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

“Listen, Darling, I’m pretty sure you’ve got the wrong end of the stick. We’ve got our man on this one. Martinez has worked hard, God bless him, and he needs a win. Let’s not upset the apple cart.”

Darling was attempting to formulate a response to this when Galloway spoke again. “When we’re finished here, can you stay back? Something’s come up with—” but at that moment Martinez was back with a small photo of the classic mug shot: profile and full face.

Darling took the photo and looked at the grainy representation of James A. “Jimmy” Griffin. Could this be the man he and Lane had seen on the street? He’d asked if she wanted to come with him this morning, but for some reason she had resisted. She had claimed the call of poolside and Lord Peter.

“What sort of shape is he?”

“He’s five seven, 195 pounds, quite portly.”

That would certainly match the shape of the man he’d seen. “Does he have an ill-fitting brown suit, by any chance?”

Martinez smiled. “I’m not sure about a brown one, sir, but every suit I’ve seen him in seems a little too small.”

“I wonder if you can let me have this? I’ll show it to my wife and Miss Ruiz. She thought he was the same man she’d seen in the newspaper some weeks ago, but this would confirm it.” He addressed this to Martinez, ignoring the sound of Galloway shifting impatiently in his seat.

Martinez got up. “Sure thing. Can you give me a ring?”

“You’re just muddying the waters, Darling,” Galloway said irritably when Martinez had gone. “Shut the door.”

Obligingly, Darling got up and closed the door and then sat down again, trying to look benignly interested.

“Listen, something’s happened. Maybe you can help.” He paused, as if he might change his mind. “My wife’s disappeared. That’s a bit strong, perhaps. But she’s checked herself out of hospital and gone off and hasn’t told me where.”

Darling, who wasn’t supposed to know anything about Priscilla, feigned surprise as best he might. “Oh. I see. I’m sorry to hear she was in hospital.”

“I’m hoping you do see. She had a fall down the stairs. That’s why she was in hospital. But you’d seen her before that, when she drove you out to the mission. Did she seem all right? Did she say anything at all to you?”

Darling was becoming aware of a maelstrom of emotions, not all of which were easily identifiable or pleasant. He tried to tackle the foremost: Galloway seemed to think that his wife might have confided in them. All right? Had Priscilla been all right? Looking back, he realized he hadn’t thought so for a second. She had seemed both reclusive and fragile somehow with those dark glasses and the scarf and gloves and at the same time overly bright. But she’d been a bit like that the first time he’d met her, when they’d gone to the Galloways for dinner, so he’d assumed that was normal. Had she confided anything? Certainly not to him. And it was at this moment the other anxiety began to take shape. Had she confided in Lane? And in a gawd-help-us moment, he could see the real enormity of Lane spiriting Priscilla away to Phoenix. What if Galloway were to find out?

“She certainly didn’t say anything to me, to us. We had a lovely drive to the mission, explored it a bit, and came back for a nice lunch.”

Galloway leaned back in his chair and sighed. “I see. Well, I expect she’s gone to her friend, Dahlia. She was pretty beat up, and you know what the ladies are like, eh, Darling? A little vain.” He laughed unconvincingly. “She just wants to be back to normal before I see her again.”

Darling, whose lady was the furthest thing from vain, noted Galloway’s use of the phrase “pretty beat up” and then stood up.

“I’m sure that will be the explanation,” he said. “I’d best be off. Only a few more days of the holiday, and then it’s back to winter! I expect my wife would like to see me.” I know I’d jolly well like to see her, he thought. Had she even thought about the danger before she acted?

Chapter Nineteen

On Saturday afternoon, Ames, Terrell, and the stony-faced Craig Finch sat at the kitchen table of the small house. Ada was there too. They were looking at what seemed, in this severe context, the highly inappropriate and garish pile of ladies’ frocks and underwear.

“Well?” asked her father coldly.

Ada shook her head dumbly, glancing miserably at the pile of clothes and then looking down at the table.

“Miss Finch, did Barney Watts say he would buy any clothes for you?” Ames asked.

Ada looked desperately at her father and then down again.

“Answer the bloody question!” her father thundered.

Looking frantically toward the door, Ada managed, “He said . . .”

“Don’t look for your mother to come and save you. She’s with your gran at the hospital. Now, what did that bastard say?”

Ames wished Finch wouldn’t browbeat his daughter, but he did not interfere, thinking perhaps he’d have no better luck himself with some gentler tactic. “Miss Finch?”

“He’d take care of everything, but—”

Finch jumped up, took up what clothes he could gather in his fist, and shook them in his daughter’s face. “So he was proposing to dress you up like a tart in this garbage? I don’t suppose you have any bloody idea what would have happened next, do you?”

Ames half stood. “Mr. Finch.” His voice was soothing, causing Finch to drop the clothes and sit down angrily. “Miss Finch, but what?”

“I already gave him some of my clothes. He told me to so I wouldn’t have to take anything but my schoolbooks so it wouldn’t look, uh, suspicious.” She stopped and looked miserably at her father.

“There will be plenty of suspicion to go around from now on,” her father said. “Have you finished, officers? Ada has her homework, which she’ll have lots of time to do because she won’t