The Wild Mountain Thyme

by Kathryn Scarborough

  “How did you—?”

  “Never mind how I know. What did the voice say?” The tone of Jim’s voice brooked no argument.

  Megan continued to glare at him. Her face was flushed and her green eyes flashed at him with a warning.

  “I promise that I will not think you are crazy.”

  “It said…oh, hell!” Megan glared out the windshield, feeling intense heat radiate from every square inch of her. She pushed a non-existent strand of hair out of her eyes with a still shaking hand. She turned again toward Jim with what she hoped was a look so cold it could have turned bath water into a glacier. She took a breath. Ah, get it all over with, Megan.

  “It said that if I opened my heart a tiny crack that I could love you,” she said between clenched teeth, glaring at him, daring him to contradict her. “Or some such nonsense,” she added, carefully drawing out her words for emphasis to cover up feeling totally foolish.

  “Seamus!” Jim expelled a breath. Now, he was angry.

  “Who?”

  “My guardian leprechaun.”

  “Your what?”

  Chapter 10

  Jim looked about, sizing up the hotel as they entered the large lobby of the Sligo Arms. It seemed a nice enough place. The hotel was perched on the bustling strand of Sligo and sported a terrific view of the harbor. It was clean and thank goodness, to his overly sensitive olfactory nerves, smelled okay. There seemed an unusually large group of people milling about the lobby: artists, boisterous impresario-like men, and some really great looking girls probably signed up for the annual beauty pageant. The concierge’s desk backed against a wall filled with old-fashioned cubbyholes for guests’ keys and several computer stations on the long counter. Potted palms, huge ornately framed mirrors, red velveteen sofas and overstuffed chairs graced the lobby, reminiscent of the 1920s. Mouthwatering aromas of roast beef and potatoes wafted from a doorway nearby, accompanied by the subtle sounds of cutlery against china. The hotel’s review in all the tourist pamphlets was four stars. It was also one of the largest on the strand and some distance away from the city’s center.

  “Well, and it’s as I have said, Miss Kennedy. With the competition and everything, we’ve no rooms at all.” The little man dodged quick glances at the large American as he spoke.

  “Mr. Smith, this is ridiculous.” Megan felt herself flush as a thousand thoughts of her and Jim being forced together in a hotel room, and not all of them wholesome. And wondering not for the first, but perhaps for the thousandth time, if he were a bit daft and just how safe would she be after all?

  “Surely, you can find the two of us a room. This is the largest place in town, and all of the other hotels are full as well. The Times would have made us a reservation, but we came on such short notice.”

  “And what do you think, Kitty? Is there a place we can send these two?”

  A small red-haired, crone-like woman came over to the clerk and whispered in his ear, never taking her beady blue eyes off Jim. The man nodded.

  “Ah. Kitty has just reminded me. We do have something, if you won’t mind a bit small,” he said, demonstrating by pinching his forefinger and thumb together.

  “No, no, we’ll take anything at all. I’m sure it’s lovely,” said Megan anxiously, forcing the thought of Jim in his underwear or maybe Jim out of his underwear from her fertile imagination.

  The man nodded his head, took a key from a nail near the doorjamb, and gestured for them to follow him.

  Jim tried to take Megan’s suitcase, but she jerked her arm back and hissed. “Leprechaun, indeed.” She gave him a quick but icy glare.

  Jim muttered something about Seamus and carrying the bag, and then nudged the handle from Megan’s clenched fingers.

  “I’ll carry the bag, Megan,” Jim said through his own clenched teeth.

  He shouldn’t have mentioned the leprechaun. Of course, when he’d spilled the beans, the little guy had disappeared, and no amount of cajoling or begging on his part could make Seamus show himself. The little weasel! Jim had egg all over his face, and could see no way to reclaim his short-lived respect from Megan. What lousy timing. She hadn’t spoken to him for the rest of the trip, over another hour, but had just glared at him every once in a while, with her face flushed a bright pink, and this after she’d insisted that she’d not have him anywhere near or in the driver’s seat.

  “Seamus, you’d better move to parts unknown, because I am going to decidedly punch your lights out if you ever show your face again.”

  He’d have to decide how best to punch out an elf that was four inches tall, first.

  “You told me you came here just for me. Hadn’t you explained at great length that your assignment was to help me and that would earn you your wings or some such nonsense?”

  The leprechaun had kept Jim’s mind teetering on the edge of sanity for the past few days. Surely, Heaven couldn’t condone that? Or, thought Jim darkly, was it Heaven at all? He’d find a moment to call Grandma. Maybe the deacon, O’Boyle was it, had given her some insight on the angel/leprechaun phenomenon.

  Jim’s thoughts whirled together as the two followed the man up the staircase. Jim noticed that they had stopped when he ran into the clerk with the keys. They had reached their destination and Jim turned around in surprise. They were pushing against each other on a tiny landing perched, it seemed, at the very top of the inn, and trying mightily not to make like the Three Stooges and tumble back down the stairs. The hallway was sparse, barely big enough for the three of them to stand by the lone door. Perpendicular to the landing was a grimy garret-like window looking out on the front of the hotel. The clerk produced the key, unlocked the shorter than normal door, and ushered them into what appeared to be an attic. The ceiling was made of exposed beams and slanted with the slope of the roof. Jim had to duck quite low to get into the room and could only stand completely upright under the centerline of the roof. There were two beds, more like cots, braced against opposite walls, and an old gray metal desk sat in the center of the room. The place reeked of dust and mold. Jim looked around in dismay and promptly sneezed.

  “This is it? You’ve got to be kidding.”

  Megan glared at Jim for a split second before saying, “We’ll take it, and I thank you.”

  The man shook his head and mumbled as he moved to the door. He opened it, looked at the two of them, and shook his head once again.

  Jim and Megan stood motionless for a moment. Megan was so angry that it hadn’t occurred to her until she’d taken a full turn around the room, that it was one room. When the realization dawned on her that she would be sleeping in the same room with him, he’d be willing to bet that he could smell the smoke leaking from her ears. Promptly, he sneezed again. He could be put upon, as well as Megan.

  “Jeez, can you at least get somebody up here to dust the place?” Then Jim realized he sounded petulant, but still he added, “The Boston Globe is paying for the room.”

  “Yes sir, we’ll have someone to clean it and put on the fresh linens. Perhaps you and the young lady would like to wait in the bar and have a pint while we get the room straight.”

  “Is there even a place to plug in my computer?” Jim asked, forgetting about the room and then thinking about work. Hopefully, there was still plenty of available juice in the battery of the laptop he’d rented back in Dublin.

  “Ah, I believe you’ll have to use the outlets in the bar, sir.”

  “In the bar?” Jim raked his hands through his hair, gave one more look at the room, turned on his heel, and whacked his head against the doorjamb. He uttered a healthy curse and rubbed the offending spot vigorously.

  “We thank you, and we will leave now for a bit, if you could see to the room. Come on Jim,” she said, giving one tug on the arm that was already halfway out of the door.

  “But, Kennedy—”

  “Come on so the girl can clean the room.” She practically growled at him. Jim nodded, and followed her down the stairs into the bar. They scooted into a boot
h, arranging themselves on opposite sides and avoiding eye contact as they set up their computers. Jim looked up and found Megan’s finger pointing right at his nose, as though the thing weren’t attached to her hand but looking like the “fickle finger of doom.”

  “Now, you’ll be listening very carefully, O’Flannery. We’ll have no more of this gibberish you came up with on the trip here. I won’t and I can’t hear another thing about”—she leaned forward and whispered—“leprechauns.” She sat back, patting her hair in place and smoothing the front of her sweater.

  “What we will do”—she glanced around the room, at her computer, the notes, at her silverware, anywhere but at him—“is simply get some supper and make a goals sheet for tomorrow.” Finally, she gave him a hard look.

  “That’s just fine, Kennedy.” Jim was resolved for the moment that he’d looked like an incompetent dweeb to her. Seamus was the little troublemaker and had caused no end of frustration since the trip began. Maybe Seamus would see what a mess he made of this trip and take off.

