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

thought of domestic disputes that sometimes reached the police. He was embarrassed to be anywhere on that continuum. He wasn’t sure he was getting the whole story from Tina. And why her sudden antagonism toward the police? But there was one thing he was sure of: he felt a strong desire to protect her, and that didn’t seem to be wanted either.

He thought about Miss Winslow, or Mrs. Darling really, now, and Darling. They seemed to have plunged into their relationship at some deeper level right from the get-go. He would have said from watching them that they seemed to be friends. Of course, Darling was always wanting to protect Miss Winslow. It was hard to make the switch, but she didn’t like being protected much either. Ames drove off the ferry ramp on the Nelson side, disconsolately singing “You made me love you . . .”

“This is all right,” Lane said, reaching across the table for Darling’s hand. They had stayed in bed late and, afterward, had opted to have breakfast outside under the shady overhang of the interlaced branch ramada, looking out at the lawn and garden and listening to a fountain splashing somewhere nearby. They sat before the scant remains of their scrambled eggs, bacon, and fresh-squeezed orange juice. “I’ve never had juice like that in my life. I never want to leave.”

“How would poor Ames take that?” Darling asked, drinking. It wasn’t orange juice but Lane’s auburn hair spread across the pillow in the morning sunlight that made him have thoughts of never wanting to leave. He brought himself back and put his empty glass on the table. “So, what are you going to do while I’m with Galloway?”

“Lie around, I expect. I’ll finish the Arizona Daily Star, there’s an interesting article about American football that might help me understand it, and then go explore that bookshelf, with a view to lounging by the pool.”

“Think of it as rugby with armour. Look, I’m sorry about this. I didn’t feel I could turn down his invitation to see his office and discuss the sorts of cases they deal with here.”

“Don’t be silly. You’ll love it. You can tell me all about it when you get back,” she said, “over a sunset cocktail.” Lane, who’d been used to spending a great deal of time alone, found she was looking forward to an uninterrupted morning of reading.

With Darling gone, Lane considered her next move. The library first, she decided. She emerged from their room, relishing again the gentle warmth of the morning, and was about to make her way on the brick path through the garden to the main building of the hotel when the door of the nearest villa opened just to the right of the building their suite was in.

“You relax, sweetie. I won’t be long, and I promise not to buy anything!”

It was the woman with the very red lipstick and white-blond hair from tea the day before. Her hair, which looked more startling in the morning sun, billowed around her face in fuzzy curls. But the expression on that curl-framed face was in direct contrast to her cheerful singsong words. Her eyebrows were drawn together in worry, and her eyes darted anxiously, but she caught sight of Lane and smiled brightly, waving her fingers.

Lane waved back and then moved slowly toward the hotel’s main building behind the woman. She seemed to be late for an appointment; she hurried, catching at the pale-blue cardigan that had slipped off her shoulder.

The library was cool and shaded, with a clean-edged slant of light from the morning sun cutting across the Turkish carpet and climbing the inner walls, in a way, Lane thought, a Dutch master could do justice to. She was the only one there, and the walls and thick carpet seemed to muffle sound, so the near silence was luxurious. A faint clattering of people leaving the breakfast room in the distance somewhere intensified the sense of quiet and solitude. It had an almost old-world feel to it, like the English manor house the hotel seemed so anxious to emulate.

Heaving a happy sigh, she turned her attention to the books. She would go for something utterly light, like an Agatha Christie, or her favourite, Dorothy L. Sayers. Much to her delight, she was quite quickly rewarded with a nearly new copy of The Nine Tailors incongruously shelved just past a whole row of Zane Greys. She had read it, but before the war, and she recalled there was a lot of business with bell ringing that might give her mind a little exercise. With her reading sorted, she remembered the blond woman’s remark about some jewellery on sale in the lobby. Seeing nothing anywhere that indicated she needed to sign her book out, Lane went up the stairs and was about to go into the lobby when she wondered at a long corridor on her right.

Perhaps there was a reading lounge, or even a massage room to be explored. Turning in the opposite direction from the lobby, toward the thickly carpeted hallway, she stopped at the sound of frantic whispers. She peered around the corner and saw the young woman with the blue cardigan pressing into a tall man who was leaning against the wall. He had dark hair that flopped in front of one eye and a thick black moustache. He was exceedingly handsome—a character from one of those Zane Grey novels, Lane thought in a flight of fancy. He towered over the young woman and had his arms around her, pulling her in to kiss him. The blonde responded with a soft gasp and made as if to pull away but then settled into his embrace. Lane stepped back hurriedly and decided that jewellery and further exploration could wait. This man was certainly not the older man from the previous evening—the man she’d been certain was the young woman’s husband. She suspected The Nine Tailors might lie unread next to her deck