A Match Made for Murder by Iona Whishaw (top 10 best books of all time txt) 📗

live here without one! We’ve been using the country club till now. That and plenty of ice for drinks.”

Lane turned to look at the passing street. Clusters of small houses and dusty streets seemed the dominant theme. In this neighbourhood, at least, no one had pools. The assistant chief’s job must pay well, Lane thought, or Priscilla had brought some money into the union.

“Paul told me what happened yesterday. Poor you!” Priscilla said. She slowed and stopped for a traffic light.

“Well, not poor me, really. Poor Mr. Renwick who got shot out of the blue, and poor Mrs. Renwick who is widowed now, and poor woman who was standing talking to him when it happened.”

“It’s absolutely ghastly. I’m glad to take you away from all that. I suppose, Inspector, you wish you were back there, nosing about for clues.”

“I do not. I am sure Paul and his sergeant and the no-doubt excellent officers in the Tucson police will get to the bottom of it. I am, as I have reminded my wife several times, on my honeymoon. Indeed, I am sure it is she who is wishing she were nosing about for clues,” said Darling from the back seat.

In a short time, they left the few intermittent houses on the edge of town behind and turned southwest into open desert.

After twenty minutes along the dusty, nearly empty road, the unequal towers of the Mission San Xavier del Bac church materialized before them, white and gleaming against the deep blue of the sky. Lane and Darling were transfixed.

“It’s a bit run-down, honestly,” Priscilla said. “We’re on the local Indian Reservation, and any work done on it was done by them. That hill over there is sacred. Something to do with a stream of water.” She pointed to a small hillock with a cross at the top.

But for Lane, the peeling whitewash on the adobe and exposed bricks just added to its interest. “It’s fantastic. One hears about Spanish Colonial architecture, but it’s more beautiful in life than what I could have imagined! If we’re to have a honeymoon photo, I think it ought to be in front of these wonderful doors.”

Mesquite trees cast dappled shadows across the dusty roadway and up along the walls of what Priscilla told them was an enclosed garden.

“There are some ledges in the garden. After we’ve seen the inside of the church, we could sit a few minutes and just get a feel for it. I find it very peaceful.”

After standing in the cool, dark interior of the church with his hands clasped behind his back, looking up at the ancient and peeling frescoes, Darling whispered, “I’ve had enough incense. I’m going to take a run up that hill to look at the surrounding view. I think Priscilla might like to just sit with you for a few moments. I’ll be a third wheel.”

“Where’s he off to?” Priscilla asked.

“He’s just off to investigate that sacred hill. I’m for a shady ledge and a peaceful surround, myself.”

Two men were talking quietly as they worked in a small adjacent garden, but otherwise the silence was all encompassing. Priscilla and Lane sat together companionably. Lane looked through the branches of the mesquite, past the dark green of its tiny leaves at the intensity of the blue above them.

“Does it ever rain here?” she asked.

“Torrentially. But it doesn’t come and stay for months like at home.”

“Do you miss it?” Lane asked. “London, I mean.”

“All that filthy air and smell of damp wool? Not a bit of it. But . . .” Here Priscilla stopped and fell silent. She took out a cigarette, offered one to Lane who shook her head, and lit it, blowing smoke away from Lane. Finally, she spoke with an artificial little laugh. “Well, you trade one lot of disagreeableness for another, don’t you?”

Lane waited to see if her companion would explain. Priscilla looked down at her hands, holding them out and then turning them as if she were inspecting her gloves, the smoke from her cigarette curling upward.

“Paul does well. Well, I mean . . . I do have everything I could want. Everything I never had. I grew up in the East End, you know. Most of my neighbourhood got bombed to smithereens. I’ve gone from being utterly poor to quite comfortable, thank you very much. From rain and bad air and outdoor loos to every modern convenience in a warm and sunny place. I’m lucky.” She stubbed the cigarette out on the ledge and dropped it on the ground. She didn’t sound lucky, Lane thought.

“But?” Lane asked.

Priscilla looked at her and then away, peering upward through the sunglasses that framed her face, giving her an air of Hollywood glamour. Lane marvelled again at her beauty and delicate bone structure. “Well, I mean, life isn’t a smooth sail, is it? Paul likes things a certain way, and I work hard to keep things just so for him, as any wife would.” She smiled brightly at Lane. “Sometimes I wish I could just jump in a car and drive away. Eat what I want, wear what I want, say what I want. Feel . . . well, mustn’t grumble. It’s the bargain I signed on for.”

“Is . . .” Lane hesitated. It wasn’t her business really, but she had felt a weight of darkness behind Priscilla’s sudden admission of a dream of escape, however lightly expressed. “Is Paul, well, I mean, is he kind to you?”

Priscilla turned to her. She smiled broadly, her eyes hidden behind her dark glasses. “Now, whatever can you be thinking?” She stood up abruptly. “I wonder how your Frederick is getting along. I’m famished. I really think you’ll like the place I’ve picked.”

Chapter Seven

The Watts cottage was up a winding and rutted road above the Willow Point store. Constable Terrell and Sergeant Ames were on their way to visit Mrs. Watts there, as she had wanted to return to a normal routine as quickly as possible for her