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

“She’s got her nice old husband, and she’s got him, and now she’s got this guy.” She held up the photo.

As if on cue, Meg Holden came through the door and, like the young man, stopped dead at seeing Lane and Chela. “Oh,” she said. “I . . .” She looked toward the gate. “I came to see if you found my . . . my bracelet. I think it fell off the dresser, and I can’t find it.”

“I didn’t clean your room, ma’am, but I can ask the girl who did,” Chela said.

Meg Holden, who had been glancing nervously toward the street, seemed only to be half attending, but at the last moment she looked at Chela and then blanched, putting her hand to her chest. She opened and closed her mouth as if to speak, but no sound came out. Her eyes were riveted on the photo Chela was still holding.

That evening on the rooftop patio, Lane and Darling stood together with matching gin and tonics, looking at the setting sun.

“Would a person get tired of having to see that every evening?” he wondered.

“We should ask a local. I don’t think I would. I don’t get tired of looking at the lake in its many moods. In fact, I almost miss it, cold and dark as the winter is up there. You know that moment on a cold morning when the air is fresh on your face and you are looking at the skeleton of a tree against the grey, brooding sky?”

“I confess I have not parsed the winter views so finely. In town, I have been used to looking at murky smoke rising from my neighbour’s chimney across the alley. It is not as uplifting as what you are describing.”

“Look, there’s Mr. Holden all on his own. I wonder if Meg has had the vapours and taken to her bed. I’ve never seen anyone so shocked as when she saw that mug shot of Mr. Griffin. I don’t think we need any more proof they’re connected somehow.” Lane began to move toward Holden.

Darling wanted to utter a warning, but it was too late. There she was, smiling and wishing their neighbour a good evening.

“You remember Mr. Holden, darling? His wife is feeling quite unwell, so I’ve asked him to join us for dinner.”

“Splendid,” said Darling, raising his glass with feigned enthusiasm.

Inside the dining room, dinner ordered, Lane rested her chin on her hands and smiled at Rex Holden. “I’m sorry Mrs. Holden can’t be here. But I’m sure they can take something to her room.”

“I guess she’s still upset over watching that poor fellow get shot,” Holden said. “I thought she was getting over it some. She loves to shop, so I’ve been encouraging her to go. It seems to cheer her up.”

Lane paused. She could think of no suitable response to Meg being cheered up by shopping. “You know I never asked where you are from,” she said.

“Just up the road in Phoenix. Meg’s got an aunt down here who’s not doing so well, so I thought we could make a little vacation out of visiting her. She’s been seeing her quite a lot. She’s not well off, so fortunately I’m able to help out. Meg’s moved her into a better house and made sure she gets regular medical care.”

“That’s wonderful,” Lane said, smiling warmly. She studiously ignored Darling’s penetrating gaze. “Lovely dinner,” she continued. “I’ve never had chicken fricassee before.”

“I know people wonder,” Mr. Holden said. “I’m sure you must. She is younger than me, I’ll give you that. I was happily married for forty years, and I don’t mind saying I was lonely when Velma died. Meg came along just when I thought I’d be alone for the rest of my life. She’s a little rough around the edges. I can see my pals at the club looking at her. They can’t decide whether to look down on her or be jealous!”

“Well, I think it’s rather wonderful, don’t you, darling?”

“Do you think you’ll marry again if I die?” Lane asked, sitting in front of the mirror in her new silk dressing gown. She’d been urged to buy it by her friend Angela in King’s Cove, who had said no woman should be without a trousseau on her honeymoon. It was fine in this climate, but Lane wondered how useful it would be in the dead of a snowy Kootenay winter. Her warm, thick flannel dressing gown was more the thing.

Darling, who was already in bed with a book on his chest—one he wasn’t reading because he found the sight of his wife brushing her hair quite transfixing—shrugged thoughtfully. “Only if I can find a woman with hair that colour. And as much as I look forward to that, I’d urge you to reconsider putting yourself in any position likely to lead to your death. You have a weakness for it that I don’t approve of.”

The banging on their door made them both jump. Darling looked at the clock: ten after ten. Lane pulled her dressing gown across her and tied the belt as she hurried to answer the door.

Rex Holden was standing on the mat, looking distraught and breathing heavily in a way that didn’t sound at all healthy. “She’s gone,” he managed. “Packed up everything and gone.”

Chapter Twenty-One

June 1936

Jane Van Eyck contemplated her two hours of sleep. She was slumped at the kitchen table, feeling as if all the curling pins she’d put in her hair the night before were boring into her skull. She lifted the mug of black coffee she’d had cooling in front of her and drank. It was bitter. She pulled the curtains to watch the gentle coming of dawn along the lake, pink and fresh, the sun hidden by the mountains but already casting a warm glow into the sky. Nature goes on, she thought, in spite of our little human troubles. Deriving no comfort from it, she turned away