Primed for Murder (25 page)

“Do me a favor, Toby?” she asked when he paused. “Usually young Art brushes my hair for me. But he’s gone now. I’m out of practice and my arm is getting tired.” She half-turned, her girlish body silhouetted against vanity lights, held out the brush to him. “Would you mind terribly? After all, you’re an expert with a brush.”

Carrying a fresh drink, he slouched across the rug towards her, now feeling only mildly self-conscious in his briefs.

Sure, a few customers had come on to him before.

A lonely widow in her late fifties a couple years ago, that couldn’t keep her hands off him, had offered him money to join her in bed. He’d turned her down flat.

There’d been a desperate divorcee two summers ago. She was early thirties but painfully plain and she’d let her figure go. She’d practically thrown herself at Toby and sobbed hysterically when he refused her offer to barter for the price of his work.

The precocious teenaged daughter of a south side client last year had sunbathed topless on the lawn right outside whatever room Toby was painting, flashing perky breasts every chance she got. She’d told him flat-out she was a virgin and tired of it. He told her to pick on somebody her own age and eventually she did, taking up with a hard-looking young punk with a mean mouth who rode a noisy motorcycle.

Lately, there’d been Mrs. Puterbaugh’s clumsy attempt to seduce information out of him, followed by the temptation of Jean and Sylvia.

Now this.

Toby gingerly took the brush from Dezi’s fingers. She pulled back the heavy mass of hair so it spread over her shoulders like a shawl. She swiveled onto the end of the vanity bench so there was room for Toby to sit behind her. He straddled the seat, facing her back. He lifted a strand of hair and gently pulled the brush through. Her hair was still damp and the bristles glided smoothly.

“You came to my bedroom earlier to touch and smell my underwear, didn’t you?” Dezi said after a sip of her drink. Before Toby could form words of denial, she added, “Don’t be ashamed. I don’t mind. In fact, I’m flattered.” She touched his hand. “I’m attracted to you, too, Toby.”

He liked the way she said his name and her lisp was growing on him. Her fingers were cool on his. She moved back until her slim hips were wedged between his knees. “Isn’t this better? My intimate garments with me in them?”

“Yes.” Toby’s body stirred. His self-control was weakening.

“Do you have a girlfriend, Toby?”

“No.” He hadn’t gone out with anyone in months—the last blind date had been that bad. He didn’t miss dating and all it implied. It was enough of a chore watching out for his own uncertain existence, his own fragile ego. Why compound the problem by getting involved with somebody else’s insecurities?

“Why not?” Dezi stroked his bare thigh with her fingertips. “You’re tall. You’re nice-looking and have a decent body. You’re gainfully employed and you’re gentle. Everything women look for in a man.” She ricocheted a glance off the mirror at him. “There’s nothing weird about you, is there?”

“Nothing therapy wouldn’t help.” Toby grinned like a loon at her reflection.

“A sense of humor, too. I’d think you’d have to beat women off with a club.”

“I wish.” He sighed. “Usually it’s the other way around.”

Dezi burst into laughter. Her whinnying snicker was infectious. Toby added his bray. That fueled her funny fire and her mirth compounded his. In seconds, they were out of control, rocking back and forth, holding aching ribs, eyes streaming tears, jaws sore. After a few spasms, they wound down and gasped for breath.

“It wasn’t that funny,” Toby said and for some reason that started her off again. The noises she made dragged him into another vortex of helpless foot stomping, knee-slapping laughter. He’d pee his pants if they didn’t stop.

They giggled themselves out. Dezi, practically in his lap, collapsed against him, her back still lurching with suppressed titters against his chest. They sat like that without speaking, waiting for their breathing to return to normal. Her hair was silky where it brushed his neck. One of her hands had somehow fallen between them and rested carelessly on his pleasantly full groin. One of his hands had accidentally cupped itself around a firm breast. A diamond-hard nipple poked his palm. Her skin felt hot enough to burn through their clothes.

They were sitting like that, using one another for support, gathering themselves for some movement, when a man’s voice, one that Toby had heard before, said nearby: “Ain’t this cozy.”

Chapter 21

Toby stood up fast and whirled. Dezi, without a prop, had to catch herself to keep from sprawling awkwardly onto the floor.

