Primed for Murder (8 page)

Toby suspected before unwrapping it what the package contained. But he had to look. He let down the tailgate, climbed into the truck bed. Dodging the collapsible ladder sloping backward from its cab roof clamp, Toby worked up a sweat tugging at paint-dappled canvas, his gut heaving. When the cloth dropped away, and he’d unwound layers of newspaper and a stained plush carpet, he stood, head ducked under the rafters, looking down at the unwanted gift.

It was the body from the blue house, of course, still dressed in his natty summer-weight suit. The man lay on his back, wrists crossed on chest. He looked much worse than when Toby had first found him. Blood on his face was dried black and crusty. His mouth hung slack, revealing a broken front tooth. The half-open eyes were cloudy. His skin looked greenish, like copper starting to corrode.

The corpse was dumped while he was phoning the cops, Toby guessed. It hadn’t been done in the night: his garage padlock hadn’t been tampered with. But why pawn off the dead guy on him? Simple: while whoever was cleaning up the mess in the den, they must have spotted Toby’s truck parked in Mrs. Cratty’s driveway. At that time it would have been the only vehicle visible anywhere in the immediate neighborhood: a convenient place to dispose of a body—especially while its owner was traipsing around on foot.

Toby, the perfect patsy, had driven off unaware with the dead man. Those who put the body in his truck probably got a big laugh about it. What balls they had to run the carcass across the street from the blue house! Even wrapped in cloth and paper, the stiff looked exactly like what it was.

What was he supposed to do with it now? He could call the cops—he should call: there must be some law about reporting a dead body. But who knew how they would react? Look how Dixon and French treated him after he called in the murder, like he was the criminal instead of an innocent witness! They might arrest and charge him with the killing. Who else more convenient could they pin it on?

This situation was going to take thought. It wouldn’t do to act in haste. He’d work it out while he finished Mrs. Cratty’s house.

Meantime, he couldn’t drive around with this pile of dead meat. The guy was already ripening in the heat. Toby re-wrapped the body. He lowered the heavy, awkward bundle over the side of the truck onto the grease-stained concrete slab floor of the garage and then climbed out after it. He squatted, got a good grip on the canvas.

“Whatcha doin’?”

Toby’s heart leaped. He looked around so fast his neck made a snapping sound, like a tendon had popped.

Barton Hughes, in faded jeans and tank top, stood in the doorway, lit up by the sun. He peered in, scratching his potbelly with stubby fingers. Under hair covering his arms and shoulders like mangy fur, tattooed crosses stood out bold against pale skin.

Toby managed a weak chuckle, worked up spit to unglue his cottony mouth.

“Just storing stuff.” He made an aimless gesture.

“Need help?”

“Thanks, Bart, I can handle it.” Toby began dragging the heavy bundle towards the shelves in back. “Besides, it’s kind of tight in here.”

“What is that?” Bart answered his own question. “Looks like a body.”

“Just a bunch of drop cloths I’m putting away. Don’t need them any more on the job.” Toby’s voice sounded sick to his ears. He breathed easier when Bart lost interest and wandered away towards the nicely restored ’57 Chevy sitting in his garage. The tattooed man mumbled something about heading to the drugstore to stock up on condoms because Barbara, his squeeze of the moment, was in heat again.

With some difficulty, Toby wedged the uncooperative packaged dead man into a yard-high space between the floor and the bottom shelf of a wall of paint cans, piled empties on top. He loaded paint and clean brushes in the truck bed where the body had been, tied down the tarp, backed out of the garage and locked up.

In a half-hour, Toby was again standing on the ladder, slapping fresh paint onto the clapboards of the Cratty place. He dipped deep and worked with great sweeping motions of his arm, slathering the space above the front windows in an attempt to finish fast so he could dispose of that pesky body.

What to do with it? Leave it someplace? Where?

Dump it in the lake? When?

Bury it in the woods? How?

Every plan presented problems. It didn’t get dark till well after nine. The whole town stayed out late these days, enjoying warm weather. If someone saw him getting rid of the stiff, Toby would be in real hot water. “Maybe I should just give him back to the Puterbaughs.” He stabbed his brush into the paint can. “Serve them right.”

“Yoo-hoo, Mr. Rew,” called somebody below and behind him. Toby whirled around so fast he nearly fell off the ladder into the bushes.

