Halloween is Murder(4)

“Then you do believe me?”

He said diplomatically, “I haven’t heard the whole story yet.”

“True. Well. The problem is I don’t know exactly who’s behind these terrible crimes. That is to say, I know who’s behind them, but I don’t know who committed—”

“Wait a sec,” Barry said. “You said crimes. You think there’s some connection between your father’s murder and your brother’s kidnapping?”

“Yes. Of course. Absolutely.”

The chair squeaked loudly as he sat back. There was something quiet and kind of eerie about an empty office building at night. Like all those lights glittering behind the windows around them were a million miles away. Maybe on another planet. A planet he was starting to feel homesick for.

He said, “Okay. Go on.” He was not in a position to turn down customers, however screwy.

“The person you need to speak to is Mr. Darragh Avartaugh. There’s still time, if you go at once. He lives on Mulholland Drive at—”

“See, that’s not how this works,” Barry interrupted. “First, I need to hear all the facts of the case. I don’t even know when this alleged kidnapping took place. Then I need to see the note the kidnappers left. I need to know why you’re so sure this Avartaugh guy is behind it all. I need to examine the scene of the crime. Then I guess I need to see the police report on your father’s homicide, if you really are convinced these crimes are connected. I need—”

“There isn’t time! None of that matters,” Miss O’ Flaherty interrupted. “This isn’t that kind of case.”

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?”