Free A Manhattan Ghost Story by T. M. Wright Page A

see Thomas and Lorraine Pellaprat behind her, in the apartment—he still in his dark blue suit and highly polished wingtips, and seated in a big, high-backed wooden chair near the far wall, and she in her nicely tailored herringbone-tweed pants suit, in a small, rose-colored upholstered rocker beside him. They had their hands folded on their laps, and they were smiling small, pleasant, friendly smiles. They nodded at me, first Thomas and then Lorraine. Then Phyllis said, “Come in, Abner, come in. Where have you been?”
    I stepped in. The apartment, what I could see of it—the living room, the dining area, and a small kitchen—was sparsely decorated. The wallpaper was a slightly shabby but very delicate blue-on-white bird print with a blue-striped border, and the only piece of furniture besides the chairs the Pellaprats were sitting in was an ancient, overstuffed red couch that was standing against the left wall, kitty-corner to the Pellaprats. There were no rugs on the hardwood floors, and when Phyllis moved across them, her heels made sharp, clicking noises, like a tap dancer’s—I got the idea that these people did a lot of dancing because there were numerous scuff marks on the floor.
    I had a pleasant evening. They gave me a wineglass half-filled with what tasted like coffee liqueur—which, because it was very bitter, I nursed until we left at 10:30—and we sat around the edges of the room and talked about light, inconsequential things. Mr. and Mrs. Pellaprat stopped calling me Abner Doubleday, though Phyllis had to remind them who I was exactly: “He’s my boy friend; you remember. And he’s not at all like Art.” They nodded at this, and smiled oddly, as if they weren’t quite sure who Art was.
    We talked about the book I was doing, about the various crises around the world, about life in Manhattan, about roaches—”We used to have them, Mr. Cray,” Lorraine told me, “but not anymore. All you have to do is take away their source of nourishment.” —about baseball, on which Thomas Pellaprat apparently considered himself something of an expert, though his knowledge clearly was centered on the decades of the forties and fifties. And just before Phyllis and I got up to leave, I was invited back: “Come any time you’d like, Mr. Cray,” Lorraine told me. “With Phyllis, by yourself. It doesn’t matter. We’re very informal people.”
    “Very informal people, Mr. Cray,” echoed Thomas Pellaprat.
    I was pleased. I said “Yes, thank you” several times. I said that I’d had a very pleasant evening, which was essentially true. And Phyllis and I went back to Art’s apartment and made love until early in the morning.
    Then she left the apartment.
    Which was the beginning of a routine I am only now beginning to understand.
     

CHAPTER FOURTEEN
    Art called the day after Phyllis and I visited her parents. He was clearly upset.
    “Abner, I might come home early; I don’t know-this is just not working out for me here, it’s just not working out for me.”
    “Jesus, Art, you sound awful.”
    “Yes, I know. I’m sorry. I tried to call Stacy, like you said. I tried to call her. But her mother told me she was in New York. What’s she doing in New York, Abner? Why is she in New York? Is she looking for me?”
    “Art, I don’t know what in the hell you’re talking about.”
    “I’m talking about the accident , Abner.” He paused, chuckled humorlessly. “That’s not what the cops call it, of course.” Another pause. “And maybe they’re right.”
    “I still have no idea what you’re talking about, Art. You’re going to have to spell it out.”
    “I thought you knew, Abner.”
    “Knew what, for Christ’s sake?!”
    Without hesitation, he answered, “That I killed someone.”
    I didn’t hesitate either. “You killed someone, Art?”
    “Yes. Her name was Phyllis.”
    “You killed someone named Phyllis?” I made no connection to Phyllis Pellaprat. As far as I was concerned, she was