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

intensely packed forest cover Lane was used to around King’s Cove. The ground was relatively clear, and there was a thick soft carpet of dried pine needles that would hide their progress from anyone but a professional tracker. It initially made their descent easier despite the dark. Lane explained to Meg that she wanted them to move both down and westward, while putting as much distance between themselves and the cabin as possible. They were motivated to move quickly because of the cold, and Lane was impressed with what she thought of as Meg’s stoutheartedness. Seeing her at the hotel in those little suits and high heels, she would not have thought of her hiking competently in boots down a mountain at night.

The vegetation began to change, at first imperceptibly and then more obviously. The evergreens thinned out, with leafless deciduous trees in small patches, and farther down, as the grey light of the coming dawn spread across from the east, they could see the dim shapes of saguaros standing guard along the descending hills far below them.

Lane pulled to a stop. “Let’s just stop a second and get our bearings.” They’d been walking for over an hour, and she could hear Meg breathing hard. She had unclasped the fur jacket. “I realize the main road to the cabin turnoff is above us. I can’t really remember where it turned east because I was a bit stunned. Your friend hit me over the head and knocked me out.”

“See, that’s what I don’t understand. What the hell does Artie want with you? It makes no sense. Unless he thought you saw the shooting, then, okay. But if he thought that, he wouldn’t have dragged you up the mountain and made sure you had a sandwich. He would have driven you up the mountain and popped a bullet in you and left you.”

That was the second time Meg Holden had suggested that Artie—whoever he was—was responsible for the shooting. Why? “So, I’m confused. When you say Artie, who—”

“James Arthur Griffin. I never liked the name James. He’s my husband. Unfortunately.” She dragged out the last word in disgust.

Lane could see Meg clearly in the grey light. “I thought Rex was your husband.”

“Oh, honey, it’s way too complicated to get into now. The real question is why you’re here. Did you see who shot Renwick?”

“No, of course not. I’m as puzzled as you. Wait, didn’t you say that was Paul Galloway’s cabin?” Would the assistant chief of police be working hand in glove with the biggest crook in town?

“Yeah. We use it sometimes when he’s not here. He is never here at the same time, for obvious reasons, but he’s been pretty good. Artie’s managed to stay out of the slammer thanks to him. It’s not cheap, but it’s worth it.”

“What do you mean, ‘not cheap’? Does Griffin pay Galloway to keep him out of trouble?”

Suddenly cautious, Meg shrugged. “Honestly, I don’t get his business dealings. I just stay out of the way and try to look pretty. Should we keep going?”

Thus equipped with a multitude of things to think about, Lane followed Meg, wanting to have her set the pace. The way was more visible with the lighter sky, and not a moment too soon, the terrain had changed from soft forest floor to steep and rocky inclines. They followed a narrow descending vale, much slowed down by the precipitous and rugged terrain, often having to scramble over and down boulders. Unfortunately, it was pulling them due south, and Lane wanted to try to push west. The one comforting thing was that they could now see the very eastern edge of the city far below and across the plain. It gave Lane some hope. Perhaps at the end of this narrow cleft they could veer west again. In the meantime, her mind was humming.

So, Galloway was collecting money to protect the criminal, the apparently murderous criminal, James Griffin. Artie. That established a link between Galloway and Griffin, a link she had not even been considering. She’d been wondering about a link between Griffin and Renwick. It didn’t surprise her. It was abundantly evident now that Galloway had engineered her kidnapping in retaliation, she was now absolutely certain, for helping Priscilla. The question was, what was he planning to do with her? With a shudder, she guessed: try to find out where his wife was—by fair means or foul.

She was about to ask Meg about what connection there might be between Griffin and Renwick when a chill gripped her heart. Even now, far down there somewhere in the city, Darling had gone to the police, to Martinez, maybe even to Galloway, to ask for his help in finding her.

For reasons he could not readily pinpoint, Ames was becoming anxious. A sense of impending doom was not something he was used to, being of a primarily sunny disposition, but he was afraid, and he could not pull the threads together in his mind to identify exactly what he feared.

“Look, Mr. Van Eyck, you’re going to have to stop this. Something is very wrong here, and we’re wasting time with you instead of trying to find the real killer. For the last time, why in God’s name did you think it was Tina?” Ames sensed, rather than saw, Terrell look up at his growing impatient tone.

“Okay. Some of what I said before is true. I did want to kill him. I couldn’t believe he’d have the temerity to come back to our garage after what he’d done. I could hear Tina yelling at him, and I came in and saw the smirk on his face, which only disappeared after she waved a wrench at him. He backed his car up and turned around, and Tina threw the wrench in the corner and stormed out. She likes to go sit on a picnic table near the lakeshore when she’s upset. I decided that was the last straw. I was going to have it