Anna Bennett, PI

by

Abigail E. Laughlin

There was a fey in her office.
           It wasn’t that Anna disliked fey. She didn’t usually think much about them one way or the other, for all that they made popular news items. She just didn’t trust them, and she really didn’t like working for them.
           He sat across from her in one of the two chairs she kept for precisely that purpose, a plain, hard wooden thing that should have made it impossible for anyone to look as languidly comfortable as he did. “You are the investigator?” he asked. The lilt of Faerie in his voice almost sounded Irish, or possibly Scottish, but he’d never have passed for a human, even dressed as he was in faded jeans and scuffed leather boots. He was thin and angular; his face was narrow and sharp-featured in a way that made Anna think of an animal for some reason—what kind, she wasn’t sure. His eyes, too, were more animal than human, dark and liquid and watching her with a bright directness that made her feel distinctly uncomfortable.
           “Yes,” she answered briskly, resting her forearms on the heavy wooden monster of a desk that stood as a comfortable barrier between them, “I’m Anna Bennett. What can I do for you?”
 He shifted slightly in the chair, beads and tiny shells clicking and whispering in the dark hair that flowed past his shoulders. “I wish to find a person,” he said, with a matter-of-fact finality that made Anna wish the activists hadn’t made her take down the No fey cases, please sign.
           Oh, well. Life was just full of little annoyances.
           “I’m afraid I don’t take cases involving fey,” she said, pulling open one of her desk drawers. Picking a business card from the drawer, she offered it to him. “This is the number of an associate of mine who does. I’m sure he’ll be able to find whoever it is you’re looking for.”
           The fey gave the card a cursory glance but made no move to take it. “I have already spoken to Mr. Allen,” he said, almost conversationally. “He directed me to you.”
           Anna frowned at him. “Excuse me?”
           “I repeat: Mr. Allen sent me to you.” He’d taken on the manner of someone addressing a small child; he was annoyed. Well, good, that made two of them. “He said that I should tell you to call him if you had any objection.”
           She refrained from sighing. She’d worked with Phineas Allen for ten years, and he knew how she felt about fey. He must have had a good reason for sending this one to her.
           He’d better have a good reason for sending this one to her.
           “All right,” she said, “I’ll talk to him about it. Who is it you’re trying to find?”
           He smiled a little, but it wasn’t a human smile and there was no warmth in it. There was charm, though. Fey were very good at charm. It was one of the reasons Anna didn’t trust them. “Recently an item was stolen from me. It was accidentally acquired by a young woman who is not aware that it was stolen. However, by the time I learned that she had it, she had moved, and I do not know where she is. I wish for you to find her so that I may ask her to return my property.”
           It sounded simple. In spite of that—or perhaps because of it—Anna didn’t trust it. Still, Phineas’s judgment was usually sound. She owed it to him to at least consider it, she supposed.
           “All right,” she said at last. “I’ll talk to Phineas. In the meantime, what information can you give me about the person you want me to find?”
           Canting his head slightly to the side, he considered. “Her name is Leah Randall, and she lived in Asheville before she moved. She is young. I expect that she is also either involved in magic, or very naïve; possibly both.”
           This, Anna thought dryly, was precisely why she didn’t like working with fey. Most of them didn’t think by modern terms such as means of identification. I should get Phineas to start telling his fey clients that the Social Security number is some sort of magical signature. Maybe then they’d think to bring it to us. “Do you have any other information that I could use to identify her? Her former address, her Social Security number, her date of birth?”
           He merely looked at her quizzically, and she had to keep herself from gritting her teeth. Typical. She tried again. “Can you give me a better idea of how old she is? It’s very hard to find someone with nothing more than a name and a city to go by.”
           “Young,” he said calmly. “An adult by our reckoning, but not by yours. I believe she still goes to school.”
           That wasn’t a lot more accurate, but it did mean that Leah Randall was probably over fifteen and under twenty-one, probably still in high school. It might yield more valuable information if Anna could find which school the girl had gone to in Asheville—assuming, that was, that she took the case at all.
           “It’s a starting point,” she said. “I’ll talk to Phineas, and when I come to a decision—” She was about to say ‘I’ll call you,’ when she realized that he probably didn’t have a phone. “Is there anywhere I can get in touch with you?”
           He smiled slightly. “You may contact me through Mr. Allen, of course.”
           “Of course,” she muttered. It only figured. “May I have your name, then?” she asked, trying not to sound as exasperated as she felt.
           He smiled at her again, all sunny good nature and boyish charm. “I am called Marcail.”
           Anna nodded. “All right, then. When I’ve decided, I’ll be in touch. If I don’t take your case, I can at least give you some names and numbers of other private investigators who will be able to help you.”
           Marcail tilted his head slightly, considered, stood. “That is acceptable.” Moving with fluid, natural grace, he gave a shallow bow. “We will speak again.”
           As soon as the door closed behind him, Anna reached for the phone. Phineas picked up on the first ring.
           “Why did you send me a fey?” she demanded with no preamble. She just wasn’t in the mood for pleasantries.
           Phineas’s voice over the line was rich with amusement. “Anna. I was wondering how long it would take you to call.”
           “I mean it.” She tried to sound stern, but Phineas had the sort of cheer that made it hard to hold onto irritation. “You know I don’t like fey cases.”
           “I know,” he agreed. “But it’s a perfectly simple case, Anna. The client just happens to be fey.”
           Anna sighed. “It’s never simple with fey. They never tell the whole story, and they’re complicated by nature. I don’t like complication. It’s not worth the money.”
           “I know,” he said lightly, “but I really can’t take this one. I don’t see why you couldn’t handle it; it would just take a little looking in public records.”
           “If it’s so simple, why can’t you take it?”
           “I have several cases going on that I’m sure you wouldn’t want to help me with. Look, why don’t I drive over? We can discuss it over dinner.”
           Anna laughed, her annoyance melting. “Only if you cook.”
           “Fair enough,” Phineas answered amusedly. “But do you have any eggs?”
           The question made her pause. “I don’t know.”
           “Anna.” His tone was an aggrieved reproach.
           “Well,” she defended herself, “I usually have better things to think about than eggs.”
           He chuckled. “A change of plans. You drive over, and we’ll eat at my house instead. All right?”
           Glancing at her watch—almost six-thirty—she considered, but only for a moment. Anything Phineas made would be better than her next option, microwaving something from her freezer. “Done. Give me half an hour; I’ve got some things to straighten up here before I leave.”
           “Of course. I have one or two little things I’d like to get done before tomorrow as well, and now will work as well as midnight. If you get here before I’m finished, pour yourself a glass of wine and make yourself at home."
           “...And don’t touch the chalk lines. Gotcha.” Anna grinned; it was a private joke. “See you there.”
           “See you there,” he agreed. His low chuckle was the last thing she heard before she hung up.
           Standing from her desk, Anna decided she had about an hour to finish the paperwork from her most recent case. It was only a fifteen-minute drive from Black Mountain to Phineas’s home in Asheville, and there was no rushing his business. What he was up to this evening was apt to be a bit more delicate than paperwork.