The Ghost Wore Yellow Socks (7 page)

“Come, you must tell me what you saw,” Center breathed. “Every detail. We must determine why the specter chose to manifest itself to you.”

36 Josh Lanyon

“Can it wait?” Perry asked. “Nick is helping me move my stuff.”

“Move?” Center was horrified. “You’re not leaving?”

“Only out of the tower room.”

“But you can’t! That would be a great error. The spirits have chosen to contact you there. You mustn’t reject them. The consequences could be grave.”

“No pun intended?” Nick’s tone caused the color to rush into Center’s pale face. “Foster, I don’t have all day.”

As he continued up the staircase, he noticed one of the doors down the hall, Stein’s door, closing. The guy must have been listening to their conversation. Good luck to him if he could make sense of that gobbledygook.

Perry caught him up on the third landing.

“Man, that was pretty cold,” he said.

“The guy’s a screwball.”

Silence.

“If you feel like spending the day chatting on the astral plane, be my guest. I’ve got things to do.”

Foster had no response to that, either.

There was more silence in Nick’s apartment. He went to check his phone messages, and Roscoe had actually called.

Nick dialed the number Roscoe had left. His palms felt sweaty and cold, his heart was thumping -- all unfamiliar sensations.

A receptionist put him through to Roscoe without delay.

“You asshole,” Roscoe greeted him. “You better not have taken a job with somebody else!”

It was all Nick could do to say calmly, “Why? What have you got?”

“Lousy pay, lousy benefits, long hours, and a bunch of assholes to work with.”

“What’s the downside?”

Roscoe chuckled. “Hey, listen, the job’s yours if you want it. There is a catch, though.”

“Shoot.”

“You need to interview with the partners. It won’t be a problem, I’ve already vouched for you. It’s a formality, that’s all.”

“When?”

“That’s the catch. Rick is leaving for South America on the eighth, and he won’t be back for a month. We could wait till then, or if you’re willing, we can get you booked on a flight to the West Coast this evening. We can interview tomorrow morning, do lunch and The Ghost Wore Yellow Socks

37

show you around the town, and you can get a flight out the following morning. Hell, you could stay a few days and hang out, catch up on old times, scope the operation.”

“I’m just treading water here,” Nick said. “I’ll take the plane ticket.”

“That’s my boy,” Roscoe crowed. He said to someone offline, “What did I tell you? He’s in.”

Roscoe gave him the details, and Nick rang off. He realized he was grinning at the receiver, and he headed for the bedroom to throw some things into a bag.

He’d clean forgotten about Foster who was sitting on the sofa, staring at the rain trickling down the window.

“Something’s come up,” Nick told him shortly, because -- although there was no reason to -- he felt guilty. “I’ve got a job interview in Los Angeles, and I have to catch a plane this evening.”

“I sort of figured,” said Foster. He grinned. He had an attractive grin, wry and sort of sweet. “Congratulations.”

Nick didn’t like feeling guilty. Especially when there was no reason for it. He said brusquely, “I’ll help you move some things downstairs this afternoon. We can take care of the rest when I get back.”

“Nah,” said Foster. “I can manage with what I’ve got here.” He nudged his holdall. “It’s not like I can’t get into my apartment if I need anything.”

Nick didn’t know what to say.

A heavy knock on the door frame saved him from having to come up with a reply. Tiny stood in the doorway, shifting from foot to foot in restless unease. He was a big man, simple, as they used to say. He had worked at the Alston Estate for the last thirty years, long before Mrs. MacQueen had bought the isolated farmhouse to turn it into a boarding house.

Nick narrowly sized up the handyman. Tiny made a hulking figure in baggy overalls over a worn red flannel shirt. His gray head was shaved close, and his left eye had a tendency to twitch. He sort of looked like Curly of the Three Stooges, only he had no visible sense of humor.

“Mrs. Mac says you want to see Mr. Watson’s room.”

“Yeah, we want to see the room,” Nick said.

Tiny made a great scooping motion that was evidently to urge them onward. Nick followed Foster out, and they proceeded back to the second floor.

Unlocking the door to the late Mr. Watson’s room and standing back so that Foster could enter, Tiny announced, “Mr. Watson is dead.”

“I know,” Foster said patiently. He seemed to have patience to spare; it encouraged kooks, in Nick’s opinion.

