A Little Something Extra

by Pam McCutcheon

  His lips curved into a dreamy smile and his eyes focused beyond the room, as if on the vision of a distant land only he could see. He murmured, “There’s an old Irish blessing that says, ‘There’s music in the Irish names Kilkenny…Tipperary…There’s beauty in the countryside, from Cork to Londonderry. And whoever makes his home close to Irish sod has found a bit of heaven and walks hand in hand with God.’“

  The warmth in his voice as he spoke the simple words of the blessing brought a lump to P.J.’s throat.

  Connor shook off his momentary preoccupation and smiled down at her. “Besides, Gaelic is the language of glamarye, y’see. We speak it at home to keep in practice.”

  P.J. cleared her throat and nodded. “Okay, now if I’m going to help you find your sister’s talisman—”

  “If, is it?”

  Her answering look was steady, measuring. “Yes, if. I haven’t quite decided whether to take this on yet. It all depends on your answers to my questions.” She had to convince herself there really was a viable story here, that she wasn’t taking the assignment merely to be close to Connor O’Flaherty. That would be unprofessional.

  “That sounds fair enough,” he said. “What is it you’re wantin’ to know?”

  From experience, she knew most charlatans were very good at rationalizing why their magic worked, but were usually fuzzy on the how of it. That’s where they were most vulnerable. “If we’re going to search for this…shoehorn, I need to know more about how talismans work, and, in particular, how Stayle’s works.”

  “All right. You remember I said each leprechaun’s magic depends on how much gold he has?” At her nod, he continued. “Now, you’ll understand ‘tis a wee bit awkward to be carrying around your pot o’ gold all the time.”

  The twinkle was back in his eyes, but P.J. didn’t trust it. She couldn’t tell if he was putting her on or if he was merely amused. “I imagine it would be,” she agreed dryly.

  “So, over the centuries, we’ve perfected the development of the talisman to symbolize our wealth. This token, properly enchanted, allows us to focus our power and channel the magic through it without having to be in close proximity to our gold.”

  “So why can’t your sister just use it wherever it is? Doesn’t it still have the power to focus her magic?”

  “No, unfortunately, we have to be in actual physical contact for the talisman to work at all. That’s why most are worn as jewelry—to ensure ‘tis close all the time.”

  “Then why on earth did Stayle choose a shoehorn as her talisman?”

  “She didn’t. I did.” He sighed heavily and his expression turned morose. “I guess you’d better understand this too, lass. The power of the faerie folk is fadin’. We’ve intermarried with mortals so much over the years that our magic has become diluted and scarce. Most of those who have faerie blood don’t even know they have it.”

  “So what does this have to do with the shoehorn?”

  He grinned disarmingly. “I’m gettin’ there, lass. When I was chosen as leader, I promised to do what I could to bring more magic back into our race, by finding a way to identify those with faerie blood. That’s when I came up with the idea for the boutique and the shoehorn.”

  His logic was becoming difficult to follow. She shook her head in confusion.

  “Y’see, faerie folk, whether they realize what they are or not, are always attracted to magic. Usually the more magic they have, the more successful they are, and therefore the more likely to be able to afford our expensive shoes. We opened the boutique hoping our first customers would be the Fae. We didn’t count on the fact that rich mortals are just as attracted by the idea and can also well afford our product.”

  “So how do you tell them apart?”

  “Ah, there’s the rub. You can’t, really, unless you cast an enchantment on a talisman to tell you which is which. So, since Stayle is the one who comes into contact with the customers and fits the custom-made shoes, I convinced her to change her talisman to something innocuous, something she could touch customers with easily, but that I or others could use if necessary.”

  “Hence the shoehorn.”

  “Exactly. She uses the talisman to fit the shoes, and if the customers have faerie blood, they’re surrounded by a sparkling gold aura that only other Fae can see.”

  P.J. had to admit it was all very logical and well thought out. At least if it was a delusion, it was a consistent one. “So why don’t you just go around touching everyone with it and see how many auras you spark?”

