Halloween is Murder Page 2

  He couldn’t stop the note of exasperation that crept in. “No? What kind of case is it then?”

  She seemed sad and surprised by his dwindling patience. “You don’t understand.”

  “No, I don’t. That’s for sure.”

  “Bartholomew—may I call you Bartholomew?”

  “No, you sure as hell can’t. You can call me Barry. Or, if you’re feeling formal, Mr. Fitzgerald.”

  “Barry, you can’t pursue this as a normal investigation,” Miss O’ Flaherty said earnestly.

  “I begin to believe you.” He knew he would regret asking. “Why can’t I?”

  “Because,” she said, sounding like it ought to be perfectly obvious. “Darragh Avartaugh is a vampire.”

  Chapter Two

  “BOO!” said a tiny, green-faced wicked witch in red patent leather Mary Janes.

  “Boo, yourself,” Barry responded, scooping the wicked witch up and stepping inside the elegant house on Sleepy Hollow Drive. The wicked witch’s crinoline made a rustling sound and her pointed silk hat slipped sideways off her yellow curls. “Where’s your mom?”

  Wicked, who went by the name Megan Mary Murtaugh most of the year, threw back her head and bellowed “MAHHHH-MEEEE, Uncle Barry’s here.” She turned down the volume to ask, “Will you take me trick or treating?”

  “I have to work this year.”

  Wicked scowled mightily, crossing her eyes—which did look pretty ferocious—and banged her nose into Barry’s.

  “Oww.” Barry checked for blood with his free hand.

  “Uncle Mike will take me.”

  So young. So evil.

  Barry set her back on her feet. “Uncle Mike went fishing.”

  Wicked departed, screeching again, “MAHHHH-MEEEE!”

  A house maid appeared, looking sort of distraught (which was how house maids always looked in that place). Before she could offer excuse or explanation, Barry’s sister, blonde, blue-eyed and dressed like Glinda the Good Witch, wafted in. She beckoned the maid away. From the rakish angle of her tall, glittering crown, he detected one of two pre-party highballs had been consumed.

  “You’re early,” she pronounced. “The party doesn’t start for another hour. Where’s your costume?” She pointed a star-tipped wand at him as though hoping to change his wardrobe with a wave.

  “This is it,” Barry said. “I’m coming as an out-of-work private eye.”

  Meggie said, “No, you’re not.”

  “No, I’m not. I can’t stay.”

  “Barry.”

  “I know. Sorry. I’ve got a case and I wanted to ask—”

  Meggie was not so easily put off. “Can’t Mike handle whatever it is tonight?”

  “Mike went fishing.”

  “At this time of year?”

  “Yes. Sure. It’s trout season. Plenty of guys go fishing this time of year. Anyway, I want to ask you about a girl you went to school with. Margaret Mary O’Flaherty.”

  Meggie’s face fell. “Oh, no. Don’t tell me you’ve fallen for that—”

  “Of course not. Just…what can you tell me about her?” This was not the ideal way to gather intelligence, but there was no time for official channels. He needed to know a few things about his new client.

  “Nothing. We didn’t move in the same circles. If you know what I mean.”

  Not exactly. Pentagram versus tennis bracelet?

  Meggie said, “Come in and have a drink. We’ll discuss.”

  “I can’t,” Barry said. “The meter’s running on this one. What can you tell me about her?”

  “Nothing. She liked dreary poetry and depressing philosophy. She knew how to ruin a party.”

  “Didn’t you go out with the O’Flaherty girl’s brother for a while?”

  “Yes.” Meggie looked pained. “What a Gloomy Gus he was. And a penny-pincher. He did like golf though. I’ll give him that.”

  “You know, not everyone thinks Robert Murtaugh is the life of the party.”

  Robert was Meggie’s husband. He was a much-in-demand accountant with Arthur Young & Company. Sober, solid, and a very nice guy. If you needed a partner for bridge or someone to loan you a circular saw that actually worked, he was your man. If you needed a buddy to go drinking, hunting or fishing with…well, that would not be Robert. So, if Meggie thought Patrick was a Gloomy Gus, it was saying something.

