Primed for Murder by Jack Ewing Read Free Book Online

Mexico.”
    “Vacation?”
    “Sabbatical,” Mrs. Puterbaugh corrected. “We took the whole family.”
    “Did you fly down?” French asked.
    “Actually,” said Mr. Puterbaugh, “we drove in our minivan.”
    “Wow,” French said, “that’s a long haul by car.”
    “Nearly six thousand kilometers.”
    “What’s that in miles?” Dixon asked.
    “About thirty-six hundred miles. It is not such a hardship with three of us—now our daughter has a license, too—driving almost nonstop. We made the trip in eighty-four hours, twenty-seven minutes, and saved hundreds of dollars in airfares.”
    French whistled in appreciation. “Still, a vacation like that must cost a bundle.”
    “Less than you might think. The exchange rate is favorable. Food and lodging is quite reasonable where we stayed. If one knows how, one can live comfortably for a relatively small amount of money per day.”
    French got a faraway look in his eyes. Mrs. Puterbaugh turned from opening the blinds at the window facing the street. Late afternoon sunlight streamed in and her face was all lit up. “I just love Mexico. Have any of you gentlemen ever been there?”
    The three visitors murmured negatives. “This is the third year in a row we’ve vacationed on the eastern shores of the Yucatàn peninsula. The beaches and water there are just gorgeous. There’s nothing like lazing on warm sand and sopping up cool drinks for relaxing.” She stretched languorously, as though the tropical sun had grown hot and she was ready for the shade of a thatched cabana. The thin dress clung to her trim figure.
    “That doesn’t sound like work,” French said with a leer.
    Mrs. Puterbaugh laughed. “It’s not. We swam and sunbathed and shopped for crafts.” She fished a silver-and-turquoise necklace from her bodice for everyone’s admiration. “Jim’s the one who worked. He puttered around old ruins, musty museums and dusty libraries researching an article for a scholarly journal.”
    “What’s the article about?” Toby put all the interest he could muster into the question. He shambled towards the window and stood as though looking out at the street. He studied the blind slats, remembering where the killer had peered out. A couple inches above where the halves of the window met, that’s where the man’s fingers had shown, where dust had been disturbed on the metal. Couldn’t have been very tall, if that was all the higher his eyes reached, a good eight, ten inches shorter than Toby. Wouldn’t a person normally look out at—or a little below—eye level?
    Mr. Puterbaugh darted an annoyed glance at his wife and transferred it to Toby.
    “Pre-Conquest Mexican literature, if you must know.” He thrust his hands into robe pockets. “Specifically, manuscripts about Mayan rulers and rituals.” He sounded like he’d be a dry, boredom-inducing teacher.
    “Can’t be many of those around.” Dixon stifled a yawn.
    “They are indeed quite rare, due to the predilections of Catholic priests accompanying Cortés and his conquistadors, who burned all Mayan writings they could find, believing them the work of the devil. A few museums—Dresden, Paris, Madrid—are fortunate enough to have surviving examples of original Mayan work.”
    “Jim got to examine a couple of old manuscripts in Mexico,” Mrs. Puterbaugh bragged, earning another frown from her husband.
    “Sounds fascinating.” French peeked at Mrs. Puterbaugh’s bust again.
    “I find it so.” Mr. Puterbaugh warmed to his subject. “Each manuscript is unique. Each gives tremendous insight into Mayan culture and beliefs.”
    “What did they believe?” asked French.
    Dixon checked his watch for the tenth occasion in the last five minutes. Mr. Puterbaugh noticed. “In simplest terms, they were preoccupied with time.” Dixon dropped his wrist and feigned rapt attention. “Most extant Maya written works in manuscripts and on statuary revolve around their calendar. They were obsessed with