Halloween is Murder(7)
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?”
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.
Feeling slightly foolish, Barry followed her down to a small garden room. A square marble slab provided the patio for four narrow marble benches. In the center of the patio was a rectangular fish pond. Not that Barry could see any fish beneath the dead leaves and blossoms that floated like snakeskin across the surface.
Margaret Mary pointed at one of the benches. “That’s where I found the note. It was in an envelope with my name printed across the front.”
“I hope you kept the envelope as well as the n—” Barry broke off as she thrust her hand into the pocket of her coat and handed him a crumpled letter. He gasped, “Lady, didn’t you ever hear of fingerprints?”
“Vampires don’t leave fingerprints.”
Barry muttered, “For the love of Mike.” He’d meant to say, For Pete’s sake! But somehow it came out the other way. Whichever. It didn’t matter. She was a screwball. He smoothed out the note and held it up to read by moonlight.
Macushla,
If you wish to see your brother alive again, honor the terms of the covenant entered into by your father. You have until the start of Samhain.
A.
“What the hell?”
“You see?”
“What are the terms of this covenant?”