Halloween is Murder

by Josh Lanyon

  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?”

  “That I pledge my troth to the creature who now calls himself Darragh Avartaugh.”

  Barry stared at her. And then…he laughed.

  Sure, she was a little melodramatic, but he shouldn’t have. Mike was always telling him his sense of humor was going to get him into trouble one day. Sure enough.

  She said in a high, dangerous voice, “You think that’s funny?”

  “More like highly unlikely. I guess he hasn’t he heard about what happened to your other fiancés.”

  She slapped him good and hard.

  He probably had it coming.

  “Oww!” Barry said, putting a hand to his jaw. She had a right like Joe Louis.

  “How dare you!” Her eyes seemed to glow in the moonlight. It was a little uncanny.

  Even so, he said impatiently, “Come on, lady. Cut the baloney. You think I don’t know a gag when I see one? Among other things, you just happen to have a butler who could double for Bela Lugosi? Right. And I’m supposed to believe this set-up is on the level?”

  She gaped at him. “Are you… Are you out of your mind? Collins looks like a double for Bela Lugosi because that’s exactly what he was! He used to work in movies. He was Bela Lugosi’s double in over thirty films.”

  “Oh. Well, okay.” That was only the beginning of his objections, but he belatedly tried to soften his approach. “Look, I only meant that this is not exactly normal behavior.” He held out the note. “Not for kidnappers and not for would-be suitors.”

  She snatched the note from his hand. “I should have known a man as pretty as you would be absolutely useless!”

  “Hey,” Barry said, stung. “I’m perfectly useful. It just strikes me that this is a very scr-unlikely set-up. Kidnapping is one thing. Vampires, pledging of troths—”

  “You’re fired!”

  “Now hold on,” Barry said quickly. The size of her retainer check made a comfortable weight in his breast pocket. Belatedly, he remembered he did not want to have to hand back that check. “It’s clear to me that screwy or not, you need help, and I want to help you—”

  “Leave!” she commanded, and pointed to the deep, marble steps leading out of the sunken garden. “Be gone!”

  Be gone?

  Be gone?

  Bedamned to that. But okay. Never argue with a dame when her eyes were glowing. He’d let Miss Flaherty cool down a little and then give her a call in the morning. It wasn’t like she was going to be able to hire any other gumshoe that night, and the police would laugh her right out of the penal code.

  “Suit yourself,” Barry said. “But if you change your mind, you know where to find me.”

  He turned and headed back through the jungle. He thought he could hear her crying in the distance—or maybe that was the castle cat—but it was up to her to make the first move. He wasn’t absolutely sure this wasn’t for the best. What was she trying to pull? Did she think he was born yesterday?

  Maybe she’d forget about the retainer check. Or, if she didn’t remember until he’d deposited it, maybe he could pay it back to her in installments.

  He got slightly lost finding his way back to his car. As a matter of fact, the haunted forest at the base of Mt. Fuji wasn’t as dark and spooky as the garden surrounding the House of the Seven Moons, but at last he located the drive leading to the house and slowly walked back to where he’d parked.

  It was too late to con his way into Mrs. Rothman’s Halloween party, but he could always drop by his sister’s and maybe pick up some more information on the O’Flahertys. He was annoyed he’d let his sense of humor get the better of him. There was something very wrong here. He hadn’t imagined the fear he’d seen in Margaret Mary’s eyes the first time they’d met. He should have insisted on talking to the household staff right off the bat. More often than not in kidnappings, someone on the inside played a part in the crime. Sometimes inadvertently, sometimes vertently.

  Also, the more he thought about it, the more worried he was by the deadline in the kidnapper’s note.

  Until the start of Samhain.

  A deadline was one indication of serious intent.

  Was Samhain Halloween? Because in about three hours it was going to be Halloween, and if the kidnappers meant business…

  Barry was still mulling that over when he reached his car. He opened the door, heard something, and glanced around. He jumped. Probably it was a trick of the moonlight, but for a crazy split second, he thought he saw something very large and winged drop right out of the sky.

  Next instant, he realized he was looking at a big bald man in black duffel coat picking himself off the grass.

  “What are you supposed to be?” Barry inquired, thinking the bald man must have tripped while sneaking along the drive after him.

  Realizing the jig was up, the guy lunged forward, grabbing for Barry.

  Barry punched him in the face. It was a good punch and Barry delivered it with enthusiastic ferocity, but it didn’t seem to slow his attacker down much. Barry felt like he’d broken his hand on this bruiser’s formidable kisser. The heel of his palm stung, like he’d scraped skin on teeth.

  He swore and swung again, this time connecting with the sweet spot under the chin. His assailant’s eyes turned red—yeah, red—and he barred his teeth…which turned out to be fangs. Long, white, pointy fangs.

  Barry froze. First time in his life. It just didn’t…compute. The guy had dental work that would make a saber-tooth tiger smile. And a grip like a vise.

  Dracula hauled Barry forward and breathed, in foul-scented syllables, “Lay off the O’Flaherty case, if you know what’s good for you.”

  “Go to hell,” Barry replied and head-butted him.

  He nearly knocked himself out.

  “You…first.”

  Through a haze, he saw those teeth, bigger and whiter than ever, coming his way. He felt a flash of real fear and began to struggle, but it was like swimming through mud. Maybe the guy was just smiling, maybe he was going to whisper more sweet nothings in Barry’s dazed face, maybe—well, who knows?

  Another even bigger figure loomed up behind White Fang.

  The newcomer hauled Barry’s assailant back. The vam—whatever it—he—was, whirled in snarling fury, trying to wriggle free. Something sharp and pale swung high overhead and lanced down, piercing the vampire’s massive chest. The sound was kind of horrifying. The vampire burst into flames right before Barry’s astonished eyes.

  Burst. Into. Flames.

  The flames instantly cooled to bits of red-edged ash which floated away into the night. A ring of gray powder circled the place he had stood.

  Slack-jawed, Barry gazed up at his savior.

  “That makes four,” Mike said.

  Chapter Four

>   “You can’t count Vince Mezza and the Astoria Hotel Apartment,” Barry objected when he had his wits—and breath—back. “I landed on the fire escape.”

  “You were hanging on by your fingernails.”

  “I drink milk. I have very strong fingernails.” He leaned back against the side of his Ford, watching Mike shove what appeared to be a large wooden stake under his military style parka.

  “What just happened?” Barry asked slowly.

  Mikes eyes looked like black holes in the moonlight. “You were here. You saw.”

  Barry did not want to remember what he’d seen. He did not want to believe what he’d just seen. “I thought you went fishing.”

  “I did. I got about halfway to Crowley Lake and turned around. I had a bad feeling.”

  “Lucky for me.” Barry examined his scraped palm.

  “Yeah.”

  “How’d you know where to find me?” After the things he was trying not to think about, he was ready for any explanation, including witchcraft, but Mike’s answer was prosaic.

  “I went by your sister’s. I thought you might be there. She told me you were working a new case.” Mike’s voice changed. “Did he bite you?”

  “I don’t think so. Scratched me maybe…” The words stuck in Barry’s throat as Mike grabbed his wrist, peered at his palm, then pressed his mouth to the tiny trace of blood. Mike’s lips were warm, moist and soft, very soft. The feel of that usually hard, grim mouth sucking his hand made Barry’s knees weak. He had to struggle to pull in a full breath.

  “Er…Mike…what are you doing?”

  Mike turned his head and spat into the grass. “Sucking out the venom.” He resumed the lip action.

  Barry tilted his face up to the stars and took a couple of steadying breaths. This night was getting crazier and crazier. The craziest thing of all was how much he wanted Mike to transfer his lips from Barry’s hand to Barry’s mouth. What the hell would that feel like? To be kissed by Mike? It gave Barry a very strange feeling deep in his guts. When Mike nuzzled his pulse point, he thought his heart would stop.

  Mike finished his ministrations and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “It was hardly even a graze, but better safe than sorry.”

  “Yeah,” Barry said weakly. It was like he could still feel the pressure of Mike’s lips against the pulse in his wrist.

  They stared at each other for a long, silent moment.

  This is where everything changes. Nothing will ever be the same.

  Barry said, “I’ve got a question for you. I’m pretty sure you’ll know the answer.”

  Mike’s gaze was steady. “Go on.”

  “What is Samhain and when does it begin?”

  The set of Mike’s shoulders relaxed. His mouth twisted into something that was part smile, part grimace. “The Gaelic Halloween,” he said. “One of the four major festivals on the Celtic calendar. It marks the end of the harvest season and the beginning of winter. On Samhain the borders between this world and the next, fade.”

  “Swell. And it starts exactly when?”

  “Midnight tonight.”

  Barry nodded thoughtfully. If he was dreaming, he’d probably have woken up by now. If he was not dreaming, this must be really happening.

  He said, “We should probably get back to the office.”

  Mike was, as usual, unfazed. “I’m parked outside the gates.”

  Barry nodded. They had a lot to talk about, but that was a conversation that needed to happen in private. “I’ll see you back at the ranch.”

  Mike was already striding back to his car.

  * * * * *

  The phone was jangling off the hook when Barry unlocked the door and stepped inside his office. He knew who it would be, and was not disappointed. Margaret Mary started talking before he had the phone to his ear.

  “Mr. Fitzgerald—Barry—I’m sorry for losing my temper earlier. I realize how bizarre this…this situation must seem to you.”

  “Lady, you have no idea.”

  “I promise you that it’s not a-a gag, as you called it. I’m truly in desperate, desperate trouble. My poor brother has only a few hours to live unless you can help me. There simply isn’t anyone else I can call on. If you’ll only agree to come back to work, I’ll double your fee.”

  A floorboard squeaked and Mike’s long shadow fell across the moonlit floorboards. His eyes were a gleam in the darkness. The back of Barry’s scalp got that prickly feeling again.

  He reached over and pulled the chain on the green banker’s lamp. Warm, well-worn light illumined the familiar battered furniture and the framed photos of race horses on the wall. Mike leaned against the door frame, hat pulled down low. His pale green eyes watched Barry without blinking.

  Margaret Mary was still making her plea.

  Barry had had plenty of time to think on the drive back to his office. He interrupted her, saying, “All right. I’ll do what I can, but you’ve got to answer a couple of questions for me, and you’ve got to answer honestly.”

  “Yes. Of course. Anything.”

  Our client, Barry mouthed silently to Mike. Of course, Mike would have already figured that out, but Barry wanted to make contact, any kind of contact, with him. It worried him that Mike was hanging back in the doorway, like he might change his mind at any moment and leave again.

  To his relief, Mike nodded curtly, and crossed over to the battered sofa in the corner. He’d slept on that sofa for the first few months after Barry had pulled him off Suicide Bridge. Slept there until he’d finally earned enough to rent a room not far from the office.

  Mike hunched forward on the sofa, turning his brown fedora in his big hands, listening to Barry’s side of the phone conversation.

  “First thing,” Barry said. “Does this Abercrombie guy have any real grounds for believing you would marry him? Did you date? Did you encourage him? This is the twentieth century. Arranged marriages went out with the bustle.”

  Mike muttered, “Abhartach.”

  Barry raised an inquiring eyebrow, but Margaret Mary was filling his ear. “No. Well, not really. Yes, we went out a few times, but that was years ago. It wasn’t anything serious. I only did it to make my father happy. He was very old-fashioned. My father. Well, and Darragh too, frankly.”

  Barry sighed. He had a sister. He knew about these things. “So, you led him on.”

  “No!”

  “Was this before or after your other fiancés started disappearing?”

  Margaret Mary gave a little squeal. “What? Why would you say such a thing? There’s no connection—”

  “Before or after?”

  “Be-before.”

  Barry nodded grimly at his own thoughts. “Next question. Why was your father so anxious for you and Aber…Aberration to get together?”

  “Ancient family history.”

  “Yeah? I still want to know.”

  She gave a nervous laugh. “No, I mean that’s the answer. I don’t know the full story, but our families have been feuding since the fifth century. Since my father and Darragh ended up in the same line of work, I suppose dad thought it would be a good idea to try and mend some fences.”

  She was a terrible liar. Stiff in tone, stilted in words.

  “Same line of work?” Barry repeated. “Was your father a vampire too?”

  Mike raised his head and studied Barry with interest.

  Margaret Mary gave a squeal of alarm. “No! Of course not. I meant the antique trade. My father was—is—not one of the undead.”

  Barry was not impressed. “Final question. Was your brother aware of the terms of your father’s will before your father’s death?”

  There was a small, shocked pause before she said quickly, “Of course! We both were. We always knew.”

  Yep, a really terrible liar.

  “Okay,” Barry said. “That’s what I needed to know. We don’t have a lot of time. Where can I find this blood-sucking suitor of yours?”

  Margaret Mary recited an addre
ss on Mulholland Drive. Barry replaced the handset in the cradle, tore the page with the address off his notepad, and gazed across at Mike.

  “I don’t know exactly what we’re walking into, but we’ve got ninety minutes before this Darragh Avartaugh turns Patrick O’Flaherty into something worse than he already is.”

  “A revenant. A creature of the night,” Mike said gravely.

  “He’s already a creature of the night as far as I’m concerned, but if revenant means vampire, yeah. That’s my guess.” Barry opened his desk drawer and pulled out his Smith & Wesson .357 Magnum. “Too bad I don’t have any silver bullets.”

  “Silver bullets will only slow a vampire, not kill it. You’d have better luck with that letter opener I got you last Christmas.”

  “Oh yeah? Are we planning to go through Avartaugh’s mail?”

  “It’s made of yew.” Mike rose. “We should talk on the way.”

  “We should,” Barry agreed. “Because, brother, you’ve got some explaining to do.”

  * * * * *

  The valley lights below Mulholland Drive twinkled and sparkled like someone had turned the sky over and shaken out all the stars.

  On the radio Peggy Lee was complaining about “That Old Black Magic” as the Ford’s tires screeched around a hairpin curve.

  Barry said into the silence stretching between himself and Mike, “Three years ago, when you told me demons drove you to wanting to…”

  “Clip myself.”

  “Right. You had to know I thought you meant—I didn’t know you meant actual…”

  “Demons.”

  “Right. I didn’t think you meant supernatural beings.”

  “I knew,” Mike agreed.

  Barry threw him a disbelieving look, but it was impossible to read Mike’s profile by the dashboard lights. “Didn’t you think you should tell me? I mean, it’s the kind of thing you should probably share.”

  “Would you have believed me?”

  “No. Of course not. Not then,” admitted Barry. “But it’s been three years, Mike. That’s a long time to hold that kind of secret.”

  “I’ve been holding it most of my life.”