The Ghost Wore Yellow Socks Read Online Free PDF Page B

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 The Ghost Wore Yellow Socks
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    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