Halloween is Murder(12)

“You’re saying Avartaugh is actually the reincarnation of this ancient Irish chieftain Abhartach?” Barry did not mean to sound skeptical—not after the things he’d seen that night—but it was a lot to take in. He fell silent at the sight of the house.

A spread that big meant household staff. A lot of staff. And if Avartaugh was the villain he sounded, it meant goons. Goons galore.

Swell.

Mike said, “Not the reincarnation. He is Abhartach.”

And you know that how? But Barry didn’t waste time on foolish questions. “How do we get in to see him?”

Mike said, “Getting in won’t be the problem.”

He turned out to be right about that—and other things.

There was a night watchman in the little cottage beside the tall gates blocking the entrance to the mountain villa. But a quick phone call to the main house had him scurrying to unlock the gates. Barry’s Crestline glided through and they sailed up the eucalyptus-lined road to a cement drive that circled around a couple of grassy squares with fountains.

The fountains shot plumes of ice-colored water into the night.

They parked and got out. A veddy English butler held the front door open for them, silky light spilling down the steps and fanning across the tidy squares of lawn and hedge.

“Mr. Avartaugh is waiting for you in the study,” Godfrey announced.

Barry nodded, glanced at Mike, and realized he was on his own. Somewhere between the car and the front door, Mike had disappeared. It was disconcerting, okay, but Barry kept his surprise to himself.

He followed the butler through a maze of beautiful rooms with intricate moldings, marble fireplaces, hand-carved mantles, and elegant crystal chandeliers. They came at last to the study. More moldings, fireplaces, mantles and chandeliers—and books. There were more books in that room that most public libraries Barry had been in. Old books mostly. Gilt-edged and leather bound. Books older than that. Books so old they weren’t even books, just rolls of parchment stacked behind glass.

There was a giant brown and gold globe in a cradle adorned with bronze dragons, and there was a desk. The kind of desk where important men wrote important words to other important men. The man sitting at the desk looked like any tired businessman after a long day of moving and shaking. Julius Caesar probably looked like that before his first cocktail of the evening. Avartaugh was a slender, middle-aged, genteel-looking chap with thinning gray hair and mild eyes.

“Mr. Fitzgerald. Welcome.” His voice was quiet, calm, with a suggestion of a lilt.

“Sorry to barge in at this hour,” Barry said, trying not to look at any of the doorways leading into the room. What Mike was up to? It would have been nice to know in advance, but Mike had always been close-mouthed, and that at least hadn’t changed.

“Not at all. We’ve been expecting you.”

We. Because yes, there were other people in the room. There were a couple of heavies wearing black frowns and cheap suits, sitting on either side of the large marble fireplace like gloomy andirons. And there was a weedy, bored-looking youngster slumped on a blue sofa. He was stubbing out a cigarette in a dish already spilling over with butts.

“So, you’re Maggie’s PI.” He met Barry’s eyes indifferently, and lit another cigarette.

“So, you’re Patrick O’Flaherty.”

O’Flaherty curled his lip at whatever he heard in Barry’s voice.

“Mr. Fitzgerald.” Avartaugh’s smooth voice drew Barry’s attention. “Would you happen to know what became of my associate, Mr. Redfern?”

“He took a powder,” Barry said.

The heavies next to the fireplace exchanged looks.

Avartaugh’s brows rose. “I’m surprised to hear it.”

Barry shrugged. “Anyway, I’m here on behalf of Miss Margaret Mary O’Flaherty. She’s hired me to secure her brother’s release.”

Avartaugh’s face quivered as though he found something funny, but was too polite to laugh. He glanced at the clock on the wall. “You’re cutting it very close. It’s one minute to midnight.”

“Well, if I’m too late, I guess that’s that.”

Avartaugh did laugh then. A quiet sound that sent a slither of tension down Barry’s spine. O’Flaherty sat up straight, glaring. “Wise guy, eh?”

“It’s not too late,” Avartaugh said.

“It might be,” Barry said, “because her answer is no.”

In the pause that followed, the clock began to chime the hour. Twelve chimes seemed like a lifetime.

When the clock finally fell silent, Avartaugh said, “No?” Like he’d never heard the word before.

O’Flaherty jumped up—the goons rose too, big and watchful—and screeched, “You’re lying. She wouldn’t dare!”

“It sounded like no to me. And that’s even before she finds out her brother’s a louse who helped orchestrate his own kidnapping.”

O’Flaherty lost color and sat down again on the sofa.

“Ah.” Avartaugh sounded regretful. “I was afraid of this.”

“That’s the least of it,” Barry said to O’Flaherty. “She might forgive you for blackmailing her into marrying a guy she loathes—even though he is a vampire. She won’t forgive you for killing her father.”