  Connor grimaced ruefully. “I wish ‘twere that easily done. Y’see, I had to use up quite a bit of glamarye to set that enchantment, and every time Stayle uses it, some of my magic is used up, too. I’d rather use it only on those who are more likely to be faerie.”

  “And if they show up in your shop looking for magic shoes and can afford them, they’re more likely to be faerie.”

  “Right.”

  “How many have you found?”

  His face fell. “Only one so far, but I’m hopin’ as word gets around we’ll find more.”

  The light dawned. “Ah, I see. That’s why you want me to write the article—to get the word out”

  “That’s right, and I’ll not care if you scoff at our claims or no. When the Fae get a hint of the possible existence of faerie magic, they’ll show up to find out for themselves.”

  “And that’s why you don’t object to a real investigation of your claims.”

  He nodded and smiled, flashing that dimple again. P.J.’s emotions surged in response, bringing her body to tingling awareness.

  Good grief, that smile of his was lethal. Forcing her mind back to the discussion at hand, P.J. realized with a frisson of guilty pleasure that there wasn’t anything to keep her from pursuing the story if the rest of his story held water. “How did you narrow down the suspects to just five people?”

  “They were the first customers to order custom-made shoes, and Stayle scheduled them all for fittings on the same day. They were the only ones who entered the workroom where she fits the special shoes, so they were the only ones who could’ve seen the talisman. She used it during each fitting, and it didn’t turn up missin’ until after they all left. She left the workroom to answer the telephone, and when she came back, the shoehorn was gone.”

  “So how do you know someone didn’t just walk in off the street and take it?”

  He shrugged. “I don’t, really. But you can’t see the workroom from the street, so how could anyone else have known it was there? “Twould appear it must be one of the five. Besides, ‘tis the only lead we have.”

  His worried look seemed so genuine that P.J. had to concede he was either a very good actor or he really believed what he was saying. Her instincts told her he really believed it. “Okay, say one of these five does have it. Would he know what he has?”

  Connor’s brow furrowed in thought. “I don’t think he’ll know what ‘tis he’s stolen—or she—two of the suspects are women, y’know. Except…we identified one of them as having faerie blood. No, ‘tis unlikely she’d know what she had. You can’t really tell by look or feel that the talisman is magic—it appears to be just plain gold.” He twisted the ring on his right hand. “Would you like to touch mine and see for yourself?”

  P.J. shuddered. “No, thanks. I’m allergic to gold. For some reason, the mere touch of it on my skin gives me the creepy crawlies.”

  “Ah, you’ll not be faerie, then.”

  P.J. was hard put to understand the disappointment in his voice. Raising an eyebrow, she said, “I think not. If what you say is true, it would be hard to imagine a faerie who’s allergic to gold. So, you don’t think the thief knew of the talisman’s abilities?”

  “No, I’d say the thief probably stole it for its monetary value. ‘Tis solid gold, y’know.”

  Yes, and a sillier thing she couldn’t imagine. She could see the advertisement now: Twenty-four-caratgold shoehorn—the gift for the man who has everything. P.J. shook her
head at the absurdity. “Okay, so what if the thief finds out what he has? Could he use it then?”

  “Without Stayle’s permission, he could use it only if he knew what he had, and knew where she hid her gold, and could rekey the talisman to himself.”

  “So it’s highly unlikely?”

  “Aye, lass, very unlikely.”

  “So why bother searching for it? Why not just make another and let him keep the silly thing instead of chasing all over the world after it?”

  “Because it’s keyed to Stayle, y’see. She can’t access her magic without it, and that’s mighty hard on a leprechaun, y’know. She can’t make another without the loss of a great deal of gold—both mine and hers since the spell linked them together. I’ve promised to find it within a month, or use my own magic to locate it.”

  He gave her a direct look and one of those dimpled half grins of his. “So, lass, have you decided if I’m a fruitcake yet, or no?”

  P.J. almost choked. “Yes…no. I mean, no, I haven’t quite decided yet.” At least if he was a fruitcake, he was a mighty consistent one. She squared her shoulders and gave him her best professional look. “I am trying to maintain my objectivity, Mr…er…Connor.”

