Northern Lights: A Due South Novel

Chapter 19: Soap and Lattes

Deputy Commissioner Margaret Thatcher swirled her cafe latte before bringing the cup to her lips. The smell of coffee and steamed milk reminded her of her first cup of genuine Italian espresso. She'd been an eager young officer recently promoted to her first investigative position in Toronto. Lattes had been the only luxury she could afford at twenty-three.

The coffee's scent made her feel young. Well, the caffeine helped.

"Staff Sergeant Campbell hasn't lodged any official complaints or requested Elizabeth's transfer—yet—so I suppose things must be going tolerably well. Given Elizabeth's fashion sense, I was half-expecting Campbell to fire her on day one. Maybe if I buy her a work dress and heels, she'll wear them."

Meg's younger sister, Carol, sat opposite her at the small, faux-marble table. They were having brunch at Cocotte, a stylish, French-inspired bistro, in the Metcalfe Hotel lobby. The hotel's décor leaned towards influencer chic. Around the five-storey atrium, white walls alternated with exposed brick. The back wall held a long bookshelf, where each niche held only a few books grouped by colour, a single plant, or the sort of geometric knickknack sold at HomeSense.

"Sounds like someone we both know." Carol laughed.

"No. No!" Meg protested. "Sure, I had my tomboy phase. But Elizabeth is twenty-four years old, wears her uniform everywhere, and doesn't own any makeup."

"Oh, yes, I recall now. Your tomboy phase ended at a much younger age. Why, you were only twenty-three when you asked me how to apply lipstick? And when you bought your first skirt suit?"

"Well, I had the good sense to ask for advice before I transferred out of the field."

But, in hindsight, Meg had not decided on her own. Rather, as soon as she announced her transfer out of Powell River, Sergeant Beverly Coombs, the oldest female officer in the detachment, had pulled Meg aside. Beverly had told her that her jeans and ponytails wouldn't cut it in Toronto.

"Men don't care what shoes you wear so long as you show some leg. But no one is meaner to an unfashionable country girl than a fashionable city girl. Watch out for them," Beverly said.

And Meg, who had never mastered the delicate, dangerous social dance of women, obliged. Just as she'd donned leather and steel-toed boots to show she was as tough as the male ranchers back home in Pincher Creek, Alberta, Meg donned pantyhose and lipstick to prove herself to the yuppies of Toronto.

Fortunately, she'd had an instructor nearby. Carol, four years younger than Meg, was attending the University of Toronto at the time. Carol had been full of potential. A future doctor or lawyer or bank president. But then she'd met Brian, and soon all she spoke of was wedding planning, home decorating, and then—surprisingly soon, from Meg's perspective—child rearing. As Meg's career raced forward, Carol's stalled at the gate. Though they spent many years in the same city, they had less and less in common, with Meg consumed by her caseload and Carol by her children.

Some things hadn't changed. As Carol babbled about her latest grandchild, Meg's attention drifted to the Tamara Black case. Meg hated waiting on the sidelines while others got to be the heroes. The responsibilities of command had rarely weighed so heavily. But an opportunity was coming soon.

"Meg!" Carol snapped her fingers between Meg's eyes as two eggs benedict appeared on minimalist stoneware plates. Classic brunch food. Meg Thatcher did not understand brunch. If one rose earlier than eight a.m., as Meg always did, then there was ample time for a proper breakfast before brunch. In that case, the meal was simply a decadent lunch. If one rose later than eight a.m., then one was an unconscionable layabout, a drunk, or both.