  “Oh, Robbie’s got hidden depths.” Meggie’s face softened. “You need to find yourself a Robert.” She blinked at the echo of her words and then giggled. “I mean a Roberta.”

  “Uh...”

  “It would change your life.”

  “It sure would. Why was Patrick O’ Flaherty such a Gloomy Gus?”

  “I don’t know why he was, but he was. For one thing, he was convinced he was going to die young.”

  “Was he in poor health?”

  “Not as far as I could tell. He had a decent swing—not to mention a reach like a tamandua’s tongue.”

  “A what?”

  “See, if you’d stayed in college—”

  “Never mind. This amorous anteater, he’s rich, right? They inherited after the old man was murdered?”

  “She inherited. They’re twins, but Margaret was born four minutes before Patrick, and under the terms of their father’s will, she inherited everything. Patrick put it down to the curse. Anything that ever went wrong, he believed was because of the curse.”

  “You lost me. Again.”

  “He believed there was a curse on his family.”

  “A…curse?”

  “You heard me.” Meggie’s expression grew sardonic. “The family is Irish. From Londonderry or someplace nearby. Apparently, they were a big noise back in the fifth century. But they got on the bad side of a sorcerer or a wizard. I forget the details, though Pat told me often enough. If anything ever went wrong—if he got a parking ticket or a bad grade in chemistry—he always blamed it on the curse.”

  Barry prodded, “But you don’t know what this curse entails?”

  “All I know is with his dying breath the wizard cursed the house of O’Flaherty. Of course, in the fifth century it would have been the house of something unpronounceable, but curses are sticky things. You can’t shake them by losing a couple of vowels and moving to America.”

  Barry heard this out in silence. He was tempted to bring up the delicate subject of vampires, but after all, Miss O’Flaherty was a client. Finally—and he felt like an idiot for even going that far—he asked, “You’re sure you don’t know the details of this, er, curse?”

  “We only dated a few weeks. That’s the sort of thing you save for going steady.”

  Funny gal, his sis. The nuns of Sacred Heart High School had wanted her to try for a scholarship to Bryn Mawr or another of those Seven Sister colleges back east, but Meggie had set her heart on becoming Mrs. Robert Murtaugh.

  “What about Margaret Mary?” he asked.

  “You mean is she cursed too?”

  “No. I do not. Can’t you tell me anything more about her? Does she drink?”

  “Probably. Would you blame her?”

  Barry delivered a look of brotherly disapproval.

  Meggie sighed. “Not to excess, I wouldn’t have said. Honestly, Barry. If Margaret is your client, give her back her money. Don’t get involved. I’m speaking as your older and wiser sister.”

  “You’re two years younger than me.”

  “Even so. I don’t care what sob story she gave you. Another missing fiancé? Forget it. Steer clear of that family.”

  “A-a-another missing fiancé?” Barry repeated.

  “Yep. She was going to marry Alan Wallace. Remember him?”

  “Vaguely.”

  “A very nice guy, but lousy taste in women. He enlisted shortly after they got engaged and ended up AWOL.”

  Barry started to object, but Meggie added, “Then she got engaged to Russell Carter-Davenport. You wouldn’t know him. Nobody knows what happened there, but supposedly he took a sudden tri
p back east and never came home. No one’s heard from him since.”

  Barry said thoughtfully, “She wasn’t wearing an engagement ring.”

  “Because she’s no longer engaged.” Meggie frowned. “You know there were rumors Margaret or Patrick—either or both—might have had something to do with their father’s death.”

  Barry stared at her, trying to decide if she was serious. “Where did you hear that?”

  “From everyone who ever knew Margaret. It’s not a secret.”

  He considered this new information unhappily.

  Meggie said, “Drop the case.”

  “I can’t drop the case. I need the money. And even if I didn’t, why would I turn away a client?”

  “Because she’s trouble.”

  “Trouble is my business.”

  Meggie groaned. “It’s your funeral. If you change your mind, drop by later. The party will go till sunup. Don’t worry about a costume.”

  It’s your funeral. Mike had said the same thing.

  “Thanks.”

