The Ghost Wore Yellow Socks (6 page)

“And go where? I can’t afford to move; I told you that. Anyway, I can’t break my lease.”

Not exactly outlaw material, young Foster.

Nick said, “I’d say someone getting into your apartment is pretty good grounds for breaking your lease. Make MacQueen give you Watson’s rooms. She can have his gear moved out, and I’ll help you move your gear in.”

Foster gazed up at Nick like Nick was his hero, and Nick felt an uncomfortable tightening in his gut. Foster had nice bones, clear skin, and honey-colored hair that fell in his eyes. His eyelids were blue-veined eggshell and a pulse was visible in the vulnerable hollow at the base of his throat. Nick cleared his own throat.

* * * * *

A big, raw-boned man, Teagle greeted them in his booming voice. “Why, there you are! I wondered where you were, son.”

Despite the smile he looked tired, grayer than usual around the edges -- and every one of his seventy-something years.

“Hey there, Mr. Teagle,” Foster said. “When did you get home? How was your trip?”

He was a friendly tyke, no doubt about it.

30 Josh Lanyon

Teagle’s voice rose in the manner of the hard-of-hearing. “This morning. Wish I’d never gone. Waste of time. People say the economy’s improving, but I can’t see it,” He shook his head. “These damn Democrats.” He peered skeptically at Nick. “You a Democrat?”

“I’m an Independent,” Nick said shortly.

Teagle appeared unconvinced. “You’re that ex-marine, aren’t you?”

“That’s right.”

Maybe Teagle had been army. He shook his head again and turned back to Foster. “Son, they said you had a terrible experience last night. Someone broke into your apartment?”

“Someone did,” Foster replied lamely, apparently having trouble putting into words the whole unvarnished truth.

“These young vandals are everywhere,” Mr. Teagle said. “There’s no discipline, no control. It’s this permissive society. Why in my day…”

He treated them to a dissertation of the good old days while Foster unlocked the door and let them inside his rooms.

Nick wished Foster would get rid of the garrulous old fool, but he was as useless at repelling social invaders as burglars.

“Did you want some tea, Mr. Teagle? Nick?”

“No,” said Nick.

“I’d love a cup,” Teagle lowered his girth onto one of the chairs, apparently settling in.

“Hadn’t you better pack?” Nick asked Foster woodenly.

Mr. Teagle stared at Nick over the top of his horn-rims although he spoke to Perry.

“Pack? Are you going somewhere, son?”

Foster gave Nick one of those uncomfortable looks. “Maybe. Till I can sort out what’s happening with my apartment.”

Teagle turned the horn-rims on the kid. “Does this have to do with that burglar last night?”

“Sort of. He wasn’t exactly a burglar.”

“But where will you go, son? You can’t break your lease.” He studied Nick once more, as though suspecting he was behind it all. “This your idea, young man?”

“Yep,” Nick said cheerfully.

Foster made himself scarce in the kitchen, returning finally with Teagle’s tea. He said deprecatingly, “I’m just going to throw some things in a bag,” and moved to hightail it down the hallway.

Mr. Teagle set his mug down on the drop cloth and said heartily, “I know! What do you say to staying with me awhile, Perry? Just till you sort out this little mix-up.”

Foster halted midflight. “That’s…really kind of you,” he said reluctantly.

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“Then it’s settled!”

“Foster’s staying with me for the time being,” Nick said curtly, amazing himself yet again. Foster shot him one of those meltingly grateful looks that irritated and gratified Nick at the same time.

“I see,” Mr. Teagle said slowly after a moment, disapproval vibrating in his tone.

Nick felt himself changing color at what the old man obviously thought. Well, let him think it; it wasn’t true, and anyway…Nick didn’t trust him.

“Who has keys to these apartments?” he asked Teagle. “Besides MacQueen?”

“Tiny, of course. You know. The maintenance man.”

Nick blinked. How the hell had they forgotten about Tiny? Not only did he live on the premises, he was big and strong enough to tote bodies up and down ladders all day long.

“Anyone else?”

“Let me think…Hmm. I think Miss Bridger may have a copy. Mrs. MacQueen relies on her to keep an eye on things when she goes away.”

He glanced at Foster who was carrying his suitcase out of the bedroom. “Son, do you think I might have a word with you in private?”

“Uh, sure.” Foster glanced uncertainly at Nick.

