The vivacious private investigator from Sleepyside, New York, was immensely enjoying her three-month assignment with the Boston Metropolitan Police Department. It had started with Chief Molinson, of all people, recommending her to Boston’s Police Commissioner Paul Evans when he had heard they needed someone to help capture the Boston Commons stalker, a psycho who preyed on petite women with short curly blond hair. Trixie had performed her duties with such excellence that Commissioner Evans asked if she could stay on for another couple of months. Trixie made a call to her detective agency partner and best friend, Honey Wheeler.

The experience of working with the Boston police force had been a fantastic experience. She had not only learned some new surveillance and interrogation techniques but she had established herself as an excellent detective with sharp intuitive skills. Trixie had mixed emotions that it was almost over, but three all-night stakeouts in a row with a nice but boring detective had all but done her in. She was dog-tired but wanted to unwind just a bit before heading to the small studio apartment she was temporarily calling home. Another blast of bone-chilling wind bit through her khaki slacks, making her glad that she was quickly approaching her destination—one of Boston’s more famous neighborhood pubs.

Trixie had first visited the Bull and Finch Pub, the basis for the popular television show Cheers, on a lark, one of those typical tourist things visitors did when they were in Boston. She was surprised to find that she had enjoyed herself and patronized the tavern on a frequent basis, not because she particularly enjoyed alcoholic beverages but because of the affable staff and friendly folks that were regulars.

She stamped her feet to knock off any unknown icky thingies that might be clinging to the bottom of her shoes and then wearily trudged through the door to the tavern. She paused on the small landing just inside the door to unwrap the knit scarf from her head and neck and unzip her jacket. Trixie chuckled to herself, thinking how different this establishment was to its TV counterpart. Where Cheers featured an immense room with a large U-shaped bar, the main room at the Bull and Finch Pub was narrow, with the normal long straight bar and a row of booths on the opposite wall. A long thin table mounted to two supports posts with three high-legged chairs on either side divided the room lengthwise. Even when moderately full, patrons have to weave or turn sideways to get through. The rich, highly polished wood of the tables, the bar, and the overhead glass rack and the warm glow from the hanging lamps helped to create the cozy ambiance for which the bar was well known.

Trixie came down the three steps into the pub’s main room. Even though it was only 2:00 in the afternoon, several people were already gathered at the long bar and a few groups were seated in the booths, "getting up" for the St. Patrick’s Day festivities that would take place that evening.

"Hi, Benny!" she called cheerfully and waved to the pudgy, balding man tending bar. "Hey, guys, how’s it going?" she added in greeting to the two men who always seemed to be sitting at the end of the bar no matter what time she came in.

"Top ‘o the day to you, Miss Belden!" Benny responded in his best Irish accent as he drew a beer from the tap and sat it front of one of the several customers perched on the red-seated bar stools. "And a Happy St. Paddy’s Day to ya’. Hey! Whoa! Hold it right there!"

Surprised Trixie stopped in her tracks and held her arms. "What?! What did I do?"

Benny shook his head and clucked his tongue at her. "Just look at you! Not a speck o’ green on you anywhere. Red sweater and bright yellow jacket. Where’s your spirit, girlie?"

"Guilty as charged," Trixie admitted with a shrug. "Something about this holiday I just can’t get into. Guess it’s all that Dutch heritage where I grew up. Give me a bunch of tulips and I’ll dance for days!"

"Well, all right then, but I’ll betcha’ that ole’ Mikey back there will have you dancin’ an Irish jig before the evenin’s over!" Benny declared.

Trixie’s face colored as she flapped both hands at him. "Oh you! Get out of town!

Benny laughed heartily and began to wipe down the bar with a white terry cloth towel. Trixie reached the end of the room and turned left down a hallway that led to the quieter bar area in the back. Here she could relax, keep to herself if she wanted, or have a spirited conversation with Mike. He was the young bartender in the backroom; he was the one that could make her come back to life after a tiring day; he was the one who just broke into a wide smile as she entered the room.

"Trixie! Hey girl! Good to see you. It’s been a few days!"

"Hi back at you!" she answered, sliding into her favorite booth near the bar. If she wanted to be isolated, she could scoot closer to the wall. If she wanted some lively conversation with Mike, she could stay on the outer edge of the seat, as she did now.

