A Match Made for Murder by Iona Whishaw (heaven official's blessing novel english txt) 📕

“Got the wallet!” he shouted down to Terrell. He pulled out his handkerchief and picked it up, shaking the water off it, and started back down to where the car still sat, forlornly tilted at the side of the road, as if it were already beginning its journey into decrepitude.

“I was looking for keys as well,” Terrell said, “but nothing doing. It must have been someone he picked up. But why would someone take the keys? Do a lot of people hitchhike along this road?”

“That’s a good question. I suppose some must. Not everyone owns a car.”

Being careful not to put his fingerprints on it, Ames opened the wallet. It was empty of cash. This increased the likelihood of a robbery but illuminated very little else. In a second pocket was a thick folded paper.

“God, this bloody awful rain. Hop in,” Ames said, dropping the wallet onto the seat and collapsing his umbrella. Once back inside the police car, he pulled the wallet out with his handkerchief, laid it on the seat between them, and opened the thick card carefully. It was soaked through, but still perfectly identifiable as a British Columbia driver’s licence.

It was a 1941 licence issued to one Barney D. Watts, complete with address of same.

“It’s been a horrible day,” Lane said. She and Darling had dressed for dinner, but now sat listlessly on the end of the bed, in the grip of the same miasma of bewilderment that seemed to have overtaken the whole inn. “I’m not even sure I’m hungry. And I can’t imagine how poor Mrs. Renwick and Mrs. Holden are feeling. Police have told both of them they can’t leave. And I’m feeling a little guilty because I can’t stop thinking about whether either of them has something to do with it.”

“And here we go,” said Darling, taking her hand. “Look, the place was awash with police officers today, right on the scene. It’s nothing to do with us. And starving ourselves is not going to achieve anything but making me crotchety. Come. Avanti.” Darling stood up and pulled Lane to her feet and folded her in an embrace.

“Of course, you’re right, darling,” Lane said from his shoulder. She lifted her head and looked into his eyes, something she had an affinity for as much as he did for her cheekbones. “But, don’t you—”

“Ah!” he said, raising an admonishing finger. “Dinner.”

The dining room was subdued, as if the spectre of the death that had taken place right outside the window had instilled a fearful reluctance in the hotel guests to be noticed by the fates. When Lane and Darling were being ushered to a table, the room fell quiet for a moment, and then people leaned in to talk quietly and pretend not to look at her.

“We missed our drink with the sunset,” Darling said. “A cocktail?”

“Won’t it look unfeeling?” Lane asked.

“We can ask the waiter to hold the tiny umbrella and any other frivolity. In fact, we can ask him to put it in a mug, if you like. If anyone needs a drink, it’s you. None of these people had to spend the afternoon being questioned by the police or attempting to keep poor Ivy Renwick from disintegrating. And Mrs. Holden too, for that matter.”

The waiter dispatched for strong drink, and the steaks ordered, Lane sat with her chin resting on her hand. “I can’t shake these two things: Meg was meeting a young man with a moustache on the sly, and Renwick apparently has an unstable, shell-shocked brother who could quite probably be angry about the family company going to his younger sibling.”

“And you think,” Darling raised his eyebrows in a show of incredulity, “that these things are related?”

“I’m not saying that, certainly, but they are . . . I don’t know . . . circumstances. How often have you said that secrets lie at the heart of every murder?”

“Never. And anyway, the possibly angry brother is no secret. Renwick told us quite openly about him. And may I remind you that Wisconsin is very far away. However, since you are so insistent on using dinnertime conversation that could better be spent on other topics, did you tell Officer Sandler either of these things?”

“I didn’t. I was being asked to describe what I saw and heard. Anyway, I didn’t think of it till afterward. And it’s a dilemma, isn’t it? Meg’s liaison is most certainly a secret, and if it has nothing to do with Renwick being shot, then it’s none of my business and revealing it would likely do untold damage to her marriage. And as to the other, you’re right. Wisconsin is far away. But more importantly, Sandler asked Ivy if her husband had any enemies and she said he hadn’t, that he was very well respected by all who knew him. Ivy told me the brother is on the way and should be here tomorrow. Apparently, she called him in a panic because she didn’t want to have to cope on her own. The police will no doubt question him then. I’ll go see both of them in the morning to make sure they’re all right,” Lane said, brightening slightly at the arrival of their drinks, about which none of their neighbours batted an eye.

The morning, a symphony of golden sunlit colours and birdsong, found Lane sitting outside on the deck in a chair with her feet on a stool reading The Nine Tailors. As if on cue, a church bell nearby began to ring. She closed her eyes to listen. She was a child again, listening to the bells on Sundays from the churches in the nearby village. Approaching footsteps interrupted her memories, and she looked up to see a hotel maid carrying a tray toward the villa.

“Good morning,” Lane said, smiling. “Is that for the Holdens? They probably need it; I don’t think they ate last night at