Primed for Murder

by Jack Ewing

  The old man waved Toby into one armchair and sank into the other. “Nice place you have here, professor.” Toby turned to get a good look at him. McFarland might have been in his eighties, but he appeared alert and sprightly. His hair was thick and pure white, his cheeks pink with health. Bright blue eyes watching Toby from behind thick lenses seemed to sparkle.

  “Thank you. It’s ancient but solid, like me.” The professor laughed. “It will be here long after I’m gone. Believe it or not, this house is nearly two hundred years old.”

  “No kidding. Looks like you’re both holding up well.”

  “I’ll take that as a compliment.” The professor smiled. His teeth looked real. He pointed towards the ceiling with a liver-spotted hand. “Upstairs, I have a framed Madison County map from the 1820s. It shows this house. Of course, in those days, it was located at the other end of South Street.”

  Toby had to ask. “How’d it get here?”

  “I had it moved. Wasn’t easy. There’s a central chimney with five fireplaces off it, estimated to weigh twenty-two tons. The house weighed fifty tons in all.”

  “Five fireplaces?”

  “Six, now.” The professor pointed at the brick-framed, brass-screened opening at the end of the room. “This one was added later. This whole room, in fact, was an add-on, along with the garage.” His face wrinkled like crumpled vellum as he smiled. “They didn’t have cars back in the 1820s.”

  What did somebody need with six fireplaces? Toby wondered.

  It was like the old man had heard his thoughts. “In cold weather all the fireplaces are necessary because there’s no furnace. The water table here is so high the basement always floods in spring and fall, even with sump pumps running day and night. Adding a furnace big enough to heat this place isn’t practical.”

  “Didn’t somebody mention the water table problem when you were putting your house here?”

  “It wasn’t a problem then: the house was placed in summer. The ground was dry, right to the bottom of the hole they dug for the foundation.” The professor spread his hands. “Who knew?”

  “I’d have given the contractor hell,” Toby said.

  “He’s not to blame. There wasn’t time to conduct a comprehensive study with test drillings and core samples and such. I had to move in a hurry.” He noticed the puzzled look on Toby’s face and settled back in his chair to tell the story. “You see, about twenty years ago, the local college wanted to expand. This house was sitting empty where they planned to build a dormitory. They were going to demolish it. I knew the house was well built, so I approached the demolition boss and offered to buy it. He gave me his pad and a pencil. I wrote down a figure. He accepted and we shook hands on the deal, which had only one stipulation: The house had to be off the site within a week.” His eyes were merry. “Guess how much I paid for the place.”

  “I have no idea.” Toby wouldn’t want to live in a house with a seasonally wet basement for any price. Walls would mildew. Rooms would grow clammy. You might never get over a bad chest cold.

  “Five hundred dollars!”

  “Quite a bargain.”

  “I thought so. Of course, I’ve put a lot into it over the years. It cost thousands to move, thousands more to pour a solid concrete foundation, thousands for decoration, renovation and refurbishment. It’s completely remodeled, top to bottom. But it’s been worth the effort, I believe.”

  Toby opened his mouth to change the subject and broach the reason he’d driven down. But then the dark-haired young woman, still in her robe, entered carrying a silver tray loaded with matching coffee pot, sugar bowl, cream pitcher, silver spoons, bone china cups and saucers, cloth napkins and a plate heaped with confectioner’s sugar-dusted cookies. She set the tray down on the table between the chairs.

  “Shouldn’t have gone to all this trouble.” Toby reached for a cookie. He hadn’t realized how hungry he’d become all of a sudden. The pastry was delicious, practically melting in his mouth, and he took another.

  “It’s no trouble.” The professor watched the woman pour coffee. “We receive few visitors. It’s a genuine pleasure when someone drops by, even unexpectedly.”