Nick said, “I’ll be down the hall.”

He was shaking his head as he walked back to his rooms, wondering what the hell he’d let himself in for.

* * * * *

Perry sat down. He had a feeling he knew what was coming, but he didn’t know how to head it off without being rude or hurting the old man’s feelings. Mr. Teagle had always been kind to him, though he was kind of a pain in the butt, checking out Perry’s mail and dropping by to scope out Perry’s visitors -- not that Perry had many visitors.

“Son, you know I don’t like to pry. It’s only…Fox Run is a small town, and despite what some legislators might think, Vermont is a conservative state. You’ve always been discreet about your friends, which is wise. Very wise.”

“It’s not like you think,” Perry objected stiffly. “Nick’s just offering me a place to stay while I figure out what to do.”

“You know how these things look, Perry. People will talk, and that kind of talk could do you a lot of harm.”

Perry said, “Mr. Teagle, Nick isn’t even gay. He’s just…being kind.”

Mr. Teagle winced at the G word, and said kindly, “Who’s going to believe that, son?”

32 Josh Lanyon

“Well, that’s their problem,” Perry said finally, politely.

“Now I’m not trying to tell you what to do, although I’ve lived a lot longer than you, and I know just how mean and spiteful folks can be. I think you should be very careful about making any decisions right away.”

“I can’t stay here,” Perry said flatly. “There was a dead body in my apartment.”

“You’re a sensitive boy,” Mr. Teagle admitted. “Are you sure you’re not letting your imagination run away with you?” His rheumy brown eyes studied Perry.

“I’m sure.”

“Of course, it’s up to you.”

“It is, yeah.”

Mr. Teagle mopped his suddenly sweaty face with a handkerchief. “I think mebbe I’ll go lie down; this traveling takes it out of me. I’m not as young as I used to be.”

He looked the color of wallpaper glue, and Perry said, “Are you all right? Do you need help getting downstairs?”

“No, no. Promise me at least you’ll think about what I’ve said. If you need a place to stay, my door is always open.”

The old man rose and lumbered out. Perry followed him into the hall, locking the door. He waited until Mr. Teagle had disappeared down the staircase before heading straight for Nick’s apartment.

He knocked on the half-open door, and Nick called from inside, “It’s open.”

Perry walked in. “Did you mean what you said about staying here, or should I go talk to Mrs. Mac now?”

Nick’s face twisted. “I figured you didn’t want to be roomies with the old coot. If MacQueen won’t let you take the Watson place, you can bunk here till you figure out what to do. But don’t worry. MacQueen will let you move in there; she’s got a legal obligation to make sure her tenants are safe.”

Perry concealed his disappointment. He didn’t want to stay in Watson’s apartment surrounded by a dead man’s belongings; he wanted to stay with Nick, who came off so hard and cold, but who was unexpectedly kind.

They walked down to the lobby, and Perry knocked on MacQueen’s door. From inside came the never-ending accompaniment of TV.

They waited.

Nick pounded loudly on the door. Down the hall, Miss Dembecki’s door opened a crack and then closed again hastily.

“Maybe she’s not here,” Nick said.

“She’s always here.”

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At the sound of a sliding bolt, Perry stepped back hastily. A gust of cigarette smoke and stale air escaped the vacuum, followed by a little dog so fat it could hardly waddle its frantic escape. Perry coughed nervously and glanced apologetically at Nick.

“Get that mutt!” Mrs. MacQueen’s voice grated from inside the cloud of cigarette smoke.

Nick bent and grabbed the dog; its overlong nails skittered on the wood floor. He slid it back into the room like he was sliding a mug down a tap rail.

Mrs. MacQueen appeared in the mist, cigarette wagging in her pudgy face. “What is it now?”

Perry explained what it was now.

Mrs. MacQueen looked from one man to the other. Her expression grew, if possible, more unpleasant.

“You can’t be serious, Mr. Foster,” she said. She glanced at Nick as though wondering what he had to do with this sudden insurgency. “That room is already rented out.”

“You’ve got to be kidding,” Nick said. “Your tenant is dead.”

“His possessions are still there. We haven’t been able to arrange matters with his…er…heirs yet.”

We? Her and the dogs?

“I’m not going to mess with his stuff,” Perry said. “I just want to stay someplace where no one can break in any moment. Someone’s been in my apartment twice.”