38 Josh Lanyon

Foster wandered doubtfully around the room while Nick checked the lights, the thermostat, the hot water. Everything looked like it was in working order. The room smelled stale, of cigars and dust. Hopefully the kid’s asthma wouldn’t kick up.

Tiny picked up a comic book and tossed it back down nervously. “He died in the village. In the bakery.”

“I heard that too,” Foster said.

“He bought a cherry pie, and he dropped dead. His things are still here. This is all his.”

“I won’t bother his things,” Foster said.

There were a lot of “things.” A tall wine rack in one corner. Lots of black leather furniture. An expensive home entertainment center took up an entire wall. There were framed pulp art posters on its opposite. Big-breasted women fighting off saber-toothed tigers and one-eyed Nazis. Nice work if you could get it.

Dead fish floated in an expensive aquarium.

“Oh no,” Foster said, dismayed by the tiny colored bodies littering the greenish water like flower petals. “They must have starved.”

Tiny came to stare at the tank with him. He sniffed and pulled out an enormous handkerchief, blowing his nose mightily. Then he scooped his big hand in the tank and ladled out the dead fish, dropping them in an ashtray. “Nobody told me about them,” he told Foster.

Tiny was great with animals, always trying to bring stray cats and dogs home, returning baby birds to nests. Gentle giant stuff.

Nick checked the windows. Watson had invested in his own security measures. No one was getting in that way.

“It seems secure,” Nick told Foster, who watched him with those big brown eyes.

Tiny stared at him too. “Locks don’t stop ghosts,” he said.

“Not you too,” Nick growled. “Is everyone here nuts?”

“I’ve seen him,” Tiny said. “I saw him. The ghost in the yellow socks.”

“Where did you see him?” Foster asked with quick interest.

Tiny’s eyes shifted evasively. He shrugged. “I see him sometimes.”

“Was he dead when you saw him?” Nick asked, always practical.

Tiny looked confused. “He’s a ghost,” he explained.

Foster said with a casualness that would only deceive Simple Simon, “Tiny, I wanted to ask you something. Do you know who has keys to my apartment besides you and Mrs. Mac?”

“You do,” Tiny said helpfully.

Shaking his head, Nick turned away to investigate the bedroom.

“But anyone else?” Foster persisted. “Has anyone ever asked to borrow your keys?”

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Tiny looked scared. “No.”

“Are you sure?”

His eyes shifted uneasily back and forth.

“Who borrowed your keys?” Foster pressed.

More recalibrating of the eyes. Tiny licked his mouth and began to hum.

“It’s okay, you can tell me,” Foster said. He smiled encouragingly. “I won’t tell.”

“No one,” Tiny said, and shrugged his big shoulders.

Nick watched this mild-mannered interrogation with increasing exasperation. It was obvious the big man was lying. He knew his own instinct to shove the guy against a wall was not a good one, but he felt pressured leaving town with this still unresolved.

“I lost them,” Tiny announced suddenly. “Mrs. MacQueen yelled at me.”

“You lost them?”

Tiny’s left eye started twitching in response to Nick’s tone.

“When did you lose them?” Foster persisted.

Tiny shrugged. “I don’t remember. “A while back.”

“Yesterday? The day before yesterday?” Nick couldn’t conceal his impatience with the pair of them.

Tiny shook his head. “Mrs. Mac found them again.”

“When?”

Tiny looked at Nick like he was the moron. “I don’t remember,” he said slowly and clearly.

* * * * *

“Nah.” Nick set Foster’s keys where he couldn’t miss them on top of the dining room table. “I’m flying out of Burlington International. I’ll leave my truck at the airport.”

Foster nodded. He looked a little forlorn, more so because he was trying hard to keep a stiff upper lip.

Nick hesitated. “You’ll be fine, kid. When I get back…” He didn’t finish it because really his responsibility was finished here. He did not want to develop this acquaintanceship; the kid was not his type. In more ways than one.

Foster said quickly, “Oh, I’m set now. Thanks for all your help.”

“One thing for damn sure, MacQueen needs to change the locks on all these rooms.

Those missing keys mean anybody could get into these rooms anytime.”

“Maybe Tiny just misplaced them,” Foster offered hopefully.