  It was peaceful in this large room in this old house in the country. The chair was comfortable. Toby felt his tense muscles relaxing. The last few days’ events seemed long ago and far away. The woman silently handed a brimming cup to Toby, another to the professor and took a cup herself. The professor added sugar. Toby splashed cream. The woman drank hers black and half-leaned, half-sat on the armrest of the professor’s chair, studying Toby over the rim of her cup as she sipped. Her eyes were large and dark.

  “This is Marta.” The professor smiled fondly up at her. “Marta, this is Toby Rew.” Marta dipped her head. She was young and pretty, with prominent cheekbones, a broad nose and full lips on a smooth-skinned, oval face the color of polished oak. She rested her cup and saucer upon a firm thigh and slid her free hand across the professor’s shoulders.

  “Marta’s my housekeeper.” The professor lightly placed bony fingers on her bare knee. “She understands English, but speaks only Spanish and her native dialect.”

  “Speaking of languages,” Toby said, “could we talk about Mr. Puterbaugh’s project, professor?”

  Professor McFarland was in no hurry. “We needn’t be formal here. My name is Brian, but please call me Mac. Everybody does.”

  “Fine, Mac. Call me Toby.”

  “I shall. Have you known Jim Puterbaugh long, Toby?”

  “No, I just met him recently.”

  Mac frowned. “I don’t understand. Somehow I assumed you were one of his graduate students in whom he’d confided and that you, in scholarly fervor, had come to monitor my progress.”

  Toby had to smile. He’d never been much of a scholar, barely graduating on time from high school. “Sorry if I gave that impression.”

  The frown deepened. “You’re not from the university?” The woman was frowning now, too.

  “Afraid not.”

  “What do you do, Toby?”

  “I’m a painter.”

  The professor’s face cleared and a smile creased his face. “I understand! Jim saw your work and thought you’d like comparing your skills with those of the ancient masters. That’s it, isn’t it?”

  It was Toby’s turn to frown. What was the old man babbling about? “Yes, he’s seen my work.”

  “Your modesty becomes you. You must be quite promising for Jim to tell you about the codex. But that’s Jim, always gracious about encouraging young people to develop their talents, even in disciplines other than his own.”

  Mac patted Marta’s knee and she relinquished her seat so he could rise. “Come.” He moved towards the glass-topped table. “I’ll show you what you came to see. Only someone like you, who practices fine art, could truly appreciate the subtle use of color.”

  Fine art? True, Toby took pride in his work but you could hardly call spreading paint on exterior siding or interior drywall artistic. He didn’t, however, bother to correct the professor’s misconception as he trailed Mac’s spare figure across the room. Marta drifted along in their wake.

  Mac dropped folders and papers carelessly onto moss-colored wall-to-wall carpet, clearing the table. He took a bulging, oversized accordion file, worked the elastic loose and lifted the flap. He withdrew an inch-thick stack of 8″ x 10″ color photos and laid them out one by one until the glass surface was completely covered. “Look at them, Toby.” Mac’s voice was lush with excitement. “Aren’t they magnificent?”

  Toby walked around the table to stand beside the professor. Marta circled the other way to take her place at the old man’s other elbow. All three stared down at the pictures for a long moment.

  This is what the fuss is all about? As a kid, Toby could draw better with his eyes closed. The pictures showed what Mr. Puterbaugh had described, though his words were inadequate. Individual codex pages had been photographed against a dark background. Each photo had, as part of the sho
t, a black-and-white ruler at the bottom to show scale and a number indicating page order in the upper right-hand corner. Toby had to admit the colors were more vivid than he had imagined, the images more lively. Pages were crowded with figures, rendered in incredible detail with a sure hand, all in profile with no perspective. They had a certain crude charm that grabbed the eye and held it.

  Here, on number 26, gangs of outlandishly garbed men stood stiffly facing one another. They wore huge headdresses incorporating flowers and feathers, jewelry in noses and ears, fantastically decorated armor, and open-toed, high-topped sandals. Most figures held objects that could have been weapons, gifts or early prototypes of small kitchen appliances. Some men were painted brick red, while others were done in black, brown, yellow, white, or stripes. Over, under and between the subjects were rows of strange symbols: skulls, snarling creatures and seashells.