"The usual, Trixie, or do you want to be more daring and have a full-strength beer tonight?"

Trixie’s blue eyes danced in merriment at the cute bartender. "Nope, better stick to the light. I’m sleepy enough as it is. Hey, if I do fall asleep, at least cover me with a blanket, will you?"

"Yeah, a big, fuzzy green one!" he teased her. "Speaking of which, you do at least want a green beer, don’t you?"

"Jeepers! What is it with you guys? Trixie rolled her eyes in mock disdain. "Oh okay, make it a green light."

Mike grinned at her pun. "Sure thing," he said as he drew the golden beverage from the tap and then added his own "secret" ingredient, turning the beer to the color of light emeralds. "Here you go," he said, placing the filled frosted mug on the edge of the bar.

Trixie stood up and laid the Nautica jacket on the seat beside her before taking the few steps to the bar to get the glass.

"Hey, you’re not wearing green, not even a shamrock pin. How come?"

Trixie sighed loudly and answered, "First Benny almost has me arrested and now you. Besides that, you’re wearing enough for both of us," she observed as she pointed to Mike’s kelly green Oxford shirt with the embroidered blue Polo emblem and the four-leaf clover sticker that was pasted on the shirt.

"Well, when your name is Michael Sean McNamara, you don’t really have much choice in the matter," Mike replied laughingly.

Trixie sat down and took a sip of her cold brew. "Hmmmm, that’s nice. Seeing how I have no ancestors from Ireland, I guess I can’t relate to this whole luck of the Irish and Blarney Stone thing."

"Hey Mike!" a male voice boomed from the entry door. "The delivery of Guinness beer just arrived. Wanna’ give me a hand?"

"Yeah sure, Dave. It’s about time it got here." Mike explained to Trixie, "Guinness is an Irish beer, and the number of Guinness beers ordered increases significantly on St. Patrick’s Day. The distributor promised to have the extra cases delivered yesterday by noon to make sure we had it in plenty of time for today. Of course, I guess there’s no better time than St. Patrick’s Day for Murphy’s law to rear its head. But I guess it’s better a little late than never."

Trixie watched in rapt attention as Mike unbuttoned and then removed his shirt and then carefully laid it across a stool behind the bar. She stared with lustful attention as he came around the end of the bar and strode toward the door, his white tee-shirt clinging to his torso and his well-fitting size 32 Levi’s singing a Siren’s song to her.

"Holy cow," she breathed and then took a long drink of beer. Trixie wasn’t sure what it was about Mike that got to her. He wasn’t a gorgeous head-turner, but he was puppy-dog cute. He didn’t have an athlete’s well-built body, but the crisply starched shirts or the soft pullovers he wore with his ever-present jeans and boots nicely accented his slender frame. She liked the way he kept his dark brown hair with the auburn highlights cut short, very reminiscent of Mart’s crewcut. She liked the way his blue eyes sparkled when he laughed. She guessed it was the total package that made him seem so sexy to her.

Trixie stared into the green beer. What she couldn’t figure out is why she had never accepted his invitations to go out with him. Mike worked at the pub part-time three or four nights a week while he was completing his Master’s degree in Political Science at Boston College. On the weekends he was a drummer in a band called Crashing Heads. Their main genre included songs from Creed, Wallflowers, Eric Clapton, Sting, Counting Crows, and Matchbox 20. However, on occasion, if requested by a favorite customer, they would do one of those hated suicide country songs or the even more despised "Mustang Sally."

Several times he’d asked her to go out to dinner and then accompany him to the nightclub, country club, or fraternity party where he was playing. He promised she’d have a good time, even told her he had a song he wanted to sing for her. Didn’t say what song, just said it would be a nice surprise.

She didn’t know why she never went. Or did she?

Trixie leaned back and tried to shut out the kissy-kissy sounds of the couple that occupied the booth behind her and the droning of the voices of the three insurance salesmen that sat at a table against the opposite wall.

Green beer reminded her of green eyes. Visions of the red-headed boy she found at the miser’s mansion and then again at the Smiths’ farm broke through her foggy mind--the one who had helped her up from a snowbank; the one who kept her spirits up when they were within a breath of being swept away in a flood; the one who made her heart sing when he danced with her or broke it when he ignored her to dance with someone else; the one who said she was his special girl. The same one who might hold her hand at the movies and then quickly brush her cheek with his lips at the door when he took her home. Jim. The Honorable James Winthrop Frayne The Second. Trixie sometimes wanted to take all that honorableness and toss it over a cliff. Maybe then he would….

