Primed for Murder (12 page)

The shoreline curved in and out, lapping against the stone or isolating divots of land, while the wall ran straight and true. After three hundred cautious paces, the lake receded, leaving behind a rocky beach varying in width from twenty to fifty feet. In places, the wall was in poor shape. He almost twisted an ankle where a stone had fallen and left a hole, nasty as a bear trap in the dark. A crumbling patch farther along had him maneuvering like a tightrope walker to keep from falling.

Toby inched along until the house came into view. Most interior lights were out now. Pole lanterns between house and lake revealed that the wall tapered to an end, perhaps a hundred yards short of the house, as it met gently rising land. As far as he could tell, there was no cover between wall and house.

Men were out there somewhere in the back. He smelled cigar smoke and could hear the murmur of voices but could not make out words. If he could hear them, could they see him? He moved closer, but the voices receded out of hearing. Toby sighed then turned and crept back the way he had come. Though he moved a little faster over familiar territory, the return trip seemed to take forever.

Back at the truck, Toby retreated down the road leading in. Since there was no place wide enough to turn around, he had to go in reverse all the way. He cruised past the front of the property again. From this direction, he noticed an intercom tucked into an alcove by the towering gates. Cameras were set on top corners of the wall, pointed down at the place where you’d stand—or sit, if driving—to press a button for permission to enter. Above the intercom, a bronze plaque gleamed dully in his headlights. GIAMBI, it read in six-inch-high inscribed letters.

Was this the mysterious Mr. G that Leo and the Puterbaughs had talked about? Had to be. But who was Mr. G, really? What would happen to the Puterbaughs now? Nothing good. Sooner or later, one would cough up the name hidden under the blotter in the den. Then Giambi & Co. would have the photos, if they existed, and if that’s where they actually were, with somebody named McFarland. That would be the end of the matter, maybe the end of the Puterbaughs, too, once they’d served their purpose.

The only way to put a crimp in the abductor’s plans was to get the photos first. Might as well try—he was in the neighborhood. Toby turned east on Route 20 towards Morrisville, a dozen miles away. He finished the last beer, now tepid, on the way.

The town of Morrisville, inhabited by a couple thousand sleeping souls, sprawled along the highway where it dipped into a broad, shallow valley. Toby drove back and forth past dark houses, searching for South Street. After twenty minutes, he finally located it at the far edge of town where Route 20 ascended on a roller-coaster ride for geriatrics towards Hamilton.

Poorly paved, two-lane South Street ran past a small Ag & Tech college. Beyond the campus houses were sparse.

A mile from the highway, Toby found number 412, the last dwelling on the left before South Street dead-ended at a single-lane dirt road a quarter-mile farther along. In predawn half-light 412 was a good-sized, well-maintained two-story frame structure with a glassed-in breezeway leading to an attached two-car garage. The house sat by itself fifty yards off the road. Behind the house, freshly cropped pastureland ran flat towards tree-covered hills in the distance.

The house appeared dark at first glance. But in turning around on the dirt road Toby noticed a light burning in a window at the back of the ground floor. He retraced his route and parked along the edge of the road twenty yards beyond the house, by a stand of cattails growing in a ditch. He shut down the engine and sat thinking.

Assuming the light meant somebody was home—and not put on merely to discourage prowlers—it was early for a social call. On the other hand, could he afford to wait? The Puterbaughs might give up this address at any time. Leo and his minions could be speeding here this moment with mayhem in their hearts.

Toby climbed out and strolled up a gravel driveway to the house. At the front door he paused to organize hazy thoughts, then pushed a lighted button beside the doorframe. Chimes sounded inside. After a minute a window lit up above his head. Seconds later, light showed behind frosted glass panels flanking the doorway. From inside came the clicks of several locks being undone. The door swung inward, flooding Toby with soft light while revealing a small vestibule and a staircase winding upward. Back-lit in the doorway, a petite woman clutched halves of a frilly robe together and peered out at him. Her long, dark hair was plaited like a rope, thick enough to secure a liner to a pier.

“Sorry to bother you,” Toby said. “Is this the McFarland residence?” The young woman bobbed her head once in affirmation. “Are you Mrs. McFarland?”

Even with light behind her and her face in shadow, Toby glimpsed a flash of brilliant white as the woman bared teeth in a smile. Her head swiveled left, then right.

“Is Mr. McFarland home?” The woman nodded. What’s the matter with her? Toby wondered. Can’t she talk? “May I speak with him, please? It’s important.”

The woman held a small hand, palm-outward, in a gesture that said “wait,” and closed the door. A scant minute later, the door opened again. This time the doorway framed a tall, stooped, white-haired man who stood fully dressed, staring through thick glasses at Toby. “Yes?”

“Mr. McFarland?”

“Professor McFarland, actually.” His voice was papery. “Though I’ve been retired for years. What can I do for you, Mr.—?”

“Rew. Toby Rew. I’m sorry to disturb you so early in the morning.”

“Quite all right. I’m often up at odd hours. We old folks sometimes don’t sleep too well, you know.”

“Sorry to hear it. Look, I need to know if you’re acquainted with Professor Puterbaugh at Syracuse University?”

“I am. Did he send you?”

“Not exactly. You’re working on a project for him? A translation?”

Professor McFarland studied Toby. “Come inside where we can talk.” He swung the door wider. Toby stepped inside. The professor closed and locked the door. “This way,” he said, and moved through a doorway right of the staircase.

They traversed a plank-floored bedroom with a fireplace, next to a king-sized bed that hadn’t been slept in. A door off the bedroom opened onto a hallway. Left was a carpeted kitchen, also featuring a fireplace, where the dark-haired woman sat at a small table drinking from a cup. “Marta,” the professor called to her, “coffee, please.”

He touched Toby’s elbow and motioned in the opposite direction, leading Toby through another door. The room, twenty by thirty, was combination library, family room and study. A loveseat in muted stripes sat before a brick fireplace dominating one wall. Loaded floor-to-ceiling bookshelves covered every inch of available wall space, interrupted by a bay window facing pastureland out back. Two comfortable-looking leather armchairs, separated by brass floor lamp and leather-inlaid table, were aimed at the blank face of a television screen in one corner. At the far end of the room, bracketed by deco-style torchères, sat a glass-topped table, its surface cluttered with papers and manila folders spotlighted by twin halogen-bulb gooseneck lamps.

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.