Free Primed for Murder by Jack Ewing Page B

could feel heat radiating from her. She gave off the smell of tropical flowers. He watched a glassy worm of sweat wriggle south between her bronzed breasts. He wet his lips with drink. “What’s on your mind, Sandy?”
    She turned toward him so their knees touched. Her washed-out blue eyes captured his. “Yesterday, Toby, you mentioned seeing some papers in our den.”
    “I also mentioned a body.”
    “Toby, dear, you saw for yourself when you visited with the police: there was no dead man nor any sign of murder.” Sandy spoke slowly, as though giving important instructions to a small child or an idiot.
    “A couple hours earlier, a guy was bleeding all over your rug. I don’t know how or why, but you cleaned everything up.”
    Sandy sighed. “This is so tiresome, Toby.”
    “What have you got to hide? What did you do with the stiff?” Toby already knew the answer to the last question, naturally, but he wanted to hear it from her.
    She made an exasperated sound. “Forget that for now. What became of the papers?”
    “What makes those papers more important than a dead man?”
    She flapped a hand, dismissing the question. “The manuscript is Jim’s dissertation, required for his doctorate. Poor Jim has toiled over it for ages. He finally had it in perfect shape. He typed the final draft in Mexico, on his old portable typewriter, because the climate is hard on laptops and they’re prime targets for thieves. I was going to retype it on my desktop when we got back, and burn the master onto CD, but—”
    “But somebody took it first. You never got the chance.”
    “Yes. The original and carbon copy are gone.”
    “When did it happen?”
    “I don’t know. We returned home late, night before last. The kids rushed off to see their friends. Jim and I were exhausted. We went straight to bed.”
    “Where was the manuscript?”
    “The original and carbon were in a desk drawer in the den. Jim discovered the manuscript missing yesterday afternoon after we returned from the supermarket.”
    “Was that before or after you dumped the body?” Sandy pinched her lips together angrily. “When did he see the papers last?” Toby asked.
    “Jim was working on them that morning.”
    “So somebody broke in your house while you were away shopping.”
    “Apparently.” Sandy chose words with caution. “But a thief, not a murderer.” She turned a lazy gaze his way. “It could have been you who took the manuscript.”
    “Why would anyone—why would I—steal your husband’s book?”
    “I don’t know. It’s not valuable to anyone but us.”
    “What’s the dissertation about?”
    “It’s a detailed study of a Mayan manuscript. It’s a very high-tech work, not for public consumption, aimed at others in the field.”
    “Sounds like a big yawner.” It was, by the excerpts he’d already read.
    “I’m sure it is, to a layman. But that’s not who it’s intended for. It’s Jim’s ticket to a higher degree, a better position.” Unspoken were other elements that came with promotion: increased salary, better house in a swankier neighborhood, enhanced prestige. “That’s why we have to have it back,” she said.
    “Can’t he just write it over again?”
    “Impossible! It’s hundreds of pages, thousands of words, tons of original research, loads of footnotes. Too many details to re-create, too many quoted references. You’d understand if you were a writer.”
    “I can barely manage to write postcards to my widowed Mom. How do you plan to get it back?”
    “I don’t know.” She rubbed her chin. “The police won’t be any help, since the papers aren’t worth anything, monetarily speaking.” Her eyes met Toby’s. She leaned closer. “What if we offered a reward for the return of Jim’s dissertation?”
    “How much?”
    She tapped her pouted lower lip. “A thousand? Two thousand?”
    Toby whistled. “You’d pay that much for a bunch of papers?”
    “More.” Sandy looked askance at Toby.
    “What’s