  “How about my offer? Have you decided what you’ll be doing about that?”

  Common sense said the man was trouble. But common sense warred with her need to pay the bills—and it was a viable story. She hadn’t gotten an offer like this in a long time. She couldn’t pass it up.

  And she couldn’t pass up an opportunity to get to know Connor O’Flaherty just a little bit better, either. “Yes, I’ve decided to take you up on your offer, but I need a couple of days to come up with a plan, set up the interviews, that sort of thing. Is that okay with you?”

  He beamed at her. “Aye, lass, so long as it doesn’t take too long.” He handed her a slip of paper. “Here are the names and addresses of the five suspects.”

  She took the list and tucked it into her pocket. “All right, Connor, you’ve got a deal. I’ll call you in a couple of days.”

  She shook his hand to seal the agreement, feeling strangely as if she’d just taken the first step on an irrevocable life-altering journey. Get a grip, Sheridan, she chided herself. It’s just another story, after all.

  Chapter Three

  Connor strode resolutely toward The Cosmic Connection, hoping to find P.J. inside. He wanted to learn more about the intriguing woman his talisman had led him to. She was such a mass of appealing contradictions—skeptical yet unbiased, shy yet bold, brusque yet soft and feminine. Which was the real woman? Maybe if he saw her in her own milieu, he could unravel the mystery that was P. J. Sheridan.

  He pushed open the door of The Cosmic Connection and went inside. Delicate chimes announced his presence, and an older woman looked up from the counter with a smile. “I’ll be right with you,” she said as she rang up a customer’s purchases.

  Connor nodded and looked about the neat, orderly boutique with interest. He hadn’t paid much attention to his surroundings the last time he was there. Now, though, he surveyed it all with interest, hoping it would provide him a clue to P.J.’s character.

  It smelled like all New Age shops he’d ever been in—a strange blend of musk, patchouli and heavy, sweet incense. One small area to the right held dried herbs and flowers, but the rest of the shop seemed primarily devoted to books. Scattered here and there were crystals, runes, cards, amulets and other paraphernalia designed to help mortals simulate faerie magic.

  He felt a slight tingling in his talisman ring. By chance, there was some powerful earth magic here, though how anyone could find the real thing amid all this misguided though well-meaning merchandise was anyone’s guess.

  The clerk handed the other customer her change, then walked over to Connor. “May I help you find something?”

  Now that she was closer, Connor could discern the resemblance between this woman and P.J.—this must be her mother. “Yes, I’ve come to see P.J. Is she here?”

  She looked about vaguely. “Yes, I believe she’s in the office.” She went to the stairs at the back of the shop and called up. “Pet? There’s someone here to see you.”

  P.J. stuck her head out the door and peered down the steep steps. “Good grief, Mother. Why didn’t you use the buzzer I—” She broke off when she spotted Connor, and a distinct look of annoyance crossed her face. “Oh, it’s you. Well, don’t just stand there. Come on up.”

  P.J.’s mother took in his full height and gave him a hesitant look, as if uncertain whether to let him near her daughter.

  “Don’t you be worryin’, Mrs. Sheridan,” he reassured her. “I’m not as heavy as I look. I’ll lay odds the stairs will hold my weight.”

  She laughed, accepting his fabrication as her reason for hesitation. “Please, go on up, then. You’ll find Pet in the first room on the right.”

  Pet? Was that her real name? Connor made his way up the narrow stairs, ducking to keep his head from hitting the ceiling, and turned into the office Mrs. Sheridan had indicated.

  P.J. was there, hurriedly shoving some scattered papers from the top of the desk into a drawer. He didn’t know why she bothered. The office was as untidy as the shop was neat. Papers and books spilled over every available surface, from the gray metal military-surplus desk and filing cabinets to the wooden chairs and bookcases. The state-of-the-art computer system was a jarring note in an otherwise old-fashioned and somewhat seedy-looking office.

