The Ghost Wore Yellow Socks

by Josh Lanyon

  “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.

  * * * * *

  “Do you need a ride to the airport?” Foster asked after Nick insisted on helping him carry a couple of boxes of his belongings downstairs.

  “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.

  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 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.”

  “Sailor, you’ve got a hell of a nerve!”

  Something that resembled a fringed throw pillow bolted out the door. MacQueen shrieked, “Catch it! Don’t let it get away!”

  “Get it yourself!” Nick snapped, all out of whatever good manners he might have had at the weekend’s start.

  Foster sneezed violently as the dog veered in. It was left to Jane to scoop it up and hand it over to MacQueen, who snatched it without a word of thanks, withdrawing and slamming shut her door all in one choreographed move.

  “Let’s call the locksmith,” Nick told Foster. “We’ll have him do both rooms while he’s here.”

  Foster sneezed again and rubbed his nose.

  “I’ll split the cost with you,” Jane jumped in. “We’ll make it a threesome.” She gave Nick a sly smile.

  * * * * *

  “Maybe we should call the police,” Foster said, accompanying Nick back upstairs. He had that breathy voice again, a voice that was like fingernails on a blackboard to Nick.

  “Why’s that?” he asked shortly.

  “Maybe they’ll believe me now about the dead man and about people getting in my rooms.”

  “Maybe.”

  “You don’t think so?”

  “It’s not like you have the body for evidence.”

  Foster fell silent, considering that.

  On the second-floor landing, he stopped and said, “Well, I guess I’ll see you when you get back.”

  Not if I see you first, Nick thought. He said, “Yeah, I guess so.”


  “Good luck in L.A. with everything.”

  “Thanks.”

  Foster had a very straight nose, a sensitive mouth, and long eyelashes. The childlike lashes threw tender shadows across his cheekbones. They swept up and he studied Nick gravely.

  Neither moved, and then Nick shocked himself by saying, “Take care of yourself.”

  Perry’s mouth curved. “I will.”

  “Okay.” Still Nick hesitated, but there really wasn’t anything left to say.

  He continued up the stairs, hearing the door to the Watson apartment close quietly behind Foster.

  Chapter Five

  The day was fading to dusk as Perry watched Nick’s white pickup drive away.

  It was dumb to feel so…let down. He barely knew Nick, after all. And what he did know was enough to warn him that he was probably maxing out the other man’s patience.

  The house seemed too quiet after the sound of the truck’s engine died out. From the second-story window of Watson’s apartment, Perry stared out at the orchard of trees, flame bright against the slate sky. Mist rose from the damp ground and slithered like a ghost snake through the woods.

  Anyway, it wasn’t like there was any actual danger. The house was kind of spooky, kind of creepy, but it had always been so.

  He spotted someone moving through the overgrown garden below. The small figure looked like a child, but Perry recognized the pink parka and polka-dot ski cap.

  Miss Dembecki?

  Something in the elderly woman’s furtive movements caught his attention, roused his suspicion, and because he had nothing else to do — because he needed something to take his mind off his troubles — Perry grabbed his jacket and hurried downstairs.

  Jane and Mr. Teagle were hanging bedraggled garland on the staircase banister. Mr. Teagle was complaining about the Democrats Who Stole Christmas, and Jane, in a rare, indulgent mood, was egging him on.

  “What was the best Christmas gift you ever got, Mr. Teagle?”

  “Well, when I was a boy we didn’t have a lot of money. Not like these kids today…”

  Neither of them paid Perry any mind as he slipped out the back entrance leading into the abandoned garden. The wind yanked the door from his grasp, and it banged back against the house. He waited to see if the sound alarmed his quarry, but Miss Dembecki rustled on through the overgrown ferns and weeds like a pink mole. She seemed to know her way through the muddy grounds pretty well, but then, as far as he could tell, she had lived on the Alston Estate for pretty much forever.

  As Perry followed Miss Dembecki, it occurred to him that he was behaving more suspiciously than she was. What did he think he was doing, spying on an old lady? What did he think he was going to find out? What dark secrets could she have? Maybe she had planted a secret tomato garden or was visiting the grave of her dead parakeet.

  Still…there was something in the secretive, furtive way she was moving through the trees — and things were so weird right now. Perry automatically sped up, trying to move quietly through the wet bushes without getting too close to his quarry.

  Pausing behind a stand of sugar maples, he peered into a shadowy darkness that smelled of wet earth and mold. He could hear Miss Dembecki, the sinister senior citizen, several yards ahead, crunching through the dead leaves.

  Not far off, he could hear the rush of the river. The gazebo, he thought suddenly. She was heading for the gazebo. Why? Was she meeting someone? A twig cracked under his foot. He crouched down behind a dead tree stump.

  Cautiously he peered around the stump.

  Miss Dembecki had stopped and was looking around apprehensively. Perry ducked back, waiting, covering his mouth with his hand in case the smoke of his breath in the frosty air gave him away.

  Long moments passed. Perry waited while the knees of his Levi’s grew soaked. A few inches from his nose, ants crawled sluggishly in and out of the dead bark.

  There came the squawk of rusty hinges and the bang of a wooden door. Peeking out, he saw that Miss Dembecki had vanished inside the gazebo.

  Great. Now what? It would be difficult to cross the clearing to the gazebo without being seen from one or another of the windows. His gaze fell on a nearby birch tree, yellow branches spreading over the octagonal building.

  Keeping to the cover of wild rose bushes, Perry sneaked over to the tree and climbed up into the branches, shoes slipping on the pale bark, then finding purchase.

  From his perch he had an unobstructed line of vision through the grimy gazebo windows. A dull beam of light played slowly over the gently angled room.

  More than this it was impossible to see in the gloom. What the heck could she be doing in there? Perry strained to hear, but that was also impossible over the distant rush of the river, the leaves whipping in the chilly breeze.

  Minutes crawled by.

  Was she hiding something? It would hardly take this long. And if she was looking for something…well, same argument, really. After all, she had lived on the estate for years. For what could she be searching for twenty minutes that she hadn’t had plenty of time to find in the past decade or so?

  Perry’s hands grew numb with cold. His leg was falling asleep. He was trying to think if he had ever been more miserable in his life when the rain started again, trickling down the back of his neck. He began to worry about the cold and damp aggravating his asthma — not something Sam Spade ever had to put up with.

  He massaged his leg absently, watching the wan light traveling listlessly around the room once more. Maybe he should risk climbing down and try peering through a window on the ground level. Or maybe he could just walk in and pretend to be surprised to find Miss Dembecki there — see how she reacted?

  The door below him banged open, and Miss Dembecki exited the building, startling Perry — almost literally — out of his tree.

  He steadied himself. Through the lattice of leaves he watched the gnomelike figure of Miss Dembecki hurrying away. He could see that she held something in one hand, but he was pretty sure it was her flashlight.

  Perry let several minutes elapse. No one else left the gazebo, so he had guessed right. Not a meeting; Miss Dembecki had been looking for something.

  What?

  Who would use an abandoned building as a hiding place? Why?

  Letting himself down gingerly through the tangle of twigs and branches, Perry dropped to the wet ground. He went into the gazebo.

  It was small. The eight windows were brown with years of dirt, the wooden floor layered with dust and evidence of birds and squirrels. Perry pulled out a clean handkerchief to cover his mouth and nose.

  Circling the room, he had to admit there was a conspicuous lack of hiding places — some old rattan furniture, the faded cushions ripped open long ago. That was about it.

  No loose plank squeaked beneath his foot. He knocked on the walls, but they felt and sounded solid enough.

  After ten minutes or so, Perry gave up and returned to the house.

  * * * * *

  The house was listening.

  Waiting.

  Perry could feel it in the silence beyond the cheerful canned laughter of Scooby-Doo. He sat on the late Mr. Watson’s long black leather sofa eating a bowl of cereal and watching Watson’s television.

  Every now and then, he reassured himself with a glance over at the shiny new locks on the doors. Serious locks. Heavy-duty locks. No one was coming in through that door — unless they broke the door down. He held the only keys; he had instructed the locksmith to cut a dummy key, and he’d handed that over to Mrs. MacQueen.

  So he was perfectly safe. Perfectly secure. And yet he couldn’t quite shake the feeling that he was not alone.

  That he was being watched.

  The house was quiet. Too quiet. Up in the isolated tower rooms that hush was normal; here on the second floor Perry expected signs of life. Where was the homey scent of dinners cooking? Where was the comfortable rattle and bang of activity from any of the surrounding rooms? From the sound of things, h
e could be the only person on this floor or in the whole house.

  Finishing a second bowl of cereal, he dumped his dish in the sink and made another nervous circuit of Watson’s rooms. He almost wished he were back with his own belongings in his own familiar surroundings — except he’d never be able to use the bathroom in his apartment again.

  He checked the wine rack next to Watson’s stereo: lots of merlots and cabernets. Familiar brands, mostly from California. Nothing imported or priceless as far as he could tell. Not that he was any expert; he wasn’t much of a drinker. Red wine usually gave him a headache, and white wine — according to his pop — was for sissies. His own cupboards were bare even if he felt like braving the deserted third floor. So why not? Watson wouldn’t care, and the unknown relatives surely wouldn’t miss one bottle of wine? He could leave money for the bottle on the counter.

  He went into the bathroom, scrubbed down Watson’s tub, then uncorked a bottle of cabernet while the bath water ran.

  Two glasses of Salmon Creek and a long, hot soak went a long way toward relaxing him, and by the time Perry heaved himself out of the tub, he felt pleasantly limp and woozy.

  Pulling back the covers of the freshly made bed, he crawled between the sheets. Watson had an electric blanket. Perry turned the heat up.

  He thumbed through one of the comic books stacked beside the bed. More scantily clad ladies, this time fighting space aliens. He checked the date on the magazine cover. September 1950. Watson must have collected comic books.

  You could never tell about people. The few times Perry had talked to Watson, he had stuck strictly to sports and the stock market — neither topics of great interest to Perry. Whereas he’d have been fascinated to hear about these comics and graphic novels. He loved the artwork, even if half-naked ladies were not really his thing.

  Curiously he turned back to the intergalactic warfare.

  After a time the breasts and word balloons all blurred together. He reached up and snapped off the light.

  * * * * *

  What woke him? He wasn’t sure. For a minute, Perry lay there in the unfamiliar darkness trying to reorient.

  From next to the bed he heard the soft click of luminous numbers turning over. From the living room came the tick-tock of the clock. Closer was the scratch of tree branches against the window. Identified, he could dismiss these sounds. But there was still something…