Primed for Murder

by Jack Ewing

  Toby felt like he could sleep for a year. He hoped he wouldn’t have nightmares.

  “But at least some bad people are off the streets,” French said. And some not so bad people, too, Toby thought. He felt somehow responsible for the mayhem. “You’re in the clear. No charges.”

  What was done was done. Toby would have to live with it.

  French patted his shoulder, handed him a wallet and a cluster of keys that Toby recognized as his own. The detective had retrieved them from Giambi’s body and realized to whom they belonged; both were smeared with Toby’s fingerprints in dried paint.

  “Go home,” the detective said. “Get some sleep and forget about all this. If we happen to need you for anything, I’ll call.”

  He slapped the roof as a signal to the driver and the car accelerated away. The driver, a handsome young Italian policeman with swarthy skin, black hair and large dark eyes wanted to talk about the day’s excitement. He fell silent when he got no response from his passenger.

  Toby stared out the side window at the scenery, not seeing it. His thoughts were occupied with plans for the future.

  He’d definitely worn out his welcome in Syracuse. It was time to pack the truck and move on. Maybe his mom could take him in while he made up his mind where to go next—weren’t mothers supposed to look out for their kids? Sure, he’d visit her. They’d talked by phone but hadn’t seen each other for a couple of years. He wouldn’t even call first, just show up on her doorstep: “Surprise, Mom! Can you put me up?” How could she refuse her only child?

  What was Missouri like this time of year? Was the weather there as tough on house paint as upstate New York?

  He’d get started tomorrow. First, he’d withdraw his savings, pay off debts and convert the rest to traveler’s checks. He’d pawn the junk he’d got from Mrs. Cratty to add to his bankroll for the trip to Mom’s. That might take a couple days of schlepping around. It could take a week to unload his supplies.

  Mrs. Colangelo wouldn’t need his services any more—she’d have bigger things on her mind. Toby knew a couple small-timers in the business that probably would be happy to take paint, brushes and other gear off his hands, especially his professional-quality, custom-made thirty-six-foot extension ladder, if they were offered a good bargain. He’d buy new when he got wherever he settled. Meanwhile, he’d need all the cash he could lay hands on, because the pickings might be slim until he could get established in an unfamiliar locale.

  Luckily, there was no need for haste now with Giambi and the other bad guys out of the picture. The house was his for a month and the refrigerator was full of food. No sense wasting it. That comfy bed was going to feel great tonight.

  In less than an hour, Toby was home again. The familiar shape of the Buckley Road house loomed, tinted pale lavender in twilight, windows now dark purple rectangles. His pickup truck was right where he’d left it, wearing a film of dust.

  Bone-weary, Toby climbed out, mumbled a thank-you as the polite young officer backed out and took off at speed. He stumbled towards the front door, fumbling for the keys. Before he crashed, he’d have to call Mac and Marta in Mexico and catch them up on the news. He had a lot to tell. “Your historic old house in Morrisville is gone, up in smoke. Giambi’s dead and his mob are finished. The Puterbaughs are dead, too. I had to kill a detective who was trying to murder me.”

  He wondered idly if the authorities would bother dragging for bodies in the lake or just let them lie quietly in the depths. Not his problem—he didn’t want to know.

  Something moved in slanting shadows by a corner of the house, something human sized and shaped. Had a mobster escaped and come seeking retribution? Toby stopped in his tracks and stole a glance down the road. The cop car was already out of sight.

  Fight or flight? Neither offered hope, if the man hiding had death on his mind.

  The figure stepped from the shadows. Not a man, but a woman, by those smooth, shapely bare legs, a person with a nice figure. Her face came into view. It was one of the women from his burned-out apartment, who’d deserted him at the motel. Jean? Sylvia? His mouth hung open but he was powerless to close it.

  “You’re a hard man to track down, Toby Rew,” Jean or Sylvia said. “But I managed to worm your address out of Detective French.” She advanced, in open-toed clogs, cutoffs that showed most of her hips, and a T-shirt missing its bottom half so the undersides of bare breasts peeked from beneath the cloth like a pair of waning moons.

  “What are you doing here?” he asked. She was close now and he could smell her, a dizzying scent of orange blossoms dipped in honey.

  “Don’t you remember? I owe you money.” She reached into her abbreviated jeans, pulled out a folded bill and tucked it deep into Toby’s front pocket. She kept her hand there. “I brought you a hundred-dollar down payment.”

  “Me, too,” said a soft voice from the opposite corner of the house.

  It was the other one. Sylvia. Or Jean. She had on a skimpy bikini top, skintight jeans, high-heeled sandals. A sweat-beaded bottle of champagne hung from one hand and she extended a bill with the other. “We like to pay our debts.” She smelled of roses.

  The women linked arms around Toby’s waist as he unlocked the door and maneuvered him inside without relinquishing their hold.

  “Nice house you found for us, Toby,” the one on the left said cheerfully, her gaze traveling the interior, “just what we’re looking for!”

  “When can we move in?” asked the one on the right.

  The End