Mrs. Puterbaugh, as though conjured by mention of her name, stood at the foot of the ladder smiling up. From his elevation, Toby could look right down the front of her skimpy halter-top. She held a glass of amber liquid in each hand and her half-exposed breasts rose gleaming as she raised one glass to him. “You looked so hot working out here in the sun. I thought you could use a cooling drink.”

His lips were stuck together. He pried them apart to speak. “Yeah, I’m parched. Thanks.” Careful, his brain warned.

Mrs. Puterbaugh watched, mouth curved into a smile that didn’t reach as far as her eyes, while Toby descended. He took it slow, pausing to mop his damp face and neck with a faded blue bandanna. She didn’t move away as he neared, so Toby stopped on the final ladder step.

For a woman over forty, Mrs. Puterbaugh looked a healthy thirty-five in clinging top and skin-tight shorts. She had the arms and legs and waist of an athlete, the bust and hips of a mature woman. No visible tan lines.

Watch it now!

She handed him a tall, frosty glass. After a moment’s hesitation, Toby took it. She wouldn’t try anything in broad daylight, would she? Not with that guy down the block mowing his yard, and that lady across the street weeding flowers. He swallowed half the drink in one gulp and nearly choked. Not tea this time, but rum and Coke, whisper of mint. The cold of the liquid made his teeth ache. The strength of the liquor took his breath away and seared a fiery path towards his stomach.

Mrs. Puterbaugh sipped. “Tasty, isn’t it? One hundred-fifty-one proof.” She stared at him over the rim of her glass. “We drank these in Mexico. Believe it or not, after a couple, you begin to feel cooler.”

She giggled as though she’d had more than one of her concoctions. “Consider it a peace offering. We got off on the wrong foot the other day.”

“Not bad.” Toby took a more cautious taste. “Thanks, Mrs. Put—”

“No need to be so formal. Call me Sandy. And you’re—?”

“Toby.”

They shook hands. “Pleased to meet you unofficially, Toby.” She drew him off the ladder. Her fingers held the chill from her glass.

“Sandy, like I was saying, thanks for the drink. But I’d better take it easy. Alcohol and ladders don’t mix.”

“You mean don’t drink and climb?” She giggled again.

“Look, I ought to get back to work—”

“Oh, you can talk to me for a minute, can’t you, Toby Rew?” She tugged at his free hand. “Please? While we finish our drinks?”

“I can spare a minute.” He let himself be pulled towards the side of Mrs. Cratty’s house. “What do you want to talk about?”

She scuffed at the lawn with scarlet-tipped bare toes peeping from her sandals. “About what happened yesterday. I just wanted to go over events of the day. Discuss what you think you saw.”

Toby freed his hand from her grasp. “I know what I saw.”

“Of course.” She backed towards the driveway. “Could we chat in private?”

Toby shrugged and followed her down the concrete path. He glanced over a shoulder at the blue house across the street. Was Mr. Puterbaugh watching them from a window? Couldn’t tell. Sandy paused as she neared his pickup then veered into the shadows of Mrs. Cratty’s tiny back porch. She lowered herself onto the second step, her long, smooth, tanned legs stretched out straight. She patted the wood beside her, beckoning with a twitch of her head.

Toby sat, inches away. He could feel heat radiating from her. She gave off the smell of tropical flowers. He watched a glassy worm of sweat wriggle south between her bronzed breasts. He wet his lips with drink. “What’s on your mind, Sandy?”

She turned toward him so their knees touched. Her washed-out blue eyes captured his. “Yesterday, Toby, you mentioned seeing some papers in our den.”

“I also mentioned a body.”

“Toby, dear, you saw for yourself when you visited with the police: there was no dead man nor any sign of murder.” Sandy spoke slowly, as though giving important instructions to a small child or an idiot.

“A couple hours earlier, a guy was bleeding all over your rug. I don’t know how or why, but you cleaned everything up.”

Sandy sighed. “This is so tiresome, Toby.”

“What have you got to hide? What did you do with the stiff?” Toby already knew the answer to the last question, naturally, but he wanted to hear it from her.

She made an exasperated sound. “Forget that for now. What became of the papers?”

“What makes those papers more important than a dead man?”

