A Match Made for Murder

by Iona Whishaw

  “How could this have happened?” the desk agent repeated.

  That, thought Lane, is a good question. She turned and looked in the direction the bullets must have come from. She remembered they had been loud and very near. There was the low boxwood hedge between where they stood and the pool area, and a fence with a much higher planting of boxwood along the far side of the pool. That must be the road behind there, she thought. The growing scream of sirens became audible.

  Where was Ivy Renwick?

  Chapter Four

  Ames was finishing up some paperwork on a robbery at a local mining office and was feeling guilty that he’d not gotten out to photograph the garage door at the Van Eycks’ as he’d promised. The call had taken up the whole morning because the burglar had unexpectedly not made an attempt at the safe but had gone through papers, pulling open drawers and scattering the contents across the office, and the secretary had been trying to figure out what, if anything, had been actually stolen. He was nonplussed at the knock on his office door.

  “Constable Terrell. Do you have something on this break-in?”

  “No, sir, but there’s been an accident on the road just before the Harrop ferry. I’ve already contacted the ambulance service.”

  “Right,” Ames said, jumping up to reach for his coat and hat. “Come with me. Casualties?” he asked, as they clattered down the stairs.

  “The woman who called it in said there was one man in the car. She was a bit hysterical. She said she approached because the car was in a ditch, like the driver had lost control, and she said the man looked unconscious. She was coming off the ferry and saw it just before the main road. Car doors are locked. She apparently lives nearby and rushed home to make the call.” By this time, he too had retrieved his coat and hat and was holding the car keys up.

  Ames reached for them and then pulled his hand back. “Would you like to drive?”

  “Yes, sir, if you like. I haven’t driven this vehicle. Any peculiarities I should know about?”

  “As a matter of fact, there’s a kind of glitch when you throw it into reverse,” Ames said, opening the door to the unfamiliar passenger seat. His anxiety about someone else driving what he thought of as his beloved car was somewhat ameliorated by what he considered a very proper question from Terrell.

  As they drove the curve around the bottom of the hill the Nelson hospital was perched on, they heard the sound of a siren. “Should hit the ferry at the same time,” Terrell said. A sleety rain began to fall, and he leaned forward slightly as the wipers worked inadequately to clear the windshield.

  The ferry was heading away from town, bobbing on the dark green choppy water toward the north shore. They clearly had just missed it.

  Terrell turned off the engine, and he and Ames sat watching it, the wake looking almost luminescent on the dark surface of the water.

  “And that’s that,” Ames said. “Hurry up and wait.”

  “I have my thermos of coffee, sir,” Terrell said, holding it up. “And two cups.”

  “That’s pretty forward thinking of you, Constable. Any cookies?”

  “No, sir. But I’ll make a note for next time.”

  They sat, companionably drinking coffee, sweet and milky, just as Ames liked it. He looked about him at the bleak darkness of the lake and the gloomy bank of forest on the other side. It was a cold and deeply misty day. The kind of day that made it seem like the coming winter would last forever. He could see patches of snow already visible between the trees, and he sank into a kind of impatient melancholy. He wanted to ask Terrell about himself but wasn’t sure how to go about it. They’d never had a coloured officer on the Nelson force. In fact, he wasn’t sure he’d ever met a coloured person at all.

  “Nice country, sir. It reminds me a little of Nova Scotia.”

  Pleased at this opening, Ames said, “Is that where you’re from? How’d you find yourself all the way out here? I mean . . .” But whatever Ames thought he was going to say next eluded him, and he quickly felt flustered.

  Terrell smiled. “Not too many of my kind around here, is what you’re thinking. I just wanted a change of scene. It’s a big country. I heard there was an opening here, so I came.”

  “Right,” said Ames quickly. “Right, well, have you, I mean, how are you finding it with the uh—”

  “Oh, the guys are okay, sir. The inspector is great, everybody.”

  “Oh. Well, good.” Ames thought about people’s ability to be casually offensive about others in general, but polite when confronted with actual individuals.