  There, number 17, showed a spotted cat-creature with a spear sticking in its back, its jaws wide in agony, tongue protruding.

  In number 4, an Indian with headgear by Carmen Miranda knelt over a wan faced man dressed in black, cutting a hole in his chest with a knife. To the left, another bronze man appeared to be giving somebody the finger as he squatted to take a dump.

  Number 22 featured a warrior smoking a pipe.

  Number 30 showed a man piercing his own tongue with a thorn.

  The pictures in the photos were all different, like snowflakes. Yet, like truckloads of snowflakes, there was a sameness about them that bored the eye after a time.

  Mac stared at Toby, anticipation written all over his face, his glasses glinting in the light. Toby searched his vocabulary for an appropriate expression. “Fabulous!”

  By Mac’s expression, it wasn’t a good enough word. “It’s a work of genius.” He waved his hands. “The brilliantly conceived composition of every page, the inspired use of colors, the imaginative treatment of subject matter—are extraordinary.”

  All three studied the photos in silence for a full two minutes more. “What’s it all mean?” Toby finally asked.

  “You’re not just here to see the paintings?”

  “You’re doing a translation, right?”

  Mac’s eyes seemed to light up. “I’m honored an artist like you is interested in my humble work.” He made a small bow. “Would you like to read it?”

  Did he really have a choice? “Sure.”

  Mac put away the photos and rummaged among papers. Marta helped, straightening leaning towers here, chasing down loose scraps there. The professor eventually produced two fat files and laid them side-by-side on the table. “Here, Toby.” He shoved the left-hand file forward. “Look over my word-for-word transliteration.” His right hand rested on the other file. “I’m still working on the prose narrative version. It’s too rough to show anyone yet.”

  The woman leaned close to the old man and rattled off words in some language other than English. “No, Marta.” Mac smiled tenderly at her. “You can’t see it, either.”

  Marta yanked the file from under the professor’s hand and ran off giggling.

  “I’ll get you,” the professor yelped, “you little vixen!” Mac tore off after Marta at a good clip. The old boy was quite spry. Maybe this was how he exercised daily to keep healthy. The duo galloped down the hall, ran through the kitchen, and charged left through a distant dining room. Toby lost sight of them but followed their progress by the girl’s excited squeals, the professor’s shouts, thumping feet, slamming doors.

  They were upstairs now. Just one set of footsteps audible.

  Was she hiding?

  She was. He found her. She shrieked in mock terror. There was a patter of rapid footsteps, then nothing. Five silent minutes passed, ten.

  What are they doing up there? Toby wondered. On second thought, he didn’t want to know.

  He opened the file the professor had left. Apparently, Mac hadn’t heard of computers, or even typewriters. Pages were lined like a child’s penmanship practice pad. Block-letter words written in pencil were triple-spaced, leaving room between lines for comments and notations to be inserted. Many words had been erased or crossed out and rewritten time and again. Blank spaces and question marks were sprinkled throughout.

  Except for the names—Lady White-Blossom Parrot, Lord 2-Stick Tortoise and Chief Chocolate Mug-3 Hawk—the Xaxpak Codex overall reminded Toby of the Bible. In his early teens, he’d had to read the Holy Book cover to cover to be confirmed in the church, in accordance with his mother’s wishes.

  “Your father would be so proud of you, Toby,” she’d said over and over, tongue-lashing him on towards salvation.

  He knew it wasn’t true—Dad had been indifferent to religion, other than as subject matter for a booklet—but Toby had gamely gone through the ritual to please Mom. Having fulfilled this phantom obligation to his late father, he’d stopped going to church: he hadn’t attended services in twenty years. He hadn’t picked up the Bible again, either, after reaching the final “Amen” following Revelation. He never prayed.

