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

tiniest whiff of a dark sense of humour. And now he loved her and let himself be loved by her. She was happy in a way she had never imagined possible. She chided herself for the incongruity of her happiness in the face of recent horrific events and then fell fully to earth.

Standing in the doorway, with a double whisky, neat, was a man who looked so like the recently deceased Renwick that she emitted a little gasp. She was watching the ash accumulating on the cigarette he held loosely in his mouth when Darling made his way back holding his own whisky and the amber drink. “It’s called a sidecar,” he said, presenting it to her. “Chin-chin.”

“Darling, look over there. I realize it’s because this room is cast in atmospheric cocktail darkness, but that man looks exactly like Jack Renwick from here. It gave me quite a turn, I can tell you. It must be the brother.”

“Shouldn’t he be comforting the grieving widow, not here guzzling whisky?” Darling commented, sipping his own.

“This is actually very good. What’s it got in it?”

“Sorry, I wasn’t paying attention. He looks a bit like someone who’s had several already. Didn’t you say she said he was a bit of a handful?”

“Yes, quite given to drink, apparently, and professed himself violently in love with her. Ought we to go and, I don’t know . . . talk to him? I mean, we are probably the only ones here who even know he’s just lost his brother. How on earth did he get here so fast?”

“He must have flown. An expensive proposition, but I suppose since his brother was murdered, he wanted to hurry out. I assume the police have already talked to him, and they’ve obviously found no reason to hold him. I suppose there’s no harm,” Darling said.

“How do you do?” Lane said, offering her hand when they had made their way through the crowd. “Sorry to barge up like this, but I believe you might be Mr. Renwick? I’m so sorry for what you must be going through.”

“Not as sorry as I am,” the man said. He’d been leaning against the wall and now pulled himself upright. He stubbed out his cigarette and offered a hand. “Who are you again? And how do you know who I am?”

“Sorry, yes, I should have said. I’m Lane Winslow, and this is my husband Frederick Darling. I was one of the first people on the scene when your brother died. We had been dining with him and Mrs. Renwick only the night before. It was a terrible thing. We’re so very sorry. How is Mrs. Renwick doing?”

He released Lane’s hand and shook Darling’s. “Ned Renwick.” He tilted his head to look at the ceiling, sighed, and turned to Lane. “I have no idea in the world how she’s doing. She won’t see me.” He took a drink. “It’s only what I deserve, I suppose. Police won’t release his body. They questioned me this afternoon, and they don’t appear to want to release the idea that I might be the one who shot him. I’m a good shot, or I was, but with the best will in the world I could not have shot him from Wisconsin. I don’t really know why she even asked me to come. Especially when she won’t talk to me now that I’m here. Insult to injury to be questioned by the police on top of that!”

“Look, I think they’ll be calling us to dinner soon. Why not sit with us?” Lane suggested, ignoring a not so subtle elbow from Darling.

“Well, I got no one else, and a pretty woman is always a good companion, begging your pardon, Mr. Darling.”

“Inspector,” corrected Darling.

The man laughed, whatever he’d already had to drink making him slightly sloppy. “Inspector. That some sort of police title? So you’re the fuzz. I suppose you’ve been sent here to keep an eye on me.”

“I am not the American fuzz. I am the Canadian fuzz. I assure you I have no jurisdiction. We are here on holiday,” Darling said.

“Well, all right then. Dinner it is.”

When they had settled at a table near the door, Renwick looked around, holding his glass as if he would order another whisky, but then put it down. “I can’t afford to stay here, but if there’s a free dinner and drinks going . . . ” He shrugged. “She can afford it okay,” he added bitterly. “She’s got the whole pile, now. But you don’t want to hear about my troubles. Tell me about yourselves.”

Lane, who rather did want to hear about his troubles, smiled. “We’re just here for our honeymoon. It’s my first time in the United States.”

“Jack and Ivy were here for the same thing, though they’ve been married now for three years. So, what’s Canada like?”

“More trees than here,” said Darling austerely, resenting that this bitter and vaguely unhinged third party was ruining his dinner.

Renwick laughed. Wine was poured and plates of salad produced. He took up his glass. “To honeymoons, then. And trees. God knows this place could sure use some.”

“What do you do in Wisconsin?” Lane asked, then felt guilty immediately as she remembered he’d been, as he would see it, done out of his company.

“I used to work for my father, just like Jack, and Saint Ivy, for that matter, but when I got back stateside from serving our almighty flag, I found myself out on my ass. Dad willed the whole thing over to darling Jack, so now I work at an insurance company that was willing to hire a down-and-out vet.”

“Where will you stay while you wait for the police to release the body?” Darling asked, wanting to steer Renwick away from any further maudlin disclosures.

“There’s a rooming house in the town. I found it yesterday. I don’t know why I bothered to come. She doesn’t seem to need me to do anything, so she can be in charge of getting his body home.” He waved