  “So you trained in Nova Scotia?”

  “I was with the West Nova Scotia Regiment in the last two years of the war. Military police and reconnaissance. I was at university before that.”

  Ames nodded and opened his window to turn out the last drops of coffee in his mug. He shuddered and looked at his watch. He wished he had cigarettes, but his mother, perhaps because of the coughing and spitting death of his father, had made him promise never to take up the vile habit, as she suspected cigarettes were to blame. He smoked sometimes in the bar after work with the other fellows, but he could never really break his promise and take it up full-time. It would have provided a bit of spurious warmth now, though. Constable Terrell looked like a non-smoker.

  The hubbub of the police taking over the scene and pushing gawkers away found Lane standing with the blond woman who was still distraught. Her husband, who had produced a blanket to cover the body, had been working his way around the melee to reach them but had been held back by a police officer.

  “Thank you,” Lane said. “You did the right thing.”

  “I’ve never been so frightened in my life! I was just saying hello to him and . . . that . . . that awful noise . . . the way he fell like that . . .” She began to sob with great ragged breaths.

  “Sweetheart, what happened?” The woman’s husband finally made it past the police officer. He put his arm around his wife, who buried her face in his chest. He looked at Lane, still uncomprehending. “I don’t understand. What happened?”

  “I don’t really know, myself. I heard the gunfire and found Mr. Renwick like that. Can you look after your wife for a moment, maybe sit her down over there? I think the police may want to talk to her because they’ll want to know what she saw. I’m Lane Winslow. What are your names? I can let them know.”

  This caused the woman to look up, panic evident in her eyes. “Oh, I can’t, I can’t talk to anybody. They can’t make me, can they?” She looked imploringly at her husband and then glanced back at the scene.

  Stroking his wife’s head and offering a few more soothing words, the man turned to Lane. “I’m Rex Holden; this is my wife, Meg. I really don’t think she can talk to anyone.” The police had removed the bedspread that Holden had supplied to cover the body and were leaning over it taking pictures. Meg Holden looked away in horror and made a choking noise.

  “Maybe if you just sit over there, I can get someone to bring her some water. If she was standing right there, the police are going to have to talk to her. I don’t think there’s any way around it.”

  Rex Holden nodded grimly and took his shivering wife to sit on the edge of the lawn on a seat that overlooked the fountain rather than the turmoil of activity around Renwick’s body. The Holdens safely dispatched, Lane, conscious that her state of undress was hardly appropriate to the grim goings-on at a crime scene, approached a uniformed policeman who appeared to be in charge.

  “Excuse me,” she began.

  “Just go inside, miss,” he said impatiently, and then he shouted at an officer near the door. “I thought I told you to keep people away from here!”

  “My name is Lane Winslow. I assume you are the officer in charge? I was the second person on the scene. Mrs. Holden, who is sitting over there, was talking to Mr. Renwick when he was shot. I’ve asked her to stay there in case you want to ta
lk to her.” Lane delivered this in an insistent manner to forestall any further attempt to dismiss her.

  It seemed to work. The detective looked at her, then at the Holdens, and pushed his hat marginally back off his forehead.

  “You know this man?”

  “We just met. We’re guests here, and we dined with them last night. His name was Jack Renwick and his wife is Ivy Renwick.”

  “Where’s the wife?” The detective looked around briefly.

  “I don’t know.” Just at that moment, Lane saw a movement at the door of the main building. Someone was saying, “Step aside.” And then Assistant Police Chief Paul Galloway came through, and behind him was Darling.

  The detective looked surprised to see Galloway but nodded. “Sir.”

  “What’s going on, Sergeant? We heard it on the radio.”

  Darling nodded at the man who had been talking to Lane. “Sergeant Martinez,” he said by way of greeting.

  Martinez pointed to where the body was being photographed. “A man named Renwick has been shot, sir. That’s all we know so far. This lady thinks she has something to add.” He nodded toward Lane and then turned back to his boss. “She was second on the scene and knows the name of the deceased. I was just collecting some information from her. That lady over there was present when the man was shot.”