  P.J. glanced up with a look of apology. “Sorry, I always mean to clean the place up, but I never seem to have the time…” She hesitated to give him an accusing look. “I told you I’d call you in a couple of days. It’s been less than twenty-four hours. Why are you here?”

  “Sorry, but I hadn’t really planned to drop in. I was just in the area—” Faith, how lame that sounded! “I mean, I just thought I’d see how far you’ve come on settin’ up the interviews and such. Pet, is it?”

  She gave him an unmistakable glare. “No, it’s not. My mother calls me that because she refuses to call me P.J. Says it makes me sound like a pair of pajamas.”

  Connor chuckled. “She’s right. So if the P doesn’t stand for Pet, what does it stand for? Petra? Patricia? Pamela?”

  Her lips thinned. “I told you I didn’t care to discuss it. Now, why don’t we get down to business?”

  Connor dropped the subject; it was obviously a sensitive one. “All right, how are you coming on setting up the interviews with our suspects?”

  “I have calls in to all five of them,” she explained briskly. “And they’ve all agreed to the interviews, but we haven’t set up the exact times yet. I wanted to go over the strategy with you first. Here, sit down.”

  She cleared off one of the chairs by sweeping the pile onto the floor, and he perched uneasily on the ancient wooden structure. It looked so fragile, he wasn’t sure it would bear his weight. “All right, what is your strategy, then?”

  “Well, from what you’ve told me, the actress, Melissa Matthews, was the last one in the shop that day. I figure we’ll start with her, since she’s the one who saw the shoehorn last. She’s still staying at her condo here in Vail, so she’s also the closest.”

  Connor nodded. “Sounds reasonable. Then what?”

  “If she’s not the thief, we’ll continue on to New York to see the stockbroker, then to Europe to visit the other three…” She trailed off, a pensive look on her face.

  “What is it?”

  She waved her hand vaguely. “Nothing, really, it’s just odd that one of the suspects is Madame Cherelle. I’ve never met her, but we’re in the same businessdebunking, not reporting.” She shot Connor a speculative look. “She hasn’t already disproved your claims?”

  “Nay, lass, how could she? She’s the one who turned out to be faerie.”

  “Madame Cherelle—the famous psychic de-bunker—a faerie?” Disbelief echoed in P.J.’s voice. “How did she take the news?”

  Connor shrugged. “I don’t k
now, Stayle talked to her, I didn’t.”

  “Well, it’s all very strange, but what hasn’t been since I met you?” P.J. laughed, then changed the subject. “So, what do you think of my itinerary?”

  “It’s fine, lass. Why don’t you go ahead and finalize the interviews? Don’t worry about hotels and plane reservations. I have…connections, family who’ll be glad to help us out. Just let me know when and where we need to be and I’ll make the arrangements.”

  P.J. nodded briskly and stood. Connor received the definite impression she was trying to rush him out of the store. He cocked his head, considering. Was she embarrassed about the shabbiness of the office or perhaps by the nature of what her family sold below stairs? Whatever it was, it was obviously making her uneasy.

  That was the last thing he wanted to do. He remained seated, ignoring her hint. “Why don’t you set things up and we’ll discuss it over dinner tomorrow night?”

  Pleasure warred with suspicion on her face. “Dinner? I don’t think—”

  “Now, lass, what harm could it do to have dinner with me?”

  Her wary look didn’t abate, but he had no intention of letting her professional scruples get in his way. “If we’re going to be spending so much time together, well need to get to know each other—discuss how we’re going to operate.”

  “Why don’t we just discuss it in your office?”

  “Because, although I’m fairly certain the thief is one of the customers, there’s always the possibility it could be one of my staff, and I don’t want to discuss our investigation in front of them.”

  She nodded slowly. She was buying it. Now for the clincher. He raised an eyebrow. “Of course, we could do it all here, if you’d rather…”

  “No, no, not here,” P.J. said hurriedly. “I guess dinner would be okay. Um, when…where?”

  “I’ll pick you up at seven.” He managed to pry her address in West Vail out of her. “I’ll see you then.” He strode out of the shop, whistling.