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

man in the street, who, by the way, looks like a movie gangster. It beggars belief that she has three men in her thrall, as interesting as that hair colour is.”

Lane pulled herself up to lean on her elbow and looked at him. “Tell me what you’re thinking.”

“I’m thinking that I, we, should tell Martinez, and here’s why: Is it a coincidence she was standing next to Renwick when he was shot? What connection might there be between, say, the man on the street and Renwick?”

“Well, certainly not one Ivy Renwick would recognize.” She glanced at her watch. “I suppose the brother is probably here by now if he flew down. What are you going to do?”

“I might call the police station to talk to Martinez.”

Lane felt dismay. She sat up. “Oh, darling, let me talk to Meg first. No. No, I can see at once that that is nonsense. I’m just trying to protect her, and I can’t even think why. She seems, I don’t know what. Not vulnerable, exactly . . . but a little like a woman whose life is not quite in control.”

“With three men on the go? I dare say it’s not! Thank you for pulling back from the brink.”

Darling held up a card they had found slipped under their door when they returned. “Now, what shall we do about this?” It was an invitation from the inn for a special cocktail party followed by dinner, with apologies for the disruption of “recent events.”

“A free cocktail and dinner? I don’t know how you can ask. I’m going to wear my wedding cocktail dress. Maybe white gloves like Priscilla. She looked so glam, don’t you think, with the gloves and scarf and glasses?”

“If you say so. She’s not a patch on you and, I must say, doesn’t look all that happy. There’s a bit of the caged bird about her.”

“Inspector Darling, that is very inspectory of you. I think you are exactly right. I did try to probe around about whether she was happy, but I must have made a real mess of it because she more or less drew herself up to her full height and gave me the brush off. I’m off to the front desk to pick up some postcards. I leave you in peace to call Martinez.”

Walking along the winding path through the garden, Lane marvelled at how it seemed impossible the horrible events of the day before had ever happened. The sudden tearing of the veil of quiet, moneyed sophistication had revealed the human potential for violence, but it was already beginning to seem distant, with everything hurriedly being returned to its usual quiet routine. Lane reluctantly glanced to where the body had been and saw the blood had been scrubbed away by the anxious hotel staff; an air of normalcy was vigorously restored for all of the guests who had nothing to do with the death in their midst.

She arrived at the door, nodded at a couple sitting under the ramada drinking soft drinks, and went into the hall past the library and the restaurant and up the few steps to the main floor. Out of an unexamined curiosity, she turned down the hallway where she’d first seen Meg Holden embracing the man with the moustache and walked the length of it. There were a couple of offices and a door to the outside at the end of it. She pushed open the door and looked out. It was here that some of the underpinnings of the hotel were kept out of sight: a laundry and a cleaning supply closet, both with their doors open, were on one side of the little patio, and a small gate out to the street on the other. What you might call the servants’ entrance, she thought. She was about to turn back when she spotted Chela rinsing a mop in a deep cement sink in the supply room.

“Hello, Chela,” she said, stepping into the room. “I see you’re back to your regular duties, then.”

Chela turned off the tap and said shyly, “Yes, ma’am. Can I get you something?” She looked as though she might have been crying.

“No, no! I was just exploring. I’m sorry to interrupt your work.”

Looking suddenly stricken, Chela turned away and made a stab at continuing her mop washing.

“Are you all right?” Lane asked, coming closer and laying a hand on the girl’s back.

“It’s nothing, ma’am. I just had to clean up . . . well, you know.” She crossed herself. “It is so terrible. I kept thinking of the blood pouring out of him.” She wiped her hands.

“Oh, I am sorry it was you who had to do it! It’s so hard to think of someone dying like that. Especially for poor Mrs. Holden. She was right there.”

Chela turned away, wiping her hands on her apron, but Lane did not miss the way she clamped her lips shut.

“What is it, Chela?”

“I shouldn’t say, ma’am. It’s not my place.”

Lane turned her gently by the arm. “Look, if you know something, it certainly is your place. I expect that at the moment the police have no idea what happened. Anything might help them.”

Looking genuinely frightened, Chela shook her head. “Oh no, it’s not about the man who was shot. It’s just that Mrs. Holden. I don’t think she’s a good woman. I’ve seen her . . .” Chela stopped.

“Do you mean with someone who isn’t her husband? I saw that too, quite by accident, as I’m sure you did.”

“It’s just that he’s come a few times. He comes in this door so no one sees him and they meet here. Yesterday, and on a couple of other days, she left by this door and was picked up in a car. I didn’t see who was driving, but it must have been him. This isn’t the way the guests are supposed to go in and out of the hotel. I think she was crazy to marry a man as old as