The Ghost Wore Yellow Socks

by Josh Lanyon

  “Yeah?” Nick didn’t sound too interested. He set a plate in front of Perry heaped with fried eggs, bacon, and hash-browned potatoes. A lot of food.

  Perry faltered, “I usually don’t eat breakfast.” He was pretty sure Nick would not consider the delicious offerings from Kellogg’s a proper kick-off.

  “Big mistake. Breakfast is the most important meal of the day.” Nick said it deadpan; clearly daily nutritional requirement was not something he took lightly.

  Perry tried the eggs. They were good. Why wouldn’t they be, coated in a heart attack’s worth of butter? He picked up a slice of bacon, wondering what Nick’s cholesterol level must be.

  Sitting down with his own plate, Nick asked, “Have you been thinking about who might have known you were supposed to be gone this week?”

  Back to business. It was nice of him to take an interest, though.

  “Janie, like I said. And I think I mentioned it to Mr. Teagle. And Mrs. MacQueen.”

  “Anyone else?”

  “Here, no. I told them at the library because I was taking my vacation.”

  “You work at the library?” The dark eyebrows rose as though Perry had confessed to being an exotic dancer.

  “I like books.” Perry added defiantly, “I like people who read.” There were no books in Nick’s apartment, not even a cookbook. No magazines. There was the morning paper, but did that count?

  Nick’s mouth twitched a little as though he found Perry’s defensiveness amusing. “Someone decided to use your apartment for cold storage while you were gone, that’s obvious. What doesn’t make sense is all this lugging a corpse around. Why not leave him where he died?”

  “Well, because it would have been incriminating.”

  “Sure, but because of how he died or where he died? Could you tell how he died? Could you tell if he’d been murdered?”

  Perry remembered that green-toned face, the gaping mouth, the hollowed cheeks, and sinister slits of eyes. Nausea rose in his throat. He spoke around it. “I didn’t see blood, but I didn’t look carefully. I didn’t touch him.”

  “Could he have been strangled?”

  Perry shook his head. “No.” He’d read enough detective novels to know what that would look like.

  “I guess he could have been poisoned. What did it smell like?”

  Perry stared at Nick. His stomach rolled over once and then paused for station identification. “He smelled…dead.”

  Nick looked unimpressed. Perry tried, “Maybe he died of natural causes, but because he wasn’t supposed to be in a particular place, he was moved to my rooms.”

  “Why not dump him in the woods or on the main highway?”

  “Maybe there wasn’t time? Putting him in my apartment had to be a temporary measure.”

  “Maybe. I guess we need to focus on who had opportunity. You could have made up the whole story, except that I did see that smear, and the scuff marks, and the shoe, and you didn’t have opportunity to get rid of those before the cops showed up. The same’s true of the Bridger dame. I figure she was with you the whole time I was upstairs?”

  “Well, yeah,” Perry answered, surprised. “And she was never out of our sight once you came back down.”

  “Neither MacQueen nor Dembecki could lift an unconscious man. I don’t think they could do it together, let alone by themselves. That leaves Stein and Center. What do you know about those two?”

  “Mr. Stein used to be a cop,” Perry said. “He’s retired now.”

  “Is he married?”

  “Divorced, I think. I don’t know anything about Center except that he’s a medium. He holds séances. He can tell fortunes by reading tarot cards.”

  “In other words, he’s a quack.”

  Perry shrugged. “He did a reading for Jane once. She said it was…uncanny.”

  “At fifty bucks a pop, uncanny is the word.” Nick polished off his eggs and studied Perry’s plate. “Eat up, kid.”

  Perry shoveled in a mouthful of hash browns and confided, “I usually can’t eat when I’m nervous.”

  Nick shook his head. “Eating right is essential.”

  “Did you learn that in the SEALs?”

  “As a matter of fact, I did.”

  Perry nodded encouragingly. He recognized a fanatic when he saw one, and all fanatics liked a chance to spread the gospel. Sure enough, Nick was on his soapbox faster than you could say glycemic index.