Mrs. MacQueen cackled, “Twice! Now it’s twice!” She shook her head. “Sorry, sonny, you can tell Tiny you want the locks changed on your place. I’ll go that far.”

“I’m not sure they’re coming through the door.” Perry heard himself and turned pink, but he stood his ground.

Mrs. MacQueen glowered at Nick. “Did you put him up to this?”

“Look, ma’am,” Nick said, “I’m not the imaginative type, and I saw enough to convince me someone is getting into Foster’s rooms.”

“That ain’t here nor there,” Mrs. MacQueen said. “The Watson apartment is a bigger place. It costs another hundred dollars a month.”

Perry’s heart began to pound hard, shaking his thin frame. He said, “There’s such a thing as renter’s rights, Mrs. MacQueen. If you can’t provide adequate security, I can break my lease. Then you’ll be out my rent and Mr. Watson’s rent.”

“I’ll sue you,” Mrs. MacQueen threatened.

“I’ll sue you back. And I’ll win. People have been in my rooms. Twice. At least. Mr.

Reno is a witness to that. And if you do take me to court, I’ll sue you for damages too.”

“I’ve seen screwier cases than this win in court,” Nick supplied dryly.

34 Josh Lanyon

MacQueen’s eyes darted from one to the other of them as she thought this over. The dogs were scratching at the bottom of the half-closed door, their tiny paws flashing in and out from under the door.

“Okay, whatever. It’s your choice,” Perry said, turning away.

“Now wait a minute,” Mrs. MacQueen protested. “Don’t be so hasty. Young folks are always so hasty. I didn’t say you couldn’t rent Watson’s. I said it was more than your rooms, but it’s paid through the end of the month, so you could stay there, and maybe these matters will clear themselves up by then.”

Battle over. Perry was all riled up and nowhere to go. He felt almost let down as he stared at her.

“But if there are any problems, if the…er…heirs claim anything’s missing, it’ll be on your head, sonny.”

“Great,” Nick said. “That’s settled. Come on, Foster.”

MacQueen’s door slammed shut so hard the chandelier high above them chinked like broken glass. But then like most things around there, it didn’t work anyway and hadn’t for years. Nick strode off toward the grand staircase.

“I can’t believe it was that easy,” Perry admitted to Nick’s wide shoulders.

“You amaze me, sonny,” Nick threw back.

They started up the stairs and he said briskly, “We’ll get you settled in, and then we’ll go talk to Tiny.” He was feeling more cheerful. He could stow the kid in a safe environment, and then get back to his own problems, like the fact he couldn’t get a damn job because he was “overqualified.”

They rounded the banister on the second landing, and Nick stopped short. Perry reached out to steady himself, touching muscles that felt like rocks beneath Nick’s flannel shirt.

David Center stood before them, tall and thin in a purple dressing gown. Nick didn’t think highly of men who drifted around in purple dressing gowns, although in that house nothing was surprising.

“So you’ve seen him,” Center announced.

Nick was crisp. “Seen who?”

“The ghost of Witch Hollow.”

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“And which hollow would that be?” inquired Nick.

Center ignored this. “Contact with the supernatural can be an alarming experience if you’re not prepared. The first time I --”

Nick opened his mouth, but catching his expression, Perry forestalled him by saying apologetically, “I don’t think what I saw was a ghost.”

In Nick’s opinion, the kid seemed to spend a lot of time making excuses for other people’s lunatic expectations.

“But of course it was a ghost!” exclaimed Center, turning in the direction of Perry’s voice. “You don’t truly believe one of the living dead appeared and disappeared in your tub?”

Speaking of one of the living dead…Center looked like the villain in a 1940s movie.

Pencil thin mustache and hair black and smooth as a raven’s wing. His eyes were hidden behind dark glasses. Everything about him bugged Nick -- and that was just on general principles.

“When you put it like that, a ghost does make more sense,” he said sardonically.

Catching Foster’s gaze, he realized the kid was struggling to keep a straight face.

Which was a huge relief. For a moment Nick had pictured Foster swallowing this pap the way he ate up the pulp fiction from the library.

“I suppose you are a nonbeliever,” Center said to Nick’s forehead.

“I believe in plenty of things,” Nick said. “But spooks aren’t one of them.”

Center turned away from Nick, groping for Foster’s hand. Nick felt Foster go rigid beside him and wondered why he put up with this kind of crap.