  But some things from those long-ago days must have stuck, because he saw similarities now. Both books dealt with larger-than-life people in tales of derring-do. The ancient pagan stories were no more far-fetched than the legends Christians accepted as Gospel: Methuselah lived to be almost a thousand years old, Lot’s wife turned into a pillar of salt, Samson’s miraculous strength, Jonah and the whale, Daniel in the lion’s den, the fiery furnace, burning bushes, walking on water, and rising from the dead.

  The Mayan book, like the Bible, began with the story of creation. In this version, there were many gods who lent a hand, not just one. A pair of squabbling divine brothers caused the sun and moon to shine. A wife’s tears formed lakes and rivers as she cried for her husband trapped in the underworld. A father lusted after his own daughter and was turned to dust, doomed to wander the world at the whim of the wind. Throughout, there was treachery and betrayal and murder, just like in the Bible. It wasn’t easy to read, because names were strange with clots of Q’s and X’s to confuse pronunciation. Parts of many passages were missing, awaiting translation or interpretation. Worse, the syntax was all mixed up. A sentence might read: “He mountain seven days climbed,” or “Brother her killed.” Who killed whom?

  It really seemed like the Bible when Toby arrived at a long genealogy of Xaxpak’s rulers—wives they took, children they bore, battles they fought, prisoners they captured and sacrificed, rites they underwent—all recorded by specific dates duly translated by the professor into corresponding Christian-era months and years. Stories were colorful, if clumsy. But after the umpteenth battle, the bazillionth sacrifice, Toby grew tired of it, and skipped ahead.

  Part of the codex, according to Mac’s voluminous notes, concerned phases of Venus, eclipses of sun and moon, and other astronomical data. This covered centuries of observation.

  The final portion dealt with past catastrophes and future predictions. There were fractured accounts of earthquakes, erupting volcanoes, droughts and plagues. Many, according to the professor’s notations, had indeed come true hundreds of years after the Mayans had ceased to exist as an organized civilization.

  One cataclysmic event was yet to come. Toby wondered where he’d be—if the Mayans were correct—when time came to an end on December 21, 2012.

  Chapter 11

  Toby closed the file on the Xaxpak Codex. It was interesting stuff, if you enjoyed that sort of thing. There was probably enough material here to keep people like McFarland and Puterbaugh at a fever pitch for years. But was it worth killing for? A Mayan manuscript was worth millions. It now appeared that Mr. G—Giambi?—obtained one of these rarities by dubious means, with the Puterbaughs’ help. A man had been murdered in the process.

  Would there be more killing? The Puterbaughs were definitely in danger. The professor and Marta might be at risk, too—or anybody else who knew about the manuscript. Including Toby. Would he end up a victim, too?

  “Not if I can help it.”

&nb
sp; Mac and Marta still hadn’t returned from wherever they’d run off to.

  It was nearly six o’clock and getting light outside. Toby, punchy from his long night, grew increasingly antsy. He was supposed to meet with Mrs. Colangelo later that morning and discuss her project. He could beg off, but if she was eager to get started, she might hire somebody else, and he’d lose out on a profitable job. So he’d keep the appointment. He’d need to be sharp for negotiations. That called for shower, shave, and breakfast with strong coffee. He had plenty to think about, including the best way to save his own skin.

  He fleetingly considered making off with the photos and translation while Mac and Marta were otherwise occupied—with the papers in his stove, it would make quite a package. How much would the whole bundle be worth to Mrs. Puterbaugh? Or Mr. G?

  No, it would be criminal to abscond with the old man’s hard work.

  Time was wasting. Toby was aware of every passing second. Still, he didn’t feel right about leaving before he’d said good-bye and dropped a warning on the hospitable, if odd, couple. He’d handled the first part of the interview badly, falling into their leisurely rhythms, succumbing to the snail pace of their lives before they went weird and took off. Things needed shaking up.

  He clicked on the television, found a noisy horse opera and turned up the sound as high as it would go, until windows rattled from recorded gunfire interspersed with the blare of dramatic music.

  That did the trick. Toby heard someone stirring overhead. A toilet flushed. Water ran. When footsteps sounded on the stairs, he shut the TV off and sat quietly, slurping cold coffee.