  “A proper diet provides the fuel to keep your engine running smoothly. It provides energy and promotes the growth and repair of tissue. And regulates your body processes.”

  Perry bit back a grin. This was the furthest Nick Reno had unbent so far — in fact, he was almost friendly in his enthusiasm.

  “Carbs, protein, and fat are the three energy nutrients,” Nick concluded. “Best energy source is carbs.” He looked pointedly at Perry’s mound of potatoes, and Perry shoveled in another forkful automatically.

  “Could the police be involved?” he questioned thickly and then swallowed. “They could have cleaned up the tub and switched shoes.”

  “Why would they?”

  “Why would anyone?”

  “I don’t see this as an outside operation,” Nick said. “Someone could have used the ladder outside your window, but he would have tracked mud and rain all over the carpet. And he couldn’t have locked the window after himself.”

  Perry weighed this, nibbling on a slice of bacon. When was the last time he’d had bacon — good bacon that wasn’t all rind? A long time. Nick ate well, for sure.

  “There’s another possibility,” Nick added. “The murderer — assuming it was murder — could have been in your place when you arrived and moved the body after you left.”

  Although that thought had occurred to Perry too, he didn’t like it. It freaked him out: the idea of someone watching him, maybe ready to kill him too.

  “Move it where?”

  “Someplace on the third floor.” Nick added, “Not that I could find any sign of it.”

  “What do you mean?” Perry put two and two together fast. “You checked? Last night? You went out alone?”

  “I can handle myself.” Nick was amused by Perry’s horror.

  Meaning Perry could not?

  “Anyway, the situation’s secured, I guess.”

  “Secured, sure.” That was clear enough. Perry pushed his plate away. “Thanks for breakfast and everything. I guess I should get back now.”

  Nick gnawed his lip. “I’ve been thinking about that. I don’t think you should stay in your apartment till you know how this bogey is getting in and out.”

  “I can’t afford a hotel,” Perry said hopelessly. “Last night I was desperate, but…” He offered a quirky, shame-faced smile. “I’m short my rent money now. I spent — I spent too much this month.”

  Nick’s face said it all.

  “Then have MacQueen give you another apartment.”

  “There aren’t any. Except Watson’s, and all his stuff is still there.” Perry shivered.

  Nick said grimly, “You do what you want, kid, but I’d get the locks changed on my door ASAP.” After a moment he added reluctantly, “I can loan you money for that.”

  “Thanks,” Perry muttered humbly. “Thanks for everything.”

  Nick shrugged this off. He was doing the breakfast dishes as Perry retrieved his suitcase and trudged off down the hall.

  Unlocking the door to his apartment, he stuck his head in and stared around suspiciously.

  Everything seemed quiet and normal. He might have dreamed the events of last night. It all looked like it had before he left, giddy with happiness and excitement, for San Francisco. He remembered locking his rooms with the feeling that he was shutting the door on a chapter of his life.

  A wave of depression hit him.

  Dropping onto the nearest chair, he put his head in his hands and tried to deal with it. He was glad he’d managed to sleep a little and eat some breakfast, because otherwise he’d be falling apart
right now. The homey rattle of the fridge, the tick of the clock; these familiar sounds seemed desolate now. Usually he liked the rain, but it wasn’t helping matters today.

  Rising, he carried his suitcase into the bedroom, pausing by the bathroom door just to verify that it was body free.

  Everything looked spick-and-span.

  Depositing his suitcase on the bed, something caught his eye. Something lay on his pillow. A bird. A brown dove, dead.

  Hand shaking, Perry picked it up. It felt soft in his hand, and cold. Its neck hung brokenly.

  Chapter Three

  Nick knew what the pounding on his door meant before he peered out the peephole. He swore and opened the door.

  Perry Foster stood there cradling a bird in both hands. “It’s…dead,” he got out.

  A dead bird. Nick processed the news. Assess and respond, that was the program, and he had best respond fast because more alarming than the dead bird was the fact that the Foster kid was blue in the face and gulping for air.

  Why me? he thought. I’ve got my own problems. He took the dead bird in one hand and hauled the kid inside with the other.

