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

sometimes used to wonder who she was. But once Sadie was born, he settled down. She was his pride and joy. It surprised me when he started getting jealous. First he kept on about who I saw when he was away in Europe, and then he got sort of distant, like he was preparing for me to leave. I don’t know how many times I told him I never would. For better for worse, I told him.”

Ames nodded. “You said he had a reputation. Can you explain what you mean by that?”

Mrs. Watts jerked her head abruptly to look away from them, and then quickly turned back. “He got around a fair bit. He’d been out with more than a few of the girls from school. It didn’t bother me, really. I think it made him more attractive.”

Terrell cleared his throat, and Ames glanced over at him. He’d told Terrell to feel free to hop in if he thought of something. “Ma’am, some men came back from the war a little altered. Did he show any signs of that? Anything from nightmares to even keeping a kit bag packed and stowed somewhere?”

Frowning, Mrs. Watts glanced toward a box bench by the door. “It’s funny you should say that. He didn’t have nightmares or anything like some I’ve heard about. But he was proud of surviving. He’d say he was invincible now. But he did have a bag.” She got up and went to the bench and lifted the seat. “Oh. It’s gone. He wasn’t scheduled to go anywhere, but his bag is gone. It wasn’t anything to do with the war, I don’t think. He just had it for when he had to travel for work.”

“Did he usually take a kit bag, for overalls or work clothes?” This reminded Ames that they had not yet gone into the trunk. The car had been towed and was now parked in the alley behind the station.

“No. He kept those in a locker at work. I don’t know why I didn’t notice he was carrying it. In fact, I don’t think he was. I always packed a lunch box for the two of them. His is one of those big ones, with a thermos. He had that with him, and Sadie had hers, and her book bag.”

Terrell wrote and Ames thought.

“Can you give me the names of his friends or colleagues that he associated with regularly? They might have known his plans. It’s possible he was in the car with somebody, though he certainly was driving,” Ames said.

Mrs. Watts was silent for a long moment. “I wouldn’t even know who they are. He went for a few beers after work sometimes, maybe played cards, but he never let me into his affairs.” She sniffed and Ames saw that she was about to cry. “I wondered for a moment if it was this girl he used to hang around with before the war.” She bit off the end of the sentence as if she was going to spit it out.

“Which girl was that?” asked Ames.

She tossed her hair and endeavoured to look disdainful. “I don’t remember her name, if you want to know the truth. Lived up the lake somewhere. Her dad ran a garage.”

“That reminds me,” Ames said, glancing briefly at Terrell. “Did your husband take your car for repairs a couple of days ago?”

Frowning, Mrs. Watts said, “I don’t know. He could have, I suppose.”

“Right,” said Ames, wishing he had his notebook in hand so he could pretend to glance at it. “Do you remember if he went out later that night?”

“Certainly not. Why on earth would he?”

“No particular reason, Mrs. Watts,” Ames said. “Just trying to see if there was anything out of the ordinary that might help us understand what happened.”

“That was lovely,” Lane said, leaning back in her chair. “I’ve never had Mexican food before. It’s a delightful place, a bit like pictures I’ve seen of little Mexican villages.”

“I’m glad your initiation began here. It just started up recently, but they do things right. Come. I’ll drive you through the centre. You can see where I go to do my shopping.” Seeing Darling’s face, she added, “I recognize that look. I’ve seen it on Paul. Eyes glazing over at the thought of shopping. Don’t worry, we won’t stop. It’s right on your way back to the hotel.”

They drove along Stone Avenue and Darling said, “It’s a little bit like Nelson. I expect it’s much bigger, but it has that small-town feel to it.”

They stopped at a traffic light, and Lane, who had chosen the back seat this time to allow Darling a better view, noticed a couple arguing outside a restaurant. “Good heavens! It’s Meg Holden and . . . I don’t know who.”

As the light changed, Lane and Darling both turned to look out the side window and then the back one. Meg started to walk away and the man, a burly specimen in a brown suit that was a little too small, pulled her arm hard and swung her around to face him. Just when Lane wondered if they ought to intervene, Meg pulled her arm back and rubbed it and then, paradoxically, began to laugh, reaching out to stroke the man’s cheek.

“Someone you know?” asked Priscilla, glancing at Lane through the mirror.

“Yes, a bit. She’s a guest at the inn. In fact, she was the one standing right next to the poor man who was shot.”

Darling turned to look at Lane with a slight inquiring tilt of the chin.

“It’s all right, darling,” she said, smiling innocently. “I am making nothing of it.”

When they were back at the inn, shoes and stockings off, lying on the bed with a fan blowing waves of cool air at them, Darling said, “I actually wonder if we should be making something of it. You told me she was visiting a paramour in the hallway of the hotel, and now she’s seen having an argument with yet another