Halloween is Murder(3)

“Should I?” Barry asked.

“I was at school with Mary Margaret.”

“Ah.” Barry was still drawing a blank. Half the girls he knew were named same variation on the theme of Mary Margaret, including this unlikely prospective client.

“Your sister.”

“That Mary Margaret.” Finally, something made sense. His parents had sent his sister to a swanky private school in the hope she’d make the right kind of friends so she could meet the right kind of boys and eventually make the right sort of marriage. It had paid off. Meggie had married well—and kept trying to inflict the same fate on Barry. “She recommended me?”

Despite Miss O’ Flaherty’s obvious anxiety, she laughed. She had a pretty little laugh. Her teeth were small and very white. “No. No, we met at her sweet sixteen party. And again, when you brought her to Alice Hoffman’s graduation party. You really don’t remember me?”

“Sure, I do!” Nope. He still did not remember. Catholic school girls all looked alike. Or so he’d thought. Miss O’ Flaherty had done some growing up since the last time they’d allegedly met.

“It doesn’t matter. It’s just…when this awful thing happened, well, naturally I thought of you.”

“Naturally,” Barry said. “This awful thing—you said you believe your brother has been kidnapped?”

“I don’t believe. I know.” She raised her chin in a show of defiance. “That’s not the worst part of it.”

“What’s the worst part of it?”

She hesitated. He could see great emotion—fear?—shining in her eyes.

“Can I ask why you came to me and not the police?” Barry asked.

Another of those tense pauses. She said, “Their—the kidnappers, I mean—their instructions were not to involve the police.”

“Kidnappers always say that. No one takes it seriously.”

“I take it seriously.” Her pale eyes filled with tears.

“Of course,” Barry said quickly. “Of course. That’s natural. It’s just…why don’t you tell me everything. Start at the beginning.”

“There isn’t so much to tell. It’s just Pat and me now. Our mother died when Patrick was born, and our father passed away eighteen months ago.”

“I’m sorry.”

She nodded bravely. “Pat and I have always been very close. Probably because so much of the time it’s just been the two of us. Father’s work required a fair bit of travel, you see. Like my grandfather and great-grandfather, he was a dealer of antiques and old paintings. Maybe you’ve heard of Seven Moons Antiques & Gallery?”

Barry’s mouth pursed to whistle, but he restrained himself. Seven Moons Antiques & Gallery was a rummage bin for the rich and famous. Fine furniture shipped all the way from Europe and gold-framed paintings of milkmaids and burgermeisters by guys with lots of vans and des and ders in their monikers.

Not that this came as a surprise. Every inch of Miss O’ Flaherty, from the gleaming scarlet points of her manicured fingernails to the gleaming ebony points of her high heels bespoke dough. Serious dough. Which made her coiffed and scented presence in his little downtown office all the more puzzling. Girls like Miss O’ Flaherty enlisted the services of the Pinkertons when they needed the service of a shamus. Which nice girls rarely did.

She was still waiting for him to say something. Barry gazed into her silvery eyes and, belatedly, the penny dropped.

“Your old ma—er, father. Wasn’t he—wasn’t there some mystery about his death?”

She bit her lip and nodded. “My father was murdered.”

Yes, now it was coming back to him. Eccentric millionaire and art lover Aloysius Flaherty III had been found murdered on the family estate. Someone had clobbered him with a piece of broken statuary.

“They never caught the guy, did they?”

Miss O’ Flaherty shook her head. “No. It was terrible. It too happened right there in the marble garden. My poor brother was the one who found him. I don’t think he’s ever fully recovered from the shock.”

“Sure, sure.”

“No one was ever arrested. In fact, the police couldn’t seem to find any real suspects.”

“I’m sorry.” Bashing someone over the head with a rock was not exactly the method favored by criminal masterminds, but maybe other factors had complicated the investigation.

“Thank you.” She was gazing at him again in that hopeful way. He used to have a fox terrier who got that same look when Barry sat down to dinner.

“Your brother and you inherited everything, I guess?”

She didn’t bat an eye. “Yes. We’re very wealthy. But if you think this is about money, you’re wrong.”

“I am?”

“Yes.”

“What’s it about then?”

She clasped her hands together as though in prayer. Or maybe more like begging for his patience. What was the word? Supplication. (Barry went to Catholic school too, just not so fancy a school as his little sister’s.)

“Blood,” Miss O’ Flaherty said. “Blood and vengeance.”

“Uh. Okay,” Barry said. He didn’t like the over-bright way her eyes shone. Like she was crazy. Or worse, might be about to cry. “Who is it that you believe wants vengeance on your family, Miss O’ Flaherty?”