40 Josh Lanyon

Nick shook his head. People could be so naive. “It’s kind of a coincidence, don’t you think?” He considered it and said abruptly, “Let’s go talk to MacQueen now.”

“I don’t think I should press my luck,” Foster said. “It kind of undermines my argument for taking Watson’s rooms if they’re not any more secure than my own.”

The unexpected logic of this surprised Nick. He said, “Well, I’m going to talk to her. I don’t like the idea of someone waltzing into my place while I’m gone.”

He started downstairs and found Foster with him. “I thought you weren’t going to press your luck?”

Foster grinned that funny little grin. “I’m lending moral support.”

“Is that what it is?”

“Sure.”

A tinny voice drifted up to them.

“U.S. District Judge Frank Facey found Mickey ‘The Chop’ Cimbelli, alleged head of the Martinelli crime family, competent to stand trial. Defense attorneys argued that Cimbelli, who is charged with four murders, as well as conspiracy, extortion, and various other crimes related to labor payoffs, is mentally unfit to stand trial…”

In the lobby, Jane Bridger was pacing the hardwood floors and scowling at the news blaring from the old-fashioned radio. The oversize, defiantly orange sweater she wore made for an interesting contrast with her red hair and brightened the dark room with its faded furnishings.

Spotting them, she demanded, “Have you two any idea where Tiny is? There’s a

monsoon coming our way, and my windows are already leaking.”

“He was headed downstairs fifteen minutes ago,” Foster said. “Maybe you missed him.”

“Not possible. I’ve been waiting here for twenty minutes trying to catch him.”

“That’s weird,” Foster said. “He showed us Watson’s rooms and then…”

He looked at Nick, who said, “It wasn’t my turn to watch him.”

Jane protested, “But where could he be? You’re sure he’s not still up there?”

“We’ve been back and forth between floors about a dozen times. We’d have seen him.”

“He probably took off early,” Nick said.

“He didn’t leave through the front door, then,” Jane Bridger said.

“So he went out the back.”

“If that’s the case, he’s going to drag his butt back again,” Jane said. “The wallpaper in my apartment is starting to peel.”

“Maybe he’s downstairs,” Foster suggested.

Talk about a tempest in a teapot, as Nick’s granny used to say. Foster seemed content to stand there with the Bridger dame discussing all the possible places Tiny could have The Ghost Wore Yellow Socks

41

disappeared; Nick lost patience and peeled off, heading for MacQueen’s fortress. He relieved his general annoyance by pounding heavily on the scratched door, although he doubted if even those blows could be heard over the blasting TV.

Behind him he could hear Bridger saying, “He’s a freak. I’m all for handi-capable, but there’s a limit. Remember when he tried to keep that rat in a cage in the basement? A pet rat!

And MacQueen’s so-called dogs kept going after it? I think the rat was bigger than both dogs put together.”

“He was talking about ghosts today,” Foster said.

“Ghosts! I’ve heard that from him too. I think he gets it from David. Mr. Center. You know he -- Mr. Center -- claims he only moved here because the place is haunted.”

“Haunted by who?”

“I don’t know. Some Indian princess or a colonial milkmaid or something.”

“A milkmaid?”

“I don’t remember the details. The place was originally a farm or something, wasn’t it?”

“Tiny said the ghost wore yellow socks, like the man in my bathtub.”

“I never saw a milkmaid with yellow socks.”

“I never saw a milkmaid.”

MacQueen’s door opened abruptly, catching Nick off guard.

“You again!” she accused around a cigarette. “Can’t I have a minute’s peace?”

Nick regrouped fast. “Why didn’t you mention Tiny’s keys were stolen?”

If he’d thought to catch her off guard, he was disappointed. “They weren’t stolen! They were lost. For a day. You know how many times that damn retard has lost his keys?” She was giving herself a home permanent, and the place reeked like sulfur -- and she, an imp from hell in that lime green pantsuit.

“The security of every apartment in this building has been compromised. You don’t think you have a responsibility to change the locks on your tenants’ doors?”

She screeched, “Change the locks! You know how much money that would take? More than I’ve got, unless you all want a big fat rent hike.”

Don’t get mad, Nick warned himself. If everything goes right in L.A., you’ll be bailing in a couple of weeks anyway.

“I’m calling a locksmith now,” he told her, “And I expect to be reimbursed.”