  Jim looked up. They were there to work on a murder case. The insanity of the trip and Seamus, all of it faded into the background when he looked at her. Megan’s quick bout of anger put a classic redheaded flush on her face and neck. The flush slowly intensified into a glowing and persistent red. Obviously, her whole body got into the act when she was angry. At least the all of her he could see…now if he was to use his imagination. She’d have a fit if she could read his thoughts. Even after such a short acquaintance, Jim knew that Megan was not the type. She’d never be a pushover and she’d never let herself “go all gaga” for any man. Megan would take nothing less than being treated as a colleague and journalist.

  “There’ll be none of that, I’ll thank ya. My God, man—and where is your mind takin’ ya to?” a disembodied voice said just over his right shoulder.

  “Probably someplace you’ve never even imagined, Seamus,” he said out of the side of his mouth after ducking his head.

  “What?” Megan looked up at him.

  “Nothing, Kennedy, nothing. Let’s order dinner. I’m starving.”

  As unobtrusively as possible, Jim looked first over his right shoulder and then over his left, trying to catch a glimpse of the elusive angel.

  Seamus was no dummy and probably knew better than to show himself after what he’d pulled during the trip. Jim glanced up again from under his lashes and gazed at the top of that red-blonde head bent over the menu. Tiny red embroidered hearts were stitched around the neckline of her navy blue sweater. If he started kissing at that little heart there, he’d move slowly up to her ear within three kisses. His gaze stopped there. Maybe he’d take his time and it would take him more than three…

  “Take your order, sir?”

  Jim started and then felt the blood rush into his face. He looked down quickly trying to read the menu but managed to see nothing but squiggles.

  “Ah, yes, I’ll have the roast beef with the roasted potatoes, the roasted carrots, and the roasted, um…well, and a nice cup of tea,” he finished off, trying not to sound too lame.

  “And you, madam?” the waitress inquired.

  “The salmon, please.”

  The waitress nodded and hurried off to the kitchen. Megan looked up at Jim. Her eyes were as cold as her expression was closed.

  “I think it imperative that we contact the police station after we eat. You can take your computer, and I’ll bring the notes we’ve already compiled. The goal sheet can wait until we’ve got a better idea of where to start.”

  Jim shifted restlessly in his seat. She could be very authoritative. He had to get back on some kind of even footing so that they could at least work together. The other—the fascination with her—would have to wait until the story was finished. Oh well, no time like the present to get everything back under control. He shrugged his shoulders slightly. “Sure, that sounds fine. Can I see your file?” he asked, holding out his hand.

  Megan stared at him without blinking and then tentatively held up the manila folder. He grasped the edge and pulled it forward, but she held on. He pulled again, and still, she held it.

  “Promise me.” Her face was grave, and her eyes glowed out of her still flushed face.

  “What?” He was almost afraid to ask.

  “There’ll be no more talk about you-know-what,” she said, drawing out each syllable while her eyes bored into him. She never blinked, completely focused on his face. She did not release the file. Instead, she kept looking at Jim like a schoolmarm chastising a recalcitrant child. “We need to investigate a murder, and I can’t do that if I have to crate you away to Bedlam.”

  Jim sighed, trying hard to keep the blood from rushing to his face even more than it already was. “Okay, I promise. Don’t blame me if you hear voices in your head again. It’s not me that put them there.”

  He’d have to be smug to save face, but he was really out of luck unless Seamus showed up and bailed him out. If not, Megan wouldn’t believe anything he said.

  “Ri-ght.” Megan drew out the single syllable word. Jim tugged on the folder again and when she finally let go, the added momentum threw the papers out of the folder, all over the tabletop and onto the floor.

  “Ah, jay-sus, sorry.” She ducked down to pick up the papers.

  At the same moment, Jim ducked down as well and they collided under the table. Stunned, they rubbed their heads before they straightened. Jim glanced up to see the grimace on Megan’s face. He reached for her free hand and kissed it.

  She looked up at him; he still held her hand.

