A Match Made for Murder

by Iona Whishaw

  “Do you mean with someone who isn’t her husband? I saw that too, quite by accident, as I’m sure you did.”

  “It’s just that he’s come a few times. He comes in this door so no one sees him and they meet here. Yesterday, and on a couple of other days, she left by this door and was picked up in a car. I didn’t see who was driving, but it must have been him. This isn’t the way the guests are supposed to go in and out of the hotel. I think she was crazy to marry a man as old as Mr. Holden, but she did, and she took sacred vows. I don’t think she should be sneaking around like that.”

  Lane pulled on her cocktail dress and turned to have Darling zip it up. “Oh. I just thought of poor Ivy. She’s having to stay on while the police continue the investigation. And given what I’ve learned about her brother-in-law, she’s got her hands full there. Perhaps I should stay back and offer support instead of putting on the bib and tucker for a bang-up night of eating and drinking. In fact, I’m surprised the management are even doing this.”

  Darling took the opportunity to move her hair and kiss the back of her neck and then zipped up her dress. “Has she asked for your help?”

  “Well, no.”

  “I suspect that if anyone wants your help, they will ask for it. This is a difficult time, and we don’t really know much about her, or her relations. I suspect we ought not to interfere.” Darling held up two ties, a maroon number with subtle dark stripes and a silver-blue one with a geometric orange design.

  “You should get one of these bolo ties we’re seeing everywhere. There are some very nice ones in the shop here,” she said, looking at what was on offer. “That orange and blue is quite racy. I didn’t know you had anything like that.”

  “There is a lot you don’t know about me. For example, I will be in my grave before I consider a bolo tie. The blue and orange then.”

  Lane watched him in the mirror, deftly flipping the tie into its full Windsor.

  “Could you go look at something else? You’re distracting me in ways that will cause us to miss the cocktails,” Darling said, looking at her reflection in the mirror.

  “Really, darling.” She gently kissed his neck in return and then, stepping firmly away, pulled on her gloves. “You never told me what Martinez said when you telephoned him this afternoon.”

  “He asked me to describe the man, where we saw them, and at what time. Then he thanked me courteously and asked if I would be available should they wish to speak to me further. He also mentioned he’d talked to Renwick’s brother—beyond which he told me nothing, before you ask.”

  Chapter Eight

  September 1947, Kenosha, Wisconsin

  “Well, this is an honour. Ivy let you out of the kennel, did she? What’ll you have? Mine’s whisky, if you don’t mind.” Edward Renwick was leaning heavily on the bar, his tie undone and his hair pushed off his forehead in a way that made it stand up in a messy hedge.

  “He can have one more, but that’s it,” the bartender said to Jack Renwick. “If you’re the brother he’s been talking about, you should get him home.”

  That was more easily suggested than done. Edward had become truculent, and he glowered when Jack had tried a gentle pull on his sleeve.

  “Why don’t you leave me the hell alone? Go back to your wife and your golden boy life.” He emphasized wife with a measure of disdain that made Jack frown.

  “Come on, Ned,” he tried quietly. “No need to make a spectacle. The barkeeper is going to toss us both in a minute. You can come home, and Ivy can make you some dinner. You don’t look like you’ve had a decent meal in days.”

  “So considerate,” Edward sneered, but he got up slowly, pulling his arm sharply away from his brother’s grasp.

  Jack threw a bill on the bar and walked out behind his brother. When they were on the street he pointed to where he had parked the car and once again touched him gently, this time on the back to guide his brother in the right direction.

  “I told you not to touch me!” Edward seemed to explode and, with an oath, turned and threw a punch that found Jack’s cheekbone and caