Halloween is Murder(6)

“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.