"There are finer fish in the sea than have ever been caught, lassie."

Startled, Trixie’s eyes popped open. To her astonishment, an old man wearing a pilled forest green wool sweater sat in the seat across from her, holding a mug of green beer between his small ruddy hands, with a shot of whiskey sitting to the side. His jade eyes blinked as he acknowledged her stare.

Maybe it was his height, which Trixie judged to be no more than 5’2" from the way she had to look slightly downward at him, or the lilt in his voice, or maybe it was the tufts of white cotton-candy hair that stuck out on each side of his head, but Trixie had this almost uncontrollable desire to look to see if he had pointy ears and pointed-toed shoes.

She finally found her voice and asked, "Excuse me?"

The old man polished off the shot of whiskey and banged the glass down onto the wooden table. "Ahhh, good stuff. Finer fish in the sea, just an old Irish proverb, a little food for thought."

He cocked his head to one side and then to the other, looking at Trixie as though trying to remember her from somewhere. He wiped his right hand on the front of his sweater and then stuck it out to her. "Seamus Callaghan, at your service, pretty girl."

Trixie couldn’t help but grin as she wondered if he might have a pot of gold, or at least a box of Lucky Charms, hidden somewhere. "I’m Trixie Belden, Mr. Callaghan. Nice to meet you," she said pleasantly as she shook his hand.

"Belden, Belden," he mused, tapping his fingers on his beer mug. "Now where do I know that name?" He studied her face quite intently before inquiring, "Are you related to Myles Patrick Belden?"

Startled at the question, Trixie blurted out, "Yes! He was my great-great-grandfather. How did you know?"

"Oh, everyone in County Clare knew Myles Patrick Belden. Of course, back then he was known as Myles Patrick O'Beldenney. Why anyone would want to change a perfectly good surname like that is just beyond me," Seamus said, with a sad shake of his head.

"My great-great-grandfather's real last name was O'Beldenney?" Trixie asked incredulously.

Seamus took a long draw of his green beer and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "Sure it was. His story was he changed it to sound more American before he crossed the pond. The rumor was that he changed it to keep from being found by Lady Flannigan's husband. Seems old Myles couldn't keep his flute in his pants around the pretty ladies."

Trixie burst out laughing and slapped her hands on the table. "You're kidding me! That's too funny. Hey! That means I do have Irish ancestors!"

"Maith thú, Trixie girl! I think this calls for a toast," Seamus proclaimed. "Now, this is the way it goes. We'll raise our glasses together and I'll give a toast. You must repeat the toast exactly. If you get it arseways, good fortune will not come your way."

The diminutive Irish man and the blond girl raised their beer mugs and softly clinked them together.

"You ready?" he asked and she nodded vigorously in response, curls bouncing and eyes shining. "Listen carefully: Here's to it and from it and to it again, And if you get to it and don't do it, Here's to it that you get to it to do it again!"

Trixie closed her eyes, replaying the toast in her mind so that she could say it word for word.

"Trixie! Trixie! Are you okay?"

Trixie’s sandy lashes fluttered as she opened her eyes to see Mike's concerned face close to hers, his left hand on her shoulder. "Yes, of course, why do you ask?"

"You were just sitting here, moving your mouth but nothing was coming out. I thought maybe you were sick or something," Mike replied, straightening up.

"Oh no, I was just talking to.."

Trixie then realized that the bench across from her was empty. She twisted her head and saw that the area was nearly half filled with other customers and heard the sounds of a jolly round of When Irish Eyes Are Smiling filtering in from the main room.

"…just talking to myself, I guess, Mike. But thanks, I'm okay." She lightly patted the hand that had remained on her shoulder.

"Well, if you're sure," he answered uncertainly, the look of unease still in his eyes.

"Sure I'm sure. Now you've got some customers with empty glasses and I need to get home," she assured him with a warm smile.

Mike returned to the back of the bar and watched as Trixie slid into her jacket and wrapped the scarf around her neck. He was reaching for a wineglass from the overhead rack when Trixie turned and waved to him. "Goodnight, Mike. Beannachtam na Femle Padraig!"

v v v v v v

Author's End Notes: