The Ghost Wore Yellow Socks - lanyon Josh (читать книги онлайн txt) 📗

He proceeded along to the Foster boy’s apartment, feeling inside the unlit rooms for the light switch.

Briefly, he was distracted by the spread of painted canvases. White church steeples against stormy skies, a lonely, windswept red barn, golden trees: New England autumn. What did Foster do with all this? Did he try to sell it? It was better than a lot of stuff Nick saw for sale.

He studied the meticulously cared-for brushes, the tantalizing tubes of color, the sponges, rulers, razors, knives, rolls of canvas. An expensive hobby, if that’s what it was.

Opening the bedroom window, he stared down at the tall ladder glistening in the light coming from behind him. Here was the most likely explanation. The window had no screen, and it was large enough to push a man through.

But when Nick had checked, the window was locked. How did someone stuff a body out through a window, climb out themselves without dropping the body, close the window, and then lock it from the inside?

For that matter, how did an intruder get in through a locked window?

Okay, say the window hadn’t been locked to start with. Still no easy task to cart a deadweight up a twenty-foot ladder. Going down, the killer could just drop his load, but even that was a risk. Someone might hear the body crashing against the house. It might hang up in the trees. Shoving a corpse out of a window presented a number of logistical problems.

But a man might be desperate enough to try. Mostly it would depend on the size of the body and the size of the man carrying the body.

Wind skulked around the house, rising up to rustle the wet leaves with a ghostly hand.

Nick shook his wet head like a dog and ducked back inside the apartment.

The intruder would have to be a man, he decided. A man in good shape. Nick was in great shape, but he wasn’t sure he could tote a dead body too far, unless the deceased had been the size of someone like Perry Foster. And judging by the size of that missing shoe…

It had to be an inside job. Nothing else made sense. Nick contemplated the other male residents of the Alston Estate. David Center sounded like a wacko, but he was blind, which probably put him out of the running for Psycho of the Year. Rudy Stein on the second floor was a possible. Teagle on the first floor was another screwball: one of those hale and hearty old farts who had a habit of sticking his nose into other people’s business.

But Teagle was away visiting relatives in Barre. It seemed unlikely that he’d drop in just to deposit a body and manage to split with no one the wiser.

Which brought him back to Stein and Center. Stein was an ex-cop according to scuttlebutt. Center was a professional psychic, a fortune-teller. He actually had a shop in Fox Run where he read palms and tarot cards. How the hell a blind man read tarot cards, Nick had no notion.

He really couldn’t picture any of this crew scaling ladders in the dark of the night, with or without dead bodies. The whole thing didn’t make sense. If Nick hadn’t seen the scuff marks and mud-that-might-be-blood for himself, he would have pegged Perry Foster as delusional. But somebody got too clever. Switching the shoes was a mistake. It was arrogant. Practically a challenge.

Nick never refused a challenge.

* * * * *

Perry woke after a deep and dreamless sleep.

It took him a moment to orient himself. He was not in his own bed. And he was not in Marcel’s bed, either. It all came rushing back. Every morning for the past nine months his first waking thought had been of Marcel. But now, instead of the usual bloom of anticipation, a chill depression settled on him like snowfall weighing down a tree branch. He could feel his composure cracking beneath that weight; it didn’t help at all to remind himself that he was grieving for a dream, for something that had never existed except in his imagination. And for someone who had never existed at all.

He wiped the corners of his eyes. It was quiet in the apartment. He listened to the drip, drip, drip of rain from the eaves. Nick Reno was already up; Perry could hear him moving quietly around the kitchen, and he could smell coffee percolating and bacon frying: two of the best aromas in the world.

His stomach growled. He fought his way out of the cocoon of blankets and dragged on his jeans. He had a crick in his neck. He needed a shower and a shave. He needed to brush his teeth.

He needed to go back to his apartment.

The realization filled him with dismay. Even in daylight the thought of going back there, of facing the silence, the emptiness -- the memory of the corpse in the bathtub…

He headed for the kitchen, pulling on a T-shirt. Nick sat at the table drinking coffee and reading a newspaper. He glanced up, his eyes dark blue in his bronze face.

“Morning,” he said laconically. “Help yourself to coffee.”

There was an old-fashioned stainless steel coffeepot sitting on the range. Perry moved to the stove. A clean mug sat on the counter, which seemed a friendly gesture. He poured coffee: strong, plain coffee. None of that fancy, flavored java for Nick.

“There’s milk in the fridge,” Nick told him without looking up from the paper.

Pouring a lot of milk and a couple of spoonfuls of sugar in his coffee, Perry sat down across from Nick. He watched Nick swallow black coffee. Nick finished the story he was reading and neatly folded up his paper. Catching Perry’s eye, he nodded curtly.

“Sleep okay?”

“Yes, thanks.”

That seemed to cover the small talk. Nick pushed back his chair, went to the fridge, and took out a carton of eggs. He moved efficiently around the kitchen; he drained the bacon and cracked the eggs.

“Sunny-side up?”

“Huh?”

“Your eggs. Fried okay?”

“Sure,” Perry said. “Thanks.” He was happy all out of proportion to be invited to breakfast, to delay going back to his own rooms. “Thanks for letting me crash here last night,” he said rather shyly.

Nick flipped butter over the eggs, not answering.

He wore Levi’s and a blue plaid flannel shirt. The shirt was unbuttoned, hanging open to reveal a stomach as brown and hard as a ship’s figurehead. His chest muscles rippled as he tilted the heavy iron pan. Perry warned himself not to stare.

Nick possessed a great profile too, maybe not typically handsome, but strong and symmetrical. There was both character and toughness in his face. Perry wanted to sketch him.

He could imagine what Reno would say to that idea.

“How long were you in the SEALs?” he inquired, breaking the silence.

“Ten years. Fourteen years in the navy altogether.”

“That’s a long time.”

Nick shot him a wry look. “More than half your lifetime.”

“Did you like it?”

“Why? Thinking of enlisting?”

The sarcasm caught Perry off guard, and he hid himself in his coffee cup.

Maybe Nick thought that was ruder than called for. He said, “What do you do with all those paintings in your apartment?”

“I try to sell them.”

“To who?”

“To anyone. Why, want to buy one?”

Nick gave him a level look and then grinned. The smile was very white in his olive face and unexpectedly youthful. It transformed him, just like smiles in books were supposed to do.

“Maybe,” he said. “You’re not bad.”

At this unexpected praise, Perry felt himself flushing. Nick seemed like someone whose idea of art would be girly calendars or plastic-framed posters of hot cars. But that wasn’t fair, because there was that moody seascape hanging over his fireplace.

Perry volunteered, “A couple of gift shops carry my work. I’m trying to get one of the galleries to consider me. So far, no luck.” He shrugged.

“Did you go to art school or something?”

Perry’s stared down at the patterns in the grain of the tabletop. “No. I wanted to go to art school, but it…fell through.”