by Jack Ewing
“Not usually.”
Her attention returned to Dixon. “Perhaps someone merely overheard an argument between me and James.”
“Do you argue often?” French asked. He stared at her breasts, a hungry look on his face. His innocuous words sounded somehow slimy.
She gave French a frosty look. Her words were icicles. “No, but our quarrels are quite noisy, like our lovemaking. I’ve been known to scream when I climax.”
French’s face flushed red. His nasal noises were heartbeat-paced.
“Have you been home all day?” Dixon managed not to grin at his partner’s momentary discomfort, but crinkled flesh at the corners of his eyes gave him away.
She hesitated for a tick. “We just got back from out of town and were grocery shopping from noon until three o’clock. There wasn’t a thing to eat in the house.”
“You said ‘we,’” Dixon noted. “Who else lives here?”
“Our two children. They’re staying with teenaged friends for a few days. My husband, James, and I are the only ones here now.”
On cue, the man in the photographs showed up beside her. “What is it, dear?” The man had improved since his last portrait, too. Now mid-forties, he was mahogany-brown.
The clunky glasses were gone. He was wearing a white terrycloth bathrobe with a palm tree, a stylized wave, and the words “Vista del Mar” and “Xaxpak” embroidered on one breast. Mr. Puterbaugh vigorously toweled his hair, worn stylishly long to minimize encroaching baldness.
“These two gentlemen are policemen, Jim.” She made introductions and gave a quick synopsis of the conversation so far. Mr. Puterbaugh made appropriate sounds of surprise and alarm. His wife nodded at Toby. “I don’t know who this person is.”
All four sets of eyes came to rest on Toby.
“This is Mr. Rew,” Dixon said. “He phoned in the report.”
“Exactly what did you report, Mr. Rew?” His name was a soft coo on Mrs. Puterbaugh’s lips. Her mouth smiled in friendly fashion but her eyes were hard and cold as glacial ice.
Toby looked a question at Dixon, who shrugged and nodded. He cleared his throat harshly. “I saw a guy get killed in your den.”
“A dead man?” Mrs. Puterbaugh batted long eyelashes. “In our den? Oh, dear.”
“I was reading there after my shower, just minutes ago.” Mr. Puterbaugh’s mouth was a firm, straight line. He spoke stiffly, as though the space between his nose and lips were frozen. “There is no body in the den.”
Mrs. Puterbaugh examined Toby from beneath lowered lashes. “How did you happen to see into our den?”
Mr. Puterbaugh frowned. “The windows must be three meters off the ground.”
“Are you a Peeping Tom?” Something in Mrs. Puterbaugh’s tone said she wouldn’t necessarily mind if he were.
French snickered. Toby’s cheeks flamed. “I was up on a ladder, painting Mrs. Cratty’s house across the street. I could see right down into your den.”
Dixon touched his arm and Toby fell silent. “You mind if we come in and check it out? Then we can clear up this whole mess right now and leave you in peace.”
Mr. Puterbaugh squinted at Dixon. “You need a warrant, do you not?”
“Technically, you can refuse us entrance.” Dixon studied his fingernails. “On the other hand, we have probable cause on our side. We could make a case we believe a crime has been committed on the premises and are exercising our legal right to investigate.” He bared crooked teeth in a smile. “But we can avoid the whole issue if you simply invite us in for a quick peek.” The Puterbaughs looked at one another, eyebrows lifted. “You don’t have anything to hide, do you?”
Mr. Puterbaugh cleared his throat. Before he could speak, his wife laughed, a rich, throaty sound. “Of course not.” She stepped back and waved them inside.
The couple led the detectives and Toby down a short hall beside a staircase leading up, through a carpeted, tastefully furnished living room, and past the arched entrance to the kitchen. Mr. Puterbaugh pushed open a door. “Here is the den.”
The trio of visitors entered and stood, their eyes moving. “Is this the room you were in, Mr. Rew?” Dixon asked.
“Yes.” He remembered the wallpaper, the desk. Everything else had changed.
“I don’t see a body,” Dixon said.
“Me neither.” French glared at Toby.