  Stepping past him, Darling thought Galloway had a peculiar expression on his face. Trying to take in the scene perhaps, he thought. Darling looked at Lane with a slight raise of his eyebrows that did not disguise the relief he felt at seeing her unharmed.

  Galloway shook his head and looked his officer. “This lady, Martinez, is Inspector Darling’s wife. Get someone to collect the information from the two witnesses, and you come with me,” he said peremptorily and then turned to Darling. “You’ll want to be here with your wife while someone questions her, of course. I’m going to have a look.” Galloway went over to where the body was being photographed as if a murder scene was a casual daily affair. Sergeant Martinez talked to a man in uniform who was taking notes and nodded in the direction of Lane and Darling.

  “You’re unbelievable,” Darling said. “I can’t leave you alone for five minutes. Are you all right?” He reached out and took her hand.

  “I’m fine, though my ears are still reverberating. The shots were very close. And before you ask, I didn’t find him—poor Mrs. Holden over there did, or rather, was standing right by him when he was shot. What I’m really worried about is Ivy Renwick. It’s going to be absolutely ghastly for her. She’s—”

  “Ma’am?” A young police officer with blue eyes tipped his hat slightly at Lane, interrupting her. “Sorry, ma’am. Officer Sandler. Do you mind?”

  Lane was struck by how young and fresh-faced he looked. A bit like Ames. She couldn’t help smiling, though she was aware of beginning to feel a little shaken up as her initial part in dealing with the emergency was over and the enormity of Renwick’s death began to hit home. “Not at all. Where would you like me?” She looked briefly at Darling, who had been about to say something to her when Sandler spoke again.

  “Maybe over here? You’re welcome to come, sir.” Sandler indicated the dining area under the ramada. Darling looked at Lane indecisively. He did, in fact, want to be there when Lane was questioned, not for the protective reasons Sandler no doubt had in mind, but more out of curiosity. He remembered the first time he’d met her and questioned her about a man found dead in the creek that served her house. He’d been quite dazzled, he’d realized later, by her clarity and sangfroid.

  “Officer Sandler, can you ask one of the officers to get some water for Mrs. Holden? She’s very upset,” Lane said, looking toward where the Holdens were sitting with their backs to her. Holden had his arm around his wife, who was crying, judging by the convulsive bobbing of her body.

  Sandler, who’d been about to sit down, went to the door and spoke quietly to one of the policemen keeping back the curious crowd.

  He returned and opened his book. “Can you just tell me everything you can remember, Mrs. Darling?”

  “I go by Lane Winslow,” Lane said, pointing at where the officer had written her name as Mrs. Darling.

  “I will have to use your legal name, ma’am.”

  Stifling a desire to suggest sweetly that perhaps her husband could give her version of the events for her, Lane said instead, “Of course. Lanette Evelyn Winslow Darling.” This was no time to stand on principle.

  She wanted to recapture the exact moment she had woken to the sound of the two gunshots, in particular, how close they had sounded. “I was dozing by the pool when I heard two shots, very close together, and then a scream. I ran in the direction of the scream and found Mrs. Holden looking terrified and Mr. Renwick as you found him. I sent Mrs. Holden to get the hotel to phone you, and I felt for a pulse, but obviously it was pointless.” Lane stopped and waited for Sandler to catch up.

  “You said you knew the victim?”

  “Yes, my husband and I had dinner with Mr. Renwick and his wife yesterday evening. They are from Wisconsin.”

  “You said two shots.”

  “Yes. While I was waiting for the police to arrive, I tried to piece together where they originated. There’s a thick hedge between the pool and the street over there. It struck me how nearby the sound was, as if someone was firing from the pool area where I was lying. But there was no one by the pool, except an older woman who jumped up when I did. I think it’s possible they came from the street, through, or over, that hedge. I can show you what I mean.”