  “Sit.”

  Foster collapsed on the sofa, braced his hands on his knees, and struggled to breathe. It was not pleasant to watch. Nick felt helpless, which made him angry.

  “Where’s your…what do you call it? Inhaler?”

  Foster ignored him, gulping like a landed fish.

  “Shit!”

  The boy’s eyes shot up toward Nick’s face, and he realized he was probably making it worse. Did people die from asthma nowadays? He didn’t know anything about it. He took a turn around the living room and paused by the couch. Awkwardly, he patted the kid between his bony shoulder blades.

  “Calm down, kiddo. You’re fine now.”

  Foster nodded. Courteous to the last breath.

  The attack went on for what seemed like forever to Nick. Absently he smoothed his hand up and down Foster’s back, feeling the links of spine through the soft cotton of his T-shirt — and why the hell was he running around wearing a T-shirt in this kind of weather?

  “Try to breathe slowly,” Nick ordered, half-remembered TV shows flitting through his mind.

  Eventually Foster’s breathing calmed. “It…was on my pillow,” he managed at last.

  Nick had forgotten the dead bird that lay on his coffee table. He stared at the small, broken body. His head pounded with anger.

  He was mad about the dumb bird, he was mad about the dumb kid, and he was mad that he was being dragged into this mess.

  “Think hard,” he instructed. “Is there anybody who has a grudge against you?”

  “Me?” panted Foster. “This…isn’t about…me!”

  “Never mind what you think it’s about. Do you have any enemies?”

  “Of course not!”

  “Have you had any run-ins with anybody lately? Maybe something insignificant? Playing your stereo too loud or something.”

  Foster shook his head.

  “Any arguments over parking spaces? Cut anyone off driving to work?”

  Another shake.

  “Revoke any library cards?”

  Amazingly, Foster laughed. It was a weak laugh, but it was a real laugh.

  “You cut your vacation short. Why?”

  Those wide, fawn brown eyes gazed at Nick woundedly. “My friend…changed his mind.”

  “Your… Oh.” He thought that over. “No hard feelings on his side?”

  “None.” One husky word full of heartbreak. It was embarrassing. But then, prosaically, Foster added, “Anyway, he lives in San Francisco.”

  “Okay, anyone else you’re fucking?”

  The Bambi look again. Nick had the urge to smash it into pieces.

  “Kid, you’re queer, right? Problems come with the lifestyle.”

  Foster whispered, “I have a problem-free lifestyle. I had one friend. That’s over.”

  “Well, don’t cry about it.” His brusque tone brought the color creeping back into Foster’s white face, and that was a good sign in Nick’s opinion. Foster was kind of cute in a Christopher Robin way, and unwillingly, Nick was curious about the friend who had changed his mind. “No arguments with anyone at all?”

  Wearily, Foster shook his head.

  “Then I guess we can assume that this has to do with the dead man you found. Someone is warning you off.”

  “Why? The cops didn’t believe me.”

  Nick squeezed his shoulder — he wasn’t sure why — and rose. “No, and they won’t believe you this time, either.”

  Foster nodded at the coffee table, at the broken dove. “What about that?”

  Nick shook his head. “Can you prove where you found this dead bird? It could have flown against the house last night and broken its neck. It happens. The cops might think you’re doing this for attention. Or that you’re not right in the head.”

  Foster looked scared and stricken.

  With a gentleness that surprised him, Nick said, “Even if they believe you, what can they do? Seriously. The most they could do is charge someone — and who would they charge? — with breaking and entering. Leaving a dead bird is not even a specific threat.”

  Finally Foster nodded.

  Nick took it as permission to get rid of the bird. When he came back to the front room, Foster said, “What should I do?”

  You’re an adult. Do what you want. Nick opened his mouth to say it. He had done some violent things in his time, but that would have been punching a baby in the face; instead, he said, “Let’s scope out your apartment. You can pack some things.”

  “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.

  * * * * *

  Outside Foster’s apartment they found Mr. Teagle energetically banging on the door.

  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.

  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? N
ick?”

  “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.

  “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.”