Free Primed for Murder by Jack Ewing

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