  Sandler looked in the direction she was pointing, and then toward where Martinez was talking to Galloway.

  “If it was from the street, might there be any sign of the shooter?” Lane suggested.

  “That’s exactly what I was thinking, ma’am. Can you wait here?”

  Mrs. Holden, still sitting on the edge of the garden with her husband, had turned and was watching Lane, and when the officer had hurried over to Galloway, she got up, extracted her hand from that of her husband, and approached Lane.

  “How long is this going to take? I can’t take this! I need to lie down. How long can they keep us here?”

  Lane was sympathetic. It must have been horrific for Mrs. Holden to see a man killed right in front of her. “I don’t know, Mrs. Holden. I’ll ask the officer when he comes back if he can interview you and finish me up later. You must be in terrible shock.”

  “You got no idea! I near died of the shock. I don’t know how you can stay so calm. Call me Meg, by the way. I’m still not used to Mrs. Holden.”

  “I don’t feel calm inside, Meg, I assure you!” This was true enough. She could still feel her own anxious heartbeats. “This is my husband, Inspector Darling. He’s a police inspector in Canada, where we come from.” Lane could see that as they talked, Meg Holden seemed less distraught. She wondered if after the initial shock, some of her distress was a show of sorts for her husband.

  “Oh,” she said. “Canada. I thought your accent was funny. Wait. Something’s happening.”

  Meg and Lane looked over to the officers. Sandler was pointing toward the pool and Galloway, impatiently glancing toward Lane, nodded as if making a concession and dispatched two police officers to the pool area. Sandler started back toward them and then, seeing that Lane and Meg had been talking, moved quickly.

  “You’re going to have to go and wait there, miss,” he said to Meg.

  “Mrs. Holden was just asking me how long it would be. She’s very shaken up because she was right by him when he was shot. Could you possibly interview her now? I’m happy to wait,” Lane offered.

  What Sandler might have offered in reply was forever lost because Ivy Renwick burst through the door and pushed past the police blockade, screaming.

  “Jack! Jack! Oh my God . . . I knew he was crazy!”

  Chapter Five

  “How
do you know your way around so well?” Ames asked, as they bumped off the ferry and sped north toward the Harrop turnoff. He’d have preferred snow to this icy, driving rain.

  “When I first got here, I got out a map and drove the roads. One of the fellows showed me the extent of our outreach, so I thought I better get to know it. It’s a habit from doing reconnaissance in the army, I guess.”

  Ames was silent for a moment. He had always been conscious of what he thought of as one significant difference between himself and his boss: Darling had been in combat, and he had not. He had tried to sign up in September of 1939 but was told he’d be required for policing at home. At nineteen he’d just landed a job at the Nelson Police, and though he had understood the need, he had felt keenly the envy of watching others, including his friends, going off on the big adventure. And he had seen how war had changed his friends when they returned. Some came home more serious, a little weary perhaps, but unwilling to fritter away their lives as they had seemed intent on doing as younger men. Some had returned as his father had from the Great War: damaged, angry, fearful in ways that seemed hard for them to get past.

  “I wasn’t able to sign up. They said I would be exempted for police duty here. I wish I could have.”

  “I wouldn’t, sir.”

  There was something about the way Terrell said this that suggested he wished to say no more about the subject.

  Terrell turned right down the road that led to the lake and the ferry landing and stopped the car in front of the listing green two-door Chevy. The ambulance was close behind. The listing car was at least a decade old. The icy rain was still slashing down. Ames got out, pulling his jacket around him, and strode to the car to look in the window.

  “Doors are both locked. He doesn’t look too well. We’re going to have to break in,” he said to the ambulance driver.

  Ames gave the window a wipe with his lower arm to clear the water off. A man was slumped forward and against the door. His hat had been knocked off, perhaps as he fell forward, and was balanced on the steering wheel and dashboard. He certainly looked dead. The most the ambulance was going to do was take his body back to town. Still, there might be a chance he was unconscious.