The thirty-something man who had spoken was short, about 5’4” or 5’5”, but he filled the doorway with quiet menace. The nicely cut light brown, tropical-weight suit couldn’t disguise the fact he was built like a gorilla: barrel chest, wide shoulders, narrow waist and no neck. Beneath thick, slicked-back black hair and bushy eyebrows, dark eyes flicked back and forth between Toby and Dezi. Toby hadn’t heard him approach for the noise of their laughter. The man could have tap-danced up the stairs and they’d never have noticed.

He should have noticed. There was no doubt about it now: by his voice this was the man who’d been with Leo when they’d taken the Puterbaughs, the man who’d admitted to a killing. By his appearance he was the one who had run from the blue house after the murder.

Toby became aware he still held Dezi’s brush in one hand. It wouldn’t be much use against this guy. He laid it on the vanity.

Dezi’s voice was pinched and brassy. “Artie, what are you doing here? I thought you were out of town.”

“Picking up something from the office.” Artie stepped into the room. Heavy brows made deep shadows of his eyes as he tilted his head at Toby. “Who’s this?”

Dezi came up beside Toby. “A painter I hired.”

“Why ain’t he painting then?” Artie drew closer, fathomless black eyes sizing up Toby. He didn’t seem angry, just curious. Why didn’t he shout? Why didn’t he swing? Most husbands would blow their tops in this situation.

Dezi eased between the men. “He’s done for the day. I offered him a drink and we were chatting.” She sipped from her glass. “I asked him to brush my hair. You know how I miss little Art doing it. It relaxes me.”

Artie scrutinized his wife with the same unhurried thoroughness. “You two look relaxed, all right,” he said with no inflection. “That’s no way to dress for the help. You can see right through. Put some clothes on, Dez. Have a little class, will you?” He started towards the door.

Dezi, body tense, eyes flashing, lips tightly compressed, looked ready to fire off a choice remark, but resisted.

Artie stopped short of the door and turned around. “I heard you two laughing as I came up the stairs. What’s so funny?”

Toby opened his mouth and snapped it shut. How could he explain? You had to be there.

“You wouldn’t get it, Artie.” Dezi’s words held a frosting of contempt.

Artie shrugged, taking no offense. “You’re probably right. There’s a lot I don’t get.” He went away. Toby heard a door close down the hall and began to breathe again.

“He can be a real pain.” Dezi looked distractedly about the room. “I’d better put something on. You heard the lord and master.” Her voice dripped acid. “Supposed to be a big, important man. But he acts like a baby if he can’t get his own way.” She locked gazes with Toby. “What time will you be here tomorrow?”

“Whatever’s convenient—nine, ten o’clock okay?”

“Make it easy on yourself.” She fumbled in a ceramic box on the vanity, pressed a key into his hand. “Now you can get in anytime.” Dezi put a small palm flat against his chest and applied slight pressure. “Now go. See you tomorrow.”

Even before he scooped up the coveralls and pulled the door shut, she’d slipped out of the peignoir. She strode lithe, pale and naked towards the walk-in closet.

He hastily pulled on his coveralls. As he strode down the hallway towards the stairs, Artie stuck his head out of the door to the office. “Got a minute?” His thick eyebrows lifted to reinforce the question.

Toby considered for a long moment. Here it came: the guy was going to chew his ear off about playing footsy with his wife. Or beat him up. Or do something much worse, if somebody higher up had given a certain order. His first instinct was to run, but how could you outrun a bullet? “What’s on your mind?”

“Come on in, let’s get acquainted.” Artie leaned out and tugged Toby’s arm. How could he refuse a known killer? Artie closed and locked the door. He stuck out his hand, smiling. He had good teeth. “I’m Artie Colangelo. What’s yours?”

Was he playing some cruel game or did he really not know to whom he was speaking? Sure, there were lots of house painters around. And true, Dezi hadn’t mentioned his name. But Artie had heard of Toby—Sandy Puterbaugh had fingered him. You’d think the well-built little killer would be suspicious of anybody who wielded a brush. “Tom Smith.” Toby reluctantly gave Artie his fingers.

Artie had the grip of a monkey wrench. Before bones crunched, he released Toby’s hand. He went around behind the desk and waved Toby into a comfy leather armchair facing it. “Drink?”

“Sure.” He might need it.

Artie opened a six-foot-tall oak cabinet, revealing ranked liquor bottles and a pint-sized refrigerator. “Whisky okay? Straight?”