She flapped a hand, dismissing the question. “The manuscript is Jim’s dissertation, required for his doctorate. Poor Jim has toiled over it for ages. He finally had it in perfect shape. He typed the final draft in Mexico, on his old portable typewriter, because the climate is hard on laptops and they’re prime targets for thieves. I was going to retype it on my desktop when we got back, and burn the master onto CD, but—”

“But somebody took it first. You never got the chance.”

“Yes. The original and carbon copy are gone.”

“When did it happen?”

“I don’t know. We returned home late, night before last. The kids rushed off to see their friends. Jim and I were exhausted. We went straight to bed.”

“Where was the manuscript?”

“The original and carbon were in a desk drawer in the den. Jim discovered the manuscript missing yesterday afternoon after we returned from the supermarket.”

“Was that before or after you dumped the body?” Sandy pinched her lips together angrily. “When did he see the papers last?” Toby asked.

“Jim was working on them that morning.”

“So somebody broke in your house while you were away shopping.”

“Apparently.” Sandy chose words with caution. “But a thief, not a murderer.” She turned a lazy gaze his way. “It could have been you who took the manuscript.”

“Why would anyone—why would I—steal your husband’s book?”

“I don’t know. It’s not valuable to anyone but us.”

“What’s the dissertation about?”

“It’s a detailed study of a Mayan manuscript. It’s a very high-tech work, not for public consumption, aimed at others in the field.”

“Sounds like a big yawner.” It was, by the excerpts he’d already read.

“I’m sure it is, to a layman. But that’s not who it’s intended for. It’s Jim’s ticket to a higher degree, a better position.” Unspoken were other elements that came with promotion: increased salary, better house in a swankier neighborhood, enhanced prestige. “That’s why we have to have it back,” she said.

“Can’t he just write it over again?”

“Impossible! It’s hundreds of pages, thousands of words, tons of original research, loads of footnotes. Too many details to re-create, too many quoted references. You’d understand if you were a writer.”

“I can barely manage to write postcards to my widowed Mom. How do you plan to get it back?”

“I don’t know.” She rubbed her chin. “The police won’t be any help, since the papers aren’t worth anything, monetarily speaking.” Her eyes met Toby’s. She leaned closer. “What if we offered a reward for the return of Jim’s dissertation?”

“How much?”

She tapped her pouted lower lip. “A thousand? Two thousand?”

Toby whistled. “You’d pay that much for a bunch of papers?”

“More.” Sandy looked askance at Toby.

“What’s it really all about?”

Her fingers followed the tapered column of her neck onto the plateau of her full breasts, ostensibly wiping away perspiration. “If money alone is not enough incentive, other arrangements could be made.” Her voice was soft and husky.

Toby cleared his throat. “I’m sure you’ll make a fair offer. Wish I could help. But you’re talking to the wrong guy. I don’t have the book.” Strictly speaking, he’d told the truth. He had just the second sheets. It wasn’t the same thing.

Sandy’s eyes narrowed. Vertical lines appeared in the space between the parabolas of her eyebrows. “What are you saying?”

“What part of ‘No’ don’t you get? I don’t have the papers.” Now he was lying, and he wasn’t good at it. “I saw them scattered around your den, at the same time as I saw the dead man cluttering up the floor. I left everything alone to go call the police.”

Her frown deepened. “But if you don’t have them, that means—”

The murderer must have taken originals and carbons, Toby thought. He said aloud: “Somebody else must have come along after I split and snatched them.” It sounded like a Three Stooges farce with people coming and going willy-nilly, and a guy in a moth-eaten gorilla suit popping up now and again for comic relief. But with a real, really dead man it was no laughing matter.

“Don’t know why anybody would want the papers I saw,” Toby added. “Because the pages all looked blank.”

“Blank?” Sandy looked stunned.

“As in empty, not written on.” This conversation was about to get more complicated, more congested with lies, so Toby brought it back on track. “Now let’s talk about the dead man, Sandy.”

She answered offhandedly. “As we told the police—”

“Knock it off. I know better. I saw the corpse in your den.”

“Maybe you should get your eyes checked.” She glanced at Toby and away. “Or have your head examined.”

“Maybe you should tell the truth before you’re found out.” Toby fired rapid questions like bullets. “Who was the dead guy? Did you know him? What was he doing in your house? What did you do with him?”

Sandy didn’t flinch. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. When did you allegedly see this body?”