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

Mr. Holden, but she did, and she took sacred vows. I don’t think she should be sneaking around like that.”

Lane pulled on her cocktail dress and turned to have Darling zip it up. “Oh. I just thought of poor Ivy. She’s having to stay on while the police continue the investigation. And given what I’ve learned about her brother-in-law, she’s got her hands full there. Perhaps I should stay back and offer support instead of putting on the bib and tucker for a bang-up night of eating and drinking. In fact, I’m surprised the management are even doing this.”

Darling took the opportunity to move her hair and kiss the back of her neck and then zipped up her dress. “Has she asked for your help?”

“Well, no.”

“I suspect that if anyone wants your help, they will ask for it. This is a difficult time, and we don’t really know much about her, or her relations. I suspect we ought not to interfere.” Darling held up two ties, a maroon number with subtle dark stripes and a silver-blue one with a geometric orange design.

“You should get one of these bolo ties we’re seeing everywhere. There are some very nice ones in the shop here,” she said, looking at what was on offer. “That orange and blue is quite racy. I didn’t know you had anything like that.”

“There is a lot you don’t know about me. For example, I will be in my grave before I consider a bolo tie. The blue and orange then.”

Lane watched him in the mirror, deftly flipping the tie into its full Windsor.

“Could you go look at something else? You’re distracting me in ways that will cause us to miss the cocktails,” Darling said, looking at her reflection in the mirror.

“Really, darling.” She gently kissed his neck in return and then, stepping firmly away, pulled on her gloves. “You never told me what Martinez said when you telephoned him this afternoon.”

“He asked me to describe the man, where we saw them, and at what time. Then he thanked me courteously and asked if I would be available should they wish to speak to me further. He also mentioned he’d talked to Renwick’s brother—beyond which he told me nothing, before you ask.”

Chapter Eight

September 1947, Kenosha, Wisconsin

“Well, this is an honour. Ivy let you out of the kennel, did she? What’ll you have? Mine’s whisky, if you don’t mind.” Edward Renwick was leaning heavily on the bar, his tie undone and his hair pushed off his forehead in a way that made it stand up in a messy hedge.

“He can have one more, but that’s it,” the bartender said to Jack Renwick. “If you’re the brother he’s been talking about, you should get him home.”

That was more easily suggested than done. Edward had become truculent, and he glowered when Jack had tried a gentle pull on his sleeve.

“Why don’t you leave me the hell alone? Go back to your wife and your golden boy life.” He emphasized wife with a measure of disdain that made Jack frown.

“Come on, Ned,” he tried quietly. “No need to make a spectacle. The barkeeper is going to toss us both in a minute. You can come home, and Ivy can make you some dinner. You don’t look like you’ve had a decent meal in days.”

“So considerate,” Edward sneered, but he got up slowly, pulling his arm sharply away from his brother’s grasp.

Jack threw a bill on the bar and walked out behind his brother. When they were on the street he pointed to where he had parked the car and once again touched him gently, this time on the back to guide his brother in the right direction.

“I told you not to touch me!” Edward seemed to explode and, with an oath, turned and threw a punch that found Jack’s cheekbone and caused him to stagger and then fall in an ungainly heap onto the sidewalk.

Jack opened and closed his eyes, trying to get back some focus, and began to push himself off the ground. Edward had started to walk away, and Jack thought he should call him back, but the blow had disoriented him. Finally he was on his feet and looking for his hat, which had tumbled into the street. He put his hand to his cheek and whimpered.

“Ned, for God’s sake,” he managed, retrieving his hat.

Edward, who had disappeared around the corner, suddenly appeared again, striding toward his brother and then stopping. “You can go back to that so-called wife and your happy little life living on what’s mine and leave me alone. What I do is none of your business. I don’t need sympathy from you,” he said, “or rescue.” He spat and turned back down the street and disappeared.

Darling and Lane entered the library, where a gleaming candlelit bar and waiters crisply attired in white had replaced the usual tea paraphernalia. Smoke rose from cigarettes and spread across the ceiling, and the dim room hummed with quiet conversation punctuated by intermittent peals of laughter. It was a room full of people who might have heard of the tragic events of the last couple of days but had determined to put it out their minds—and were succeeding.

“What’ll it be?” Darling asked.

“Something exotic.” Lane looked around. “Something like that.” She pointed at a woman holding a cocktail glass full of amber liquid with a lemon twist balanced on the rim.

Darling pushed off through the crowd, and Lane, near the fireplace, surveyed the room. Certainly some of the guests she had not seen at any of their previous meals or by the pool. She guessed they had arrived after the shooting and must simply have felt lucky to find themselves fêted on their first night at the expense of the hotel. She could see Darling leaning on the bar, waiting for the drinks, and she smiled at the thought of him as she had first met him: formal, serious, correct, with the