Toby nodded, staring at a multi-line phone on the desk. Artie plopped ice cubes into two squat glasses, poured generous doses and handed a glass over. The hairy, short-fingered hand wrapped about the glass was bandaged. Tape had come loose at one end and a deep cut, just beginning to heal, arced around the edge of his palm, as if he’d warded off a knife-thrust. Artie took the other drink to a high-backed leather swivel chair behind the desk and sat. “Cheers.” He lifted his glass.

They drank. It was good liquor and sat nicely atop the lemonade and gin-and-tonics. “Smooth.” Toby savored the smoky, peaty flavor.

“Comes right from an old distillery on some dinky island off Scotland. Have to go by boat to get it.” They sipped, appreciating how well the whisky had traveled. “How’s the work coming?” Artie asked.

Toby described what he’d done so far, what he’d tackle in days to come. By his expression, Artie wasn’t interested. “How you like working for Dez?”

“No complaints. She’s treated me well.” She might have had additional treats in store if Artie hadn’t come home unexpectedly.

“You like her, Tom?”

A tricky question—was Artie playing with him? Keeping his face immobile, Toby chose words carefully. “She’s a good client.” Anybody who paid cash in advance, regardless of what else might be offered, was the best kind of client.

Artie rested thick forearms on the desk. “You like her looks?”

What could he say that wouldn’t get him in trouble? “She’s quite attractive.”

“Not her face,” Artie said, like an adult running out of patience with a slow child, “her body. You like that, Tom?”

Toby was sweating again, big time. His shirt was stuck to his back and he felt heavy drops forming along his hairline. To avoid speaking, he took time gulping his drink and looked for a place to set the empty glass.

“What’s not to like, am I right, Tom?” Artie said evenly. “She showed you everything she’s got in that see-through outfit. That means she’s hot for you. I just wondered if you felt the same about her. Don’t matter to me one way or the other.” Toby sucked an ice cube, afraid to say anything to this wide, dangerous man.

Artie sat back, studying him. “You married, Tom? Got a steady girl?”

“No, to both questions.”

The answer pleased Artie. He brought the bottle and filled their glasses. “You could do me a personal favor.” Artie regained his seat. “Do yourself a favor, too. It’s like this.” Artie fumbled for words. “Dez and me are Splitsville. We haven’t lived together as man and wife for months, if you catch my drift. I keep some stuff here but I been spending more and more time away from home.”

Toby wondered where the chat was leading, felt uneasy about the destination. Artie leaned back in the chair, eyes on the ceiling, glass balanced on the tips of his stubby fingers. “It fell apart for us long ago. I wasn’t what she expected. She never turned out like I figured either. She don’t mean nothing to me.” His gaze drifted down to Toby. “It’s like this, Tom. In my family, we like our women large, with meat on their bones, something to hang onto, know what I mean?” He flashed a man-to-man smile. “Guess it’s in our blood.”

“Different strokes for different folks.” Toby drank from his glass. His lips felt numb and rubbery, like after a trip to the dentist. He wondered if he was drooling.

Artie said with enthusiasm: “I knew you’d understand the problem, Tom!”

“Problem?”

“You’ve seen Dezi, all of her. To me, she’s a stick. Same weight now as when I married her.” He took a healthy draught. “I thought she’d bulk up when she got pregnant with little Art, but no dice. Soon as she dropped him, poof! Back down to nothing again. Said she didn’t want more kids on top of it. Didn’t want to ruin her figure, as if she had one in the first place. I can’t stand her, all skin and bones. But I can’t dump her, either.” Artie set the glass down on the desk with a bang, making the ice cubes—and Toby—jump. “What’s a guy to do?” he demanded.

“Divorce?”

“We’re Catholic. The Church frowns on it, though there are ways to get around the rules. But that’s not the worst part.” Artie stood, tipped the bottle and poured their glasses full. “The worst part is her old man.”

Artie put the bottle within easy reach on the desk and sat next to Toby in the matching armchair. He touched Toby’s arm in familiar fashion with blunt fingers. Toby steeled himself not to flinch. “Dezi’s old man is my boss. He’s got clout. She’s his only daughter. Get the picture?”

“You’re worried about losing your job?”

“I could lose more than that.” Artie took a long pull off his whisky and combed fingers through his thick, oily hair. For the first time, uncertainty—perhaps a trace of fear—leached into his voice. “If we separate the way things are now, it’ll look like it’s all my fault. The old man will take it hard. He’s liable to take it out on me.”