Free Primed for Murder by Jack Ewing Page A

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