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

Ames sighed. “None taken. If you must know, I dated her. Well, once. I took her to Darling’s wedding. If this gets out to anyone at the station, I’ll be coming for you!” He groaned inwardly at having said even this much to Terrell, new as he was and a subordinate.

“You can certainly count on me to keep your personal confidences, sir.”

“I had been hoping to go out with her again, if you must know, not that she seemed inclined. And now there’s this. I just don’t think we can afford to trust her.”

“I must say, I find her credible, sir. Her anger at him seems very genuine, so I can’t imagine she would have been planning to run off with him, especially as he’d apparently promised Ada Finch he wanted to run off with her.”

“Angry enough to kill him, though?” Ames asked. “Her father said they don’t keep poison, but he may not know if she bought any. We should have searched the premises.”

“See, I think you might be overcompensating because you want to be impartial. If this were someone else, who’d just freely given us an identity paper to show the shopkeepers, what would your response be?”

“All right, all right. You’ve made your point. I would assume they must be innocent. I’m not even sure I believe she did anything, either. But we do have to keep an open mind. We can’t leave any stone unturned.”

An open mind includes not assuming someone is guilty, Terrell thought, but he didn’t say it. Sleet was turning to wet snow, and he was forced to drive slowly as the windshield wipers struggled to keep a triangular patch of window clear.

“And Darling is lying around like a grandee in the sun, not a care in the world,” Ames muttered.

Rex Holden was a patient man. As he saw it, he was old, he’d accumulated what he wanted in life, and he was entitled to live off his successes and enjoy what he could. He’d enjoyed his wife Meg very much. She was giddy and pretty and never, ever difficult. And she showed him affection that he’d never expected to know again after his wife of forty years had died at the end of the war. He’d warded off the dire warnings of his country club friends, ignored the raised eyebrow of the justice of the peace, and had really quite enjoyed showering gifts and money on his young wife.

But the recent increasing spate of absences had raised some misgivings in him. He had been sitting by the pool with the newspaper and had watched his neighbours in number 26 talking. Now that was a beautiful woman, and she had been a champion when that man had been shot, he thought. So kind to Meg, so practical. He could see, could almost feel, the depth of the bond between her and her husband. At the restaurant they talked intently, laughing or serious, but always talking. Not like so many couples who sat silently looking away from each other, having long ago exhausted any conversation.

He had to confess, he missed that close companionship. He’d had that with his first wife, Velma. And he had to admit he was beginning to mind Meg skittering about all the time, God only knew where.

As if his thoughts took form, Meg appeared at the gate to the pool, dressed in a purple suit that hugged her generous figure attractively. She lifted her hand and twiddled her fingers in his direction.

“Hello, sweetie! How’s the water?”

He couldn’t see her eyes behind her dark glasses, but he felt himself relax at the sight of her. Maybe they could have a little talk now.

“It’s grand. Want to come in?”

“I just have to get some money for the cab. He’s waiting outside. Do you have your wallet with you?”

Holden reached over to the side table where his room key, wallet, and an empty glass that had held lemonade were placed and extracted a couple of dollars.

Meg hurried over and took the money. “I’ll be right back, sweetie, and come and lie on that deck chair. Don’t let anyone else take it!”

Holden watched her going back to the door of the hotel, her perfect legs in the perfect silk stockings he kept her supplied with. But he did wonder. Where had she been this time?

Lane was back in the laundry area with Chela. If the haughty front-desk people only knew the number of times she’d been here, she thought. They were sitting side by side on wooden chairs, in the shade of the oleander. The picture of Griffin was lying on Chela’s lap. Darling had come with Lane, and when Chela had indeed identified the man, he’d retreated to the room to telephone Martinez.

“So he really is a criminal.”

“I don’t really know for sure. Certainly this is a police picture, but I don’t know if he’s been convicted of anything in a court.” Lane said. “The one good thing is that it might be enough you have identified him; hopefully Martinez won’t ever need to talk to you.”

Chela was about to answer when she looked up, startled. An equally startled young man had swung the back gate open and had come up the three short steps, clearly not expecting to see anyone. He stopped abruptly and looked at them, and then looked up toward the door into the building.

Chela stood up, exerting some authority in her own realm. “Can I help you, sir?”

“No.” He hesitated, clearly nonplussed. “I mean . . . no.” He looked anxiously again at the doorway, as if expecting someone to come through.

“The front door to the hotel is over that way,” Chela said. She had moved to the gate and was holding it open.

Without a word, the man turned and went back onto the street.

“That’s him,” Chela whispered, back in her chair by Lane. “The younger one.”

“He clearly was expecting to meet her,” Lane agreed.

Chela shook her head.