“I sort of figured,” said Foster. He grinned. He had an attractive grin, wry and sort of sweet. “Congratulations.”
Nick didn’t like feeling guilty. Especially when there was no reason for it. He said brusquely, “I’ll help you move some things downstairs this afternoon. We can take care of the rest when I get back.”
“Nah,” said Foster. “I can manage with what I’ve got here.” He nudged his holdall. “It’s not like I can’t get into my apartment if I need anything.”
Nick didn’t know what to say.
A heavy knock on the door frame saved him from having to come up with a reply. Tiny stood in the doorway, shifting from foot to foot in restless unease. He was a big man, simple, as they used to say. He had worked at the Alston Estate for the last thirty years, long before Mrs. MacQueen had bought the isolated farmhouse to turn it into a boarding house.
Nick narrowly sized up the handyman. Tiny made a hulking figure in baggy overalls over a worn red flannel shirt. His gray head was shaved close, and his left eye had a tendency to twitch. He sort of looked like Curly of the Three Stooges, only he had no visible sense of humor.
“Mrs. Mac says you want to see Mr. Watson’s room.”
“Yeah, we want to see the room,” Nick said.
Tiny made a great scooping motion that was evidently to urge them onward. Nick followed Foster out, and they proceeded back to the second floor.
Unlocking the door to the late Mr. Watson’s room and standing back so that Foster could enter, Tiny announced, “Mr. Watson is dead.”
“I know,” Foster said patiently. He seemed to have patience to spare; it encouraged kooks, in Nick’s opinion.
Foster wandered doubtfully around the room while Nick checked the lights, the thermostat, the hot water. Everything looked like it was in working order. The room smelled stale, of cigars and dust. Hopefully the kid’s asthma wouldn’t kick up.
Tiny picked up a comic book and tossed it back down nervously. “He died in the village. In the bakery.”
“I heard that too,” Foster said.
“He bought a cherry pie, and he dropped dead. His things are still here. This is all his.”
“I won’t bother his things,” Foster said.
There were a lot of “things.” A tall wine rack in one corner. Lots of black leather furniture. An expensive home entertainment center took up an entire wall. There were framed pulp art posters on its opposite. Big-breasted women fighting off saber-toothed tigers and one-eyed Nazis. Nice work if you could get it.
Dead fish floated in an expensive aquarium.
“Oh no,” Foster said, dismayed by the tiny colored bodies littering the greenish water like flower petals. “They must have starved.”
Tiny came to stare at the tank with him. He sniffed and pulled out an enormous handkerchief, blowing his nose mightily. Then he scooped his big hand in the tank and ladled out the dead fish, dropping them in an ashtray. “Nobody told me about them,” he told Foster.
Tiny was great with animals, always trying to bring stray cats and dogs home, returning baby birds to nests. Gentle giant stuff.
Nick checked the windows. Watson had invested in his own security measures. No one was getting in that way.
“It seems secure,” Nick told Foster, who watched him with those big brown eyes.
Tiny stared at him too. “Locks don’t stop ghosts,” he said.
“Not you too,” Nick growled. “Is everyone here nuts?”
“I’ve seen him,” Tiny said. “I saw him. The ghost in the yellow socks.”
“Where did you see him?” Foster asked with quick interest.
Tiny’s eyes shifted evasively. He shrugged. “I see him sometimes.”
“Was he dead when you saw him?” Nick asked, always practical.
Tiny looked confused. “He’s a ghost,” he explained.
Foster said with a casualness that would only deceive Simple Simon, “Tiny, I wanted to ask you something. Do you know who has keys to my apartment besides you and Mrs. Mac?”
“You do,” Tiny said helpfully.
Shaking his head, Nick turned away to investigate the bedroom.
“But anyone else?” Foster persisted. “Has anyone ever asked to borrow your keys?”
Tiny looked scared. “No.”
“Are you sure?”
His eyes shifted uneasily back and forth.
“Who borrowed your keys?” Foster pressed.
More recalibrating of the eyes. Tiny licked his mouth and began to hum.
“It’s okay, you can tell me,” Foster said. He smiled encouragingly. “I won’t tell.”
“No one,” Tiny said, and shrugged his big shoulders.
Nick watched this mild-mannered interrogation with increasing exasperation. It was obvious the big man was lying. He knew his own instinct to shove the guy against a wall was not a good one, but he felt pressured leaving town with this still unresolved.
“I lost them,” Tiny announced suddenly. “Mrs. MacQueen yelled at me.”
“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.