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

a man who was neither her husband nor her lover. Or Jack Renwick’s own brother was involved somehow, maybe had him killed. He was after all a man who, by all accounts, hated Jack, was a serious alcoholic, and was in love with his sister-in-law. The latter he considered more likely. In his experience people were most often murdered by someone they knew and very often as the outcome of a contested legacy. The trouble was that, as attractive as he looked for the shooting from every other point of view, he’d not been contacted in Wisconsin until his brother was dead. Furthermore, he had produced his bus ticket from Phoenix for the day after the shooting. He had arrived there by plane from Wisconsin, an expense he said his sister-in-law was going to make up. All he could produce from that leg of the trip was a baggage claim ticket, as he’d lost his airline ticket, but gave the flight number and arrival time in Phoenix, which had checked out.

He drew up a to-do list. Under “Holden” he wrote, “Interview again. Ask Darling’s wife for a full description of the man Mrs. Holden was talking to at the hotel.” Was it the same man Mrs. Darling had seen her with on the street? He hadn’t shared his suspicions with Galloway yet. “Explore any possible connection between Jack Renwick and Meg.” Had she become his lover as well? Mr. Holden was rich. He could have had his rival picked off by someone. He smiled wryly at the thought of all these murderers-for-hire he was conjuring up to make these theories work.

Under “Renwick” he wrote, “Call insurance company in Wisconsin to verify Ned Renwick’s whereabouts. Re-interview Ivy about Ned Renwick’s behaviour toward her.” He professed to be in love with her. Had he taken the obsession as far as getting rid of her husband, thus killing two birds at once? Was Mrs. Renwick hiding something else? She had arrived at the scene with bags, saying she’d been shopping, but was that all? Had she been outside the hedge on the street shooting her husband? They’d gone over every speck of ground outside the hotel and had not found either an abandoned weapon or even a bullet casing.

In a state of irritation, he pulled open the drawer of his desk and looked accusingly at the blank space among his files where the Griffin notes and financial evidence ought to be and wrote, “Find who took the damn evidence.” Because if he didn’t, he’d go to court with only a rickety story about Jimmy Griffin pushing some of his gambling money through the nursing home, which had squeaky clean financial accounts.

The thing that puzzled him the most, really, was that not only had his typed-up notes gone missing but the notebook in which he’d written his original notes was gone as well. He remembered putting it in the drawer next to the manila folder. The notebook had been full, and though it was not his usual practice, he’d tossed it in where he kept his typewritten notes before he took them for filing. He closed his eyes and saw himself putting the folder into the drawer, and then the notebook, and he saw himself locking the drawer at night when he went home. But he couldn’t make the exact connection between the day he’d slipped the notes in and that particular night. He locked that drawer every night. Had he walked to Galloway’s office with the folder to talk with him about them? Had he gone to the water cooler still holding the file and left it sitting on something? It shook him to think he couldn’t remember clearly. Of course, he knew why he couldn’t really remember details about water coolers and other people’s desks: because taking the files for central filing was a routine activity, and it’s what he would have done.

He got up and went across to where Officer Alba sat. He would send him on the robbery in South Tucson; then he was going to do one more thorough search of the station for his folder.

Lane was in the lobby gazing down at some silver and turquoise bracelets in a glass case. She ought to bring something back for Angela, who’d been so wonderful about organizing her wedding and had been right to pooh-pooh Lane’s assertion that she just wanted a simple and discreet wedding. She became aware the woman behind the counter had stopped hovering and had moved away from her to the end of the counter.

“Yes? What do you want?”

The disapproval in her voice made Lane look up to see Chela Ruiz standing uncertainly in the doorway. Lane smiled and said as brightly as possible. “Oh, hello, Chela. How nice to see you.”

Chela nodded and looked nervously at the manager. “I have to talk to this lady.”

Frowning, the woman looked at Lane. “Madam?”

Lane smiled again. “Yes, of course. I think she’s found something I’ve lost. What a dear! Could you put those earrings aside for me? I think they are just the thing for my friend. I’m in number 26.”

“Certainly, madam.”

Chela led Lane down the long, carpeted hallway, and out the rear door where the cleaning supplies were kept. “I saw her again, miss. The car came again for her today, only this time I had a look to see who was driving. It wasn’t the same man.”

Lane glanced toward the gate and then to the street outside. “You mean Mrs. Holden? What do you mean not the same man?”

Chela whispered, “Not the young man she, you know . . . This one was older. Not as old as her husband, maybe more like her. She seemed to know him well. He touched her leg when she got into the car.”

Was this the man she’d seen Meg talking to in town? “Chela, you have to talk to the police. Could you describe him?”

“Yes, sort of. He was a little heavier; he had a brown suit. He