Toby walked to the center of the room, head swiveling to take in everything: It was weird. Bookshelves were all full. Family photos were neatly spaced along the fireplace mantel. Framed landscapes and seascapes lined the walls, exposing darker patches on sun-lightened, time-faded wallpaper where other objects had once hung. There wasn’t a spot of splashed blood to be seen anywhere. Bric-a-brac shelves now held glass animal figurines. The desktop featured an open book spotlighted by the brass lamp, as though a reader had just risen. The furniture had changed: a wooden slat-back swivel chair with a seat cushion sat behind the desk. A blue flowered armchair more at home in a woman’s bedroom perched sedately in one corner. The floor was bare and the bloody area rug was missing. It even smelled nice: a floral-scented spray had been used recently.
“He was right here, stretched out on his face.” Toby pointed where the body had lain. “Blood all over. Books heaped up. Papers scattered everywhere.”
Mrs. Puterbaugh hid her mouth behind a screen of manicured and crimson-painted fingernails. “How gruesome.”
“Papers?” Mr. Puterbaugh frowned.
“You didn’t mention any papers.” Dixon pinned Toby with a look.
Damn! Toby thought. That was a mistake: Me, and my big mouth. “I forgot, in all the excitement. There were sheets of paper all around and over the body.”
“Anything written on these papers—?” Dixon started to ask.
Mrs. Puterbaugh touched a hand to her tanned throat. “Are you sure this is the right house? Perhaps next door—”
“No.” Toby’s voice went tight. “It was here. Where’s the rug?”
Mr. Puterbaugh lifted his eyebrows. “Why would we cover these beautiful hardwood floors? We paid a great deal to have them stripped and sealed.”
“Nice work.” French rubbed a black sole edge along the gleaming wood as if experimenting to see if it would leave a mark. It didn’t.
Dixon squatted, ran a hand over the smooth wood. “No visible stains. Hasn’t been waxed recently.”
Mrs. Puterbaugh shook her head ruefully. “I’m an awful housekeeper.”
French smiled at the woman as though attempting to redeem himself in her eyes. “Looks real neat to me.” He drew in a long breath through his nose.
Her smile in return was brilliant. “Of course, it’s hardly worth the trouble.” She sighed. “No matter what I do, how hard I try, it’s still a creaky old house in a lower-middle-class neighborhood.”
Dixon asked, “Have either of you ever seen men around here fitting these descriptions?” He read from his notebook the few pitiful details Toby had given him about the dead man and the murderer.
Mrs. Puterbaugh studied the ceiling. “I don’t think so, though, of course, we’ve been away. Have you noticed such persons loitering in the neighborhood, Jim?” Her husband shook his head as he watched French fondle the handle on the shovel of the duck-headed fireplace set.
As Dixon asked a few more desultory questions of the Puterbaughs, Toby eased away from the group. He drifted to the mantel, noticed the photo with the cracked glass and moved towards the bookshelves. Books were neatly aligned, but some had been replaced upside-down, as though stuffed there hurriedly. They weren’t in any order and paperback novels rested beside hardbound texts. There was no dust on books or shelves, as if someone had been busy with Pledge and a cloth.
“Can I offer you gentlemen a cooling drink?” Mrs. Puterbaugh asked brightly. “Iced tea, perhaps? It’s freshly made.”
The detectives declined. “I’ll take a glass,” Toby piped.
Mrs. Puterbaugh glanced at him and her eyes narrowed for an ins
tant. “Of course. How do you like it?”
“Cold. Little lemon, little sugar.”
“I’ll be right back.” She stalked towards the kitchen. French sneaked a peek at her swaying hips and breathed deeply. She returned in seconds, bearing an amber-filled glass. Ice cubes tinkled gently as she thrust it at Toby. She crossed her arms and her breasts swelled ominously against the thin fabric of the dress.
He inhaled as he brought the glass to his lips: a faint aroma of lemon. Was it masking some other, more deadly smell? Would she dare try anything in front of the police? He sipped gingerly: Nope, no surprise ingredients. “Tasty. Thanks.”
“You sure own a lot of books.” Dixon indicated the filled shelves with a sweep of his arm. “What do you do for a living, Mr. Puterbaugh?”
“I teach at Syracuse University. I am an associate professor.”
“What subject?” French asked.