  “Jim, I—”

  “Megan, I promise, no more Seamus talk. We will get this story written, and it will win a Pulitzer Prize, I promise.”

  Megan gave him a tiny smile and a tingle coursed down Jim’s spine as she pulled her smooth hand slowly out of his.

  “Harrumph, excuse me. Your dinner’s come,” said the waitress, her arms loaded down with food.

  “Sure.” Megan pulled her hands away.

  Jim watched Megan while the waitress put his plate in front of him. He was glad to see her blush. Maybe that meant something. Maybe she did have feelings for him. Maybe that little pest Seamus hadn’t scared her away…yet.

  Remember O’Flannery, your vow, no more women. He did not need entanglements from all the way across the Atlantic. He did not need entanglements period. He wouldn’t be up to the task for many, many moons to come.

  Remember O’Flannery, no more women for a long while.

  He looked up and sighed inwardly when he saw Seamus sniffing his food and then jogging across the table to sniff Megan’s plate. The salmon did it, because he put his elbows on the edge of the plate and breathed in happily.

  Jim tucked into the mountain of food in front of him, getting his brain back on track. He peeked up near his teacup and saw that Seamus had positioned himself on the saucer. He half expected Seamus to say something, but the little man seemed to be in the throes of ecstasy. Jim supposed they didn’t have a lot to eat in Heaven. Jim glanced quickly at Seamus, hoping the angel would take the hint. Please, he thought loudly, leave already. I need no more bull-shit in my life at the moment! He gave another surreptitious glance about the room; sure that Seamus had heard him. He hoped Seamus had heard him and would bug off.

  ****

  Moments later, Megan saw a movement out of the corner of her eye. She ignored the niggling feeling and tucked into her salmon. But a wisp of memory triggered something in her mind. She snapped her head around, drew in her breath, and looked quickly over the sea of faces in the bar and restaurant.

  “Kennedy, what’s wrong?”

  “I thought I saw…I thought I saw…Richard,” she muttered, and the sound faded slowly away in the back of her throat.

  Jim saw the subtle quiver run across her shoulders. Her skin took on an ashen tint, until she inhaled deeply and the breath slowly vented through her front teeth. “Did Richard upset you that much?”

  Megan took another breath,
pulling in the oxygen that had become a rare commodity, and then looked at Jim. “There’s something about him that’s so sinister. I never really saw it until it was too late. I don’t know.” She waved her hand about dismissively as she looked around the room again. “It’s silly. I suppose I just don’t want him to bother me, and then…well, I think it’s something more.” Some emotion triggered a feeling deep inside her. At first, it had been typical jealousy, but now—perhaps, if it was only jealousy, she’d sound as ready for Bedlam as Jim was with his leprechaun.

  “I’ll make sure Richard won’t bother you.” Good God, was the Tarzan attitude in males hardwired or what? He leaned forward and patted her hand. “Wait here, I’m going to check out the lobby.”

  He was almost to the entryway when a blast of cold wind blew in through the opened door.

  He moved to the door, held his hands up to the pane of glass, and tried to look through the glare. There was nothing to see save a pool of light spilling across the steps that led out into the darkness. Jim stepped back from the glass and slowly walked the perimeter of the lobby. He saw neither Richard nor anyone that looked remotely like him. He was in the mood to clean the guy’s clock. If Richard had come around to harass Megan, the guy had bought major trouble.

  “Coast is clear,” he said as he seated himself in front of his now cooling food. He saw a tremor run down Megan’s arm.

  He reached over and gave her hand a squeeze, pleased to see her smile. “Hey, it’s okay. I won’t let the puckas get you,” Jim said. All Irish children were warned by their frazzled mothers about puckas, bad Irish spirits ready to take naughty youngsters to their lairs. Megan giggled into her napkin and Jim took her hand and raised it to his lips. Her alabaster skin shimmered in the light of the bar. He felt a tingle when he touched her, and he didn’t mind it too much. He didn’t mind it at all. She looked him in the eye, her gaze unfathomable. Jim shook himself.

  “You are quite a man, O’Flannery.”

  “Yeah, well, when ya got it, ya got it,” Jim quipped.