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

“He was gone part of yesterday—no, sorry, the day before, and last night. No need to ask where. He came back today.”

“Why no need to ask where?” Martinez asked.

“He was with that hussy, of course! She was sneaking out of here again this morning, thinking I didn’t see her.”

“I see.” Martinez looked down the dingy hall. “Is he here now?”

“No. No doubt drinking somewhere. That seems to be his other occupation. I don’t know where he’s getting his money, but he can’t have much, or he wouldn’t be staying here. That woman looks pretty expensive. Maybe she’s keeping him.”

“Can you describe her?” He looked back at the landlady whose expression was a perfect combination of disapproval and gratification.

“Tall blonde. Expensive perfume. Came the second day he was here.”

“How often has she come?” Martinez asked. Could it be Ivy Renwick?

“Nearly every day since he’s been here. Today, the day before, in fact, I think they went out together, then I guess he was with her somewhere, and then before that as well, after he first got here. I lost track, honestly. Three, four times at least. First couple of times she was here more than two hours.”

She was there on the day of the murder. Martinez ripped a page out of his notebook and wrote his name and the station number on it. “Call when he comes in. Leave a message if I’m not there. I’ll put an officer nearby to keep an eye out, as well. In the meantime, can you let me into his room?”

The landlady surveyed him critically for a moment and then shrugged. “On your head be it if he comes home and catches you messing around in his room.”

It had been a disappointing venture. The tiny, dingy room yielded little more than a few clothes shoved willy-nilly in two drawers of a tall dresser, a battered suitcase thrown into the closet, and a bag of toiletries sitting open on the dresser. He thanked Mrs. Parvis, who seemed disappointed not to learn something wonderfully shocking about her guest.

Feeling a wave of excitement, Martinez broke the speed limit on his way out of town to the inn. Notwithstanding the lack of anything incriminating in the room, Ivy Renwick had been visiting her brother-in-law at a rooming house when he was supposed to be in Wisconsin on the day her husband was shot dead in front of their honeymoon hotel room. His being able to produce all that ‘evidence’ of his travel made him look even more suspicious. Why had he produced it unless he had something to cover up? As to a weapon, he could have gotten rid of it anywhere. After all, there was a whole desert, right across the road from the hotel, at his disposal.

“Why don’t you go? I think I’d better stay here and support Chela in case Martinez wants to question her. He says he’s coming here to interview someone. He didn’t say whom, but I’m guessing Meg Holden or Ivy Renwick. That poor woman. She’s barely been out of her room since it happened. I should pop over and see her.”

“Tennis famously is a game one doesn’t play on one’s own,” Darling said. “And if you mean ‘poor’ Ivy Renwick, I saw her getting furtively out of a cab not an hour ago from my vantage point at the tennis court.”

“It won’t be just you, will it? It will be you and the pro. I’d only be in the way.”

“That winning smile is not going to mollify me. I’ll go make an arrangement with him, and then later, or tomorrow, we’ll both go have a lesson.”

“Perfect,” said Lane, but she was already looking toward Ivy Renwick’s room from where they were sitting in the shade outside number 26. Where had she been? “Where do you think she was?” Lane asked Darling. “And why do you say she looked furtive?”

“I’m a police officer. I am trained in furtive. As to her whereabouts, none of our business, I should have thought.”

Lane knocked softly at Ivy Renwick’s door. There was a brief shuffling inside and then the door opened just wide enough for Ivy to peer outside.

“Oh, it’s you,” she said, opening the door a bit more, but not enough to suggest she’d welcome anyone in.

“I just wanted to make sure you’re all right. I’ve felt quite badly about you having to wait here while things get decided after losing your husband,” Lane said.

Ivy sighed. “You might as well come in,” she said, walking away from the door to the table where they’d drunk coffee two mornings before. She took up a glass of water and drank and then stood with her arms crossed.

“How are you holding up?” Lane asked.

Ivy looked at Lane as if she was thinking of saying something significant and then turned away to look out the window.

“I wish I was home,” she said. “I’d like to bury my husband and attend to the factory. I can’t count on my brother-in-law to run things. He’s useless.” She picked up her cigarettes, lit one, and inhaled deeply.

“Oh,” Lane said, surprised. “Has he gone back to Wisconsin? We had dinner with him last night. He told us he was moving into a rooming house till this was over.”

Ivy looked at her sharply. “Why, what did he say?”

“Just that, and that you wouldn’t see him. Given what you told me, I did rather understand why you wouldn’t see him.”

Ivy shook her head and produced a mirthless smile. “It’s all a lot more complicated than that.” She stubbed out the barely smoked cigarette. “Thank you for stopping by. I really would like to rest now.”

Lane opened her mouth to respond when a sharp rapping on the door made them both jump.

“Mrs. Renwick? It’s Sergeant Martinez. I need a moment of your time, please,” Martinez called through the closed door.

Ivy Renwick went white and reached for the back of a chair for support. Lane pointed at the door and Ivy nodded.

“Hello, Sergeant