“History. Specifically, the history of indigenous North and South Americans.”
That got a puzzled look from French. “You mean Indians?”
“Yes. My specialty is the study of ancient cultures of Central America, particularly the Mayans.”
“Been teaching long at S.U.?” Dixon asked.
“Almost fifteen years.”
“Got your doctor’s degree?” French asked.
Mr. Puterbaugh gave the younger detective a poisonous look. “Not yet. I am working on it and should finish soon.”
“How come you don’t live by the university, like other teachers?”
“People who own houses there rarely move. Who can blame them? Properties are choice. There is seldom anything available, unless someone retires or dies.”
“I’d love to live near campus.” Mrs. Puterbaugh’s smile was wistful. “But even if a home there came on the market, I doubt we could afford to buy under our present financial circumstances.” Her husband’s face clouded like an imminent thunderstorm.
“You two have been out in the sun,” Dixon remarked. “Nice tans.” His ruddy cheeks looked pale beside the Puterbaughs’ bronzed faces.
Mr. Puterbaugh said, “We returned late yesterday from ten weeks in Mexico.”
“Vacation?”
“Sabbatical,” Mrs. Puterbaugh corrected. “We took the whole family.”
“Did you fly down?” French asked.
“Actually,” said Mr. Puterbaugh, “we drove in our minivan.”
“Wow,” French said, “that’s a long haul by car.”
“Nearly six thousand kilometers.”
“What’s that in miles?” Dixon asked.
“About thirty-six hundred miles. It is not such a hardship with three of us—now our daughter has a license, too—driving almost nonstop. We made the trip in eighty-four hours, twenty-seven minutes, and saved hundreds of dollars in airfares.”
French whistled in appreciation. “Still, a vacation like that must cost a bundle.”
“Less than you might think. The exchange rate is favorable. Food and lodging is quite reasonable where we stayed. If one knows how, one can live comfortably for a relatively small amount of money per day.”
French got a faraway look in his eyes. Mrs. Puterbaugh turned from opening the blinds at the window facing the street. Late afternoon sunlight streamed in and her face was all lit up. “I just love Mexico. Have any of you gentlemen ever been there?”
The three visitors murmured negatives. “This is the third year in a row we’ve vacationed on the eastern shores of the Yucatàn peninsula. The beaches and water there are just gorgeous. There’s nothing like lazing on warm sand and sopping up cool drinks for relaxing.” She stretched languorously, as though the tropical sun had grown hot and she was ready for the shade of a thatched cabana. The thin dress clung to her trim figure.
“That doesn’t sound like work,” French said with a leer.
Mrs. Puterbaugh laughed. “It’s not. We swam and sunbathed and shopped for crafts.” She fished a silver-and-turquoise necklace from her bodice for everyone’s admiration. “Jim’s the one who worked. He puttered around old ruins, musty museums and dusty libraries researching an article for a scholarly journal.”
“What’s the article about?” Toby put all the interest he could muster into the question. He shambled towards the window and stood as though looking out at the street. He studied the blind slats, remembering where the killer had peered out. A couple inches above where the halves of the window met, that’s where the man’s fingers had shown, where dust had been disturbed on the metal. Couldn’t have been very tall, if that was all the higher his eyes reached, a good eight, ten inches shorter than Toby. Wouldn’t a person normally look out at—or a little below—eye level?
Mr. Puterbaugh darted an annoyed glance at his wife and transferred it to Toby.
“Pre-Conquest Mexican literature, if you must know.” He thrust his hands into robe pockets. “Specifically, manuscripts about Mayan rulers and rituals.” He sounded like he’d be a dry, boredom-inducing teacher.
“Can’t be many of those around.” Dixon stifled a yawn.
“They are indeed quite rare, due to the predilections of Catholic priests accompanying Cortés and his conquistadors, who burned all Mayan writings they could find, believing them the work of the devil. A few museums—Dresden, Paris, Madrid—are fortunate enough to have surviving examples of original Mayan work.”
“Jim got to examine a couple of old manuscripts in Mexico,” Mrs. Puterbaugh bragged, earning another frown from her husband.
“Sounds fascinating.” French peeked at Mrs. Puterbaugh’s bust again.
