Or maybe Fraser told me…”
“I don’t recall—” Fraser began.
“It’s two weeks from Saturday!” Turnbull interrupted.
“Yes! I-I have a very important appointment that day. Sorry.” Elaine said.
“And what appointment would that be?” Meg asked.
“A lady never tells,” Elaine said. “Besides, you have a volunteer.”
“But Francesca, you don’t even play,” Meg said.
“Neither do I.” Elaine turned back to her computer and began to type as Meg Thatcher continued.
“We’re playing the Swiss. The Swiss! Do you know how insufferable they can be? With their perfect punctuality and their four official languages.”
“So, they’re better at being Canadian than you?” Ray asked.
Turnbull raised his hand. “I’ll teach her, sir!”
“Qualifications, Constable?” Meg asked.
“I trained in Long Bay, Ontario under the great Gordon Cutter. That man could hit the button blindfolded with his right hand tied behind his back.”
“I understand he’s a distant cousin of Sergeant Frobisher,” Fraser whispered in Meg’s ear.
“Oh, this is going to be a good show. Ma’s never going to believe this,” Ray laughed.
Though Francesca wore a cocky smile, underneath it, she fumed. No one ever believed in her. Whenever Francesca tried something new, Ray laughed and her family waited for her to fail.
“Perhaps Constable Brighton could fly in from Los Angeles,” Meg said. “She knows her way around a rink.”
Fraser blanched. “I’m sure Constable Turnbull had an excellent teacher. I mean—will be an excellent teacher.”
“Nice vote of confidence, Fraser.” Francesca picked up her wrecked purse. “I’ll show you all. I’ll get—I’ll get—a head trick! I’ll get two head tricks!”
“Francesca, I believe you mean a hat trick.” Fraser rubbed his temple. “Which is a hockey term.”
“Then I’ll be the first to get one in curling!” She shouted as she marched towards the exit. Then stopped. “Anyone have some cash for a cab?”