The Ghost Wore Yellow Socks - lanyon Josh (книги полные версии бесплатно без регистрации TXT) 📗

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 onto 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.