“I find it so.” Mr. Puterbaugh warmed to his subject. “Each manuscript is unique. Each gives tremendous insight into Mayan culture and beliefs.”
“What did they believe?” asked French.
Dixon checked his watch for the tenth occasion in the last five minutes. Mr. Puterbaugh noticed. “In simplest terms, they were preoccupied with time.” Dixon dropped his wrist and feigned rapt attention. “Most extant Maya written works in manuscripts and on statuary revolve around their calendar. They were obsessed with measuring time from a mythical Day Zero and marking significant events thereafter. Time was important for annual planting and harvesting, for the commemoration of special occasions, like victory in battle or the accession of a new leader, for recording astronomical observations, such as phases of planets, solar and lunar eclipses—”
Toby interrupted. “What would one of those manuscripts be worth?”
Mr. Puterbaugh stared at him as if he’d said something filthy. “Impossible to calculate. Many thousands of dollars, I would surmise. Perhaps many millions.”
“What if you had millions and wanted to buy one?”
“The few that remain are not for sale. Not for any price.” Puterbaugh’s jaw muscles stood out under the brown skin. His fists lumped the pockets of his robe.
Dixon scanned the room once more. “I think we’re done here. Thanks for your cooperation, folks.” He shut his notebook and dropped it in a side pocket of his wrinkled coat. By the sharp-cornered creases in the fabric, it had often lain in that spot. The detectives shook hands with Mr. Puterbaugh, nodded at Mrs. Puterbaugh. Dixon motioned for French and Toby to follow him. The detectives left the room, trailed by the wife.
Mr. Puterbaugh clamped onto Toby’s arm, holding him back with a powerful grasp. “I should be careful what I reported from now on, if I were you,” he whispered.
Toby shook loose. “You’re not me.” He set his half-finished ice tea on the desk, strode from the room, and left the house by the front door an unsmiling Mrs. Puterbaugh held open for him.
Chapter 5
Dixon and French waited for Toby halfway down the walk leading from the Puterbaugh house. The three men ambled towards the detectives’ car. “That was a big nothing.” French scratched an armpit, exposing a holstered gun.
Toby considered reporting Mr. Puterbaugh’s implied threat but vetoed the idea: Just one man’s word against another’s. The words them
selves were harmless enough—it was how they’d been said. There was a cold spot on his arm where strong fingers had pinched. “It’s plain as the nose on your face. Everything’s been tidied up.”
“You still singing that same tired song?”
“There’s no pile of books, like you told us,” Dixon said reasonably. “No slashed furniture. No bloody rug or spatters. Everything’s normal.”
“Most of all, no body, like you claimed.” French’s voice had a nasty tone.
“They put the room back in order,” Toby said. “But they were careless. Did you look at the books? Some were shelved upside down. Pictures on the walls didn’t match spots on the wallpaper where other things once hung, and—”
French stopped and Toby almost ran into him. “Know what I think?”
“Who cares what you think? I know what I saw.” Toby’s face, inches from the detective’s, felt hot. French’s breath stank as though he’d had pizza heaped with pepperoni and garlic for lunch. The odor clashed with his pungent shaving lotion.
French went on as though Toby hadn’t spoken. “You’re in trouble. It’s illegal to file a false crime report.” He huffed through his nose like an accelerating locomotive.
“To knowingly file a false report.” Dixon stepped between them. “Mr. Rew is only guilty of having a few too many, of impaired judgment.”
Toby rounded on the older detective. “You think I dreamed it all up, too?” Dixon shrugged. “I didn’t have a drink until later.”
“Then you made up for lost time,” French cracked.
Toby ignored him. “I was sober when I witnessed the crime and found the body.” The beer buzz had worn off and now he just felt tired. “Look, I’m a law-abiding citizen. I’m trying to do the right thing.”
French waved it away. “You’re so full of crap, it’s coming out your mouth.”
“Try to see it from our point of view, Mr. Rew. We deal in evidence. Facts.” Dixon slung an arm in friendly fashion around Toby’s shoulders. “Here are the facts, as we see them.” He made a fist of his free hand, except for a slender forefinger. “One: no evidence of a crime, much less murder, at the Puterbaugh’s—”