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

“Oh. Sorry. I didn’t expect no one to be here.”

“Mrs. Holden?” Lane ventured. Once her initial panic died down, she recognized the voice. She threw the covers off, sat on the bed, shivering, and pulled the blanket around her. Her head throbbed with a dull pain. The aspirin had only taken care of the sharper pounding.

“What in the hell are you doing here?” Meg Holden asked. She stood the flashlight on its end so the light shone toward the roof and threw a faint light around the room. “All the damn kerosene lamps are gone for some reason.”

“I feel I should ask the same question. Is this cabin yours, Mrs. Holden, or your husband’s?” She struggled to imagine why the benign Mr. Holden should want to imprison her on the side of a mountain.

“Lord, no! It belongs to that idiot, the assistant chief of police. My husband and I get to use it for little holidays. As is only right. We practically paid for the thing. Not that I love a vacation in the middle of nowhere.”

Lane shook her head, trying to clear it. “So Mr. Holden had me kidnapped? I don’t understand. Is he a friend of Galloway’s?” What on earth could any of this mean in the context of what she thought she knew?

“Rex? He wouldn’t hurt a flea.” Meg was smiling, almost sadly, Lane thought. “He’s not like any of the others. But we got bigger problems. I had to get away ’cause of that Renwick. Artie thinks I know, and he won’t stop at nothin’ to stop me talking if he thinks I’ve tried to run away, which I have.” She sat down next to Lane and clenched her hands on her lap. “I bet he’s down there thinking, oh, she’ll come back. She always does. Not this time, buddy!”

Lane momentarily gave up trying to make any sense at all of this bewildering speech. Who was Artie? “How did you get here? I didn’t hear a car.” Of course, she’d been asleep, but hope bloomed at the thought of a car. They could drive away from this place.

“I had the cab drop me at the top of the hill, just in case someone was here. It’s coming back in the morning for me. It’s a horrible hike in these shoes!” She held her foot out away from the bed, and Lane saw she was wearing very pretty red and white Oxford high heels. Most unsuitable for a nighttime hike. No car, then. She looked at her watch. It was quarter after four. She groaned silently, resisting the urge to throw herself back on the bed. She had often been in untoward places at this time of night in France during the war, after all.

“Why come here?” Lane asked. “It seems an out-of-the-way place to run off to.”

“Because, dearie, no one is supposed to be here! This place sits empty from October to May. I figured I had time to collect what is mine, have a good sleep, and really get away, all the way back to Chicago. My luggage is stowed at the bus station. Finding you here sure doesn’t help! It means someone is coming back for you, or to do something to you, I don’t know. Who brought you here?” She looked at Lane, frowning.

“I’ve no idea. I must confess, I thought it must have something to do with James Griffin, because the man seemed sort of like a henchman, if you see what I mean.”

“That’s Artie’s style, all right,” Meg agreed. “He’s not going to leave well enough alone, I can see that now.” She stood up and bustled toward the door and then turned abruptly and came back. “Did you see something? Is that what happened? You saw his man shooting? No, wait. You didn’t see nothing. Did the man who brought you here have a gun? Big tall guy, cowboy boots and moustache?”

Something about what Meg had just said bothered Lane. But she couldn’t put her finger on it. The pain in her head wasn’t helping.

“Well?” said Meg.

“Sorry. Yes, a cowboy. That sounds like him. Who is he? How worried should I be?”

“We should both be very worried, honey. We gotta skedaddle. He’s probably the one who shot that Mr. Renwick.”

Galloway downed his neat whisky and clunked his glass onto the tiled counter. By the time they’d arrived at the home of Tucson’s assistant chief of police after futile hours driving around the city, Darling had known the man wasn’t right. Galloway wasn’t just drunk; he’d come unhinged somehow. Unmoored. As though that one act of defiance by his wife had dislodged something deep inside him. He had been silent and unresponsive in the car, but Darling guessed that the whiskey would change that soon enough. That he was somehow involved in Lane’s disappearance seemed certain. But what to do about it?

Galloway poured himself another whiskey. Then he smiled and looked at Darling. “You wanting me to help find your wife. I can’t get over the irony of it all.” He offered the bottle to Darling. “As it happens, I want help finding my wife too. Isn’t that a coincidence? And I expect when I know where mine is, you’ll find the lovely Mrs. Darling as well.”

“What are you saying?” Darling asked.

Galloway had not picked up his glass. He now leaned across the counter bringing his face close to Darling’s. “I’m saying that I want to know where my bloody wife is. I’m saying that I know damn well your wife had something to do with getting her away from the hospital—the advantages of being a policeman—and I’m saying that if you don’t tell me, I will get it from her.” He picked up his drink and swirled it around. “This is going to seem a bit crude to you, Darling, gentleman police inspector that you are, but I’m finished with subtleties.” He reached into his jacket and pulled a revolver out of the holster