  As Barry turned toward the door, Meggie said suddenly, “For the record, I think Mike’s a louse.”

  “Mike? Why?”

  Meggie said grimly, “I just do. You can tell him I said so.”

  “Sure,” Barry said.

  He would too. Just as soon as hell finished freezing over.

  In theory, Barry was supposed to spend Saturday evening watching Mrs. Rothman playing hide and seek with a professional polo player who went by the unfortunate name of Dicky Treat.

  Though he didn’t want to prolong Mr. Rothman’s agony any longer than he had to, there was nothing Mrs. Rothman would get up to Saturday night that she couldn’t get up to any other night of the week, and meanwhile the clock was ticking on Margaret Mary O’Flaherty’s kidnapped brother and her vendetta against the undead.

  Or was it the other way around?

  It was times like these Barry missed Mike. Well, hell. These days when didn’t he miss Mike? But Mike had an unexpectedly broad knowledge of matters both arcane and profane—also of Irish history, which was kind of the same thing. Anyone else, and Barry would have assumed a college education, but Mike scoffed at the idea of higher education. He was strictly self-taught. Mike would undoubtedly have some interesting things to say about this vampire theory of Miss O’ Flaherty’s. And about Miss O’ Flaherty herself. He might not be familiar with the social register, but he was a pretty good judge of character—though not as good a judge as Barry, in Barry’s humble opinion.

  Anyway, it would have been nice—useful—to have Mike with him as he drove down winding, moonlit Laurel Canyon Boulevard to the O’Flaherty mansion. The fact was, over the past three years Barry had gotten pretty used to Mike being around. He didn’t begrudge Mike his annual fishing trips, though he’d come to view them first, as a nuisance, and, lately, with something like…well, not dread. That was too strong. But…trepidation.

  Yeah, trepidation. He’d been glad when Mike asked him to come along this time for a lot of reasons, but one reason stuck out now. (Maybe it was hearing about those missing fiancés of Miss O’Flaherty’s.) Barry could admit, at least to himself, that one reason he didn’t like those fishing trips of Mike’s was he always had a niggling suspicion Mike might just keep driving north.

  It wasn’t like there was so much to hold Mike here. His family, whatever was left of them, were all in South Carolina. His employment wasn’t exactly steady—maybe Barry should have made him a partner at Bell, Book and Cannon, and never mind the scruples. Friendship was a fine thing, but was it enough? Probably not. Not for a guy like Mike whose social calendar seemed pretty empty to Barry. Hell, as far as Barry could tell, he was Mike’s social calendar.

  If Mike hadn’t been such an ass about it, Barry would have been happy, more than happy, to drive up to Crowley Lake with him. And the fact that Mike had been an ass, and Barry hadn’t been able to go with him, served to make him kinda sore with Mike.

  Which didn’t change the fact that in the back of his mind he was worried Mike wasn’t coming back.

  As if he didn’t have enough to worry about.

  Frank Sinatra was on the radio crooning “I Don’t Stand a Ghost of a Chance with You” as the Ford Crestline wound its way past wild, grassy hills, looking bleached and silvery by starlight, twisted oak and tall palm trees, black silhouettes against the moon, banks of oleander spilling over tall fences, in pale poisonous waves.

  Ideally, Barry would have liked a lot more background information on both his client and the victim. He’d have liked to know all there was to know about the O’Flahertys (including those two missing fiancés of Margaret’s). And he’d have liked to learn more about this Darragh Avartaugh character and why Margaret Mary believed he was a vampire. (Assuming she wasn’t nuts to start with.) Barry had an old war buddy, Jack Riordan, on the Glendale Police Force, and in a perfect world he’d have liked to have a drink and a private word with Jack before meeting with his client again. But Jack was busy investigating holiday murder and mayhem, and Barry couldn’t waste any more time. You didn’t have to be a cop or a G-man to know the first twenty-four hours meant life and death in a kidnapping case. Pat O’Flaherty had been missing since the night before.

  Margaret Mary explained the delay in seeking help by saying she’d been waiting for further instructions from the kidnappers. Barry wasn’t sure if he believed her or not. He believed she was frightened, all right, but frightened of what exactly?

  He was more than a little uneasy himself. Meeting clients in the middle of the night—well, okay, it was only about seven now—was not exactly business as usual. But then his clients did not typically wander in from the society pages. Maybe this was how the other half operated in times of trouble.

  When he spotted the mansion, looming like a fortress at the top of a hill, he whistled softly. Like all mausoleums, it had a name: Teach an Seacht Gealach. Which translated to something like House of Seven Moons. Why seven moons? Was there some significance to seven moons? Mike would have had an answer, no doubt.

  Tall gates, ornately wrought with vines and leaves and crescent moons, barred the entrance to the tree-lined drive to the house, but the gates were not locked. There was no security guard. Barry got out, pushed the gates open, drove through, and closed the gates behind him.

  Presumably the kidnappers had done the same the night before.

  The drive to the house was a long, smooth curve beneath a tunnel of trees which ended in front of a very large and fairly ugly Alpine village. The village turned out to be rambling additions to the central body of the house, the architectural style seemingly influenced by colliding continents. There were lots of little steeples and balconies and French doors and gargoyles attached to solid citizen brick and white gingerbread. Several families could have lived there for days and never run into each other. Hell, search parties could have patrolled there and never made contact.

  Barry parked his heap discreetly behind the overgrown bougainvillea bushes and strode up to the front door. At least, he hoped it was the front door. There were several entrances to choose from, but this one stood at the top of a flight of brick stairs and had the most gargoyles leering over the arched portico.

  He rang the doorbell and almost immediately the enormous carved door—liberated from some bombed-out European church?—swung soundlessly open.

  Barry opened his mouth, but the words stuck in his throat. Minus the cape and fangs, he could have been gazing at Count Dracula.

  Chapter Three

  Of course, by Count Dracula, Barry meant Bela Lugosi. The actor.

  Barry did not believe there was, or had ever been, any such person as Count Dracula.

  He said, “Say, don’t I know you?”

  Which was not at all what he’d meant to open with, but the sight of the butler decked out like a ritzy undertaker had thrown him for a second.

  The Count snapped back in accents reminiscent of the Bowery Boys, “Can I help you?”

&n
bsp; That was a relief. Barry’s nerves would have been further unsettled by an unctuous Gooood evening…

  He began, “Miss O’Flaherty is expecting me,” but was cut off by the sudden appearance of his client. Margaret Mary came flying across the marble entry hall like she’d been shot out of a cannon, and practically shoved the butler out of the way.

  “That’s all right, Collins!” she said breathlessly. “Mr. Fitzgerald, thank you for coming!”

  Collins withdrew into the shadows, or so it seemed to Barry, and Margaret Mary joined Barry on the front step, firmly closing the door behind her.

  She put a finger to her lips and led the way down the steps. When they reached the bottom of the brick stairs, she said softly, “I thought you should see the-the scene of the crime first.”

  Plus, she didn’t want the servants to overhear their conversation. Barry could understand that. He nodded and followed her down a flagstone path that led through more bougainvillea and various tropical-looking plants, appearing faded and frayed in the starlight. The flagstone path turned into brick steps which led past a couple of brick terraces. Then the bricks disappeared into deep clover.

  “Can I ask about the terms of your father’s will?” Barry ventured. “Was your brother aware—”

  Margaret Mary didn’t hear him. “Down here is where it happened,” she threw over her shoulder, her gray shadow moving swiftly through the shade and silhouettes. “In the marble garden. I found the note on the bench where he liked to sit.”

  Liked. Past tense.

  A sense of misgiving crawled over Barry’s scalp. Something about this place gave him the creeps. Maybe it was the occasional pale glimmer of a statue staring sightlessly his way. Maybe it was the damp smell of moldering decay that smothered the ordinary October smells of fresh cut firewood, cinnamon and spice, and autumn leaves. Or maybe it was the instinct that made you turn in time to keep someone from bashing you over the head with a handy rock.

  Barry spun quickly, but there was no one behind him.

  “This way,” Margaret Mary called. She was now more than a yard ahead of him, disappearing down a stairway built into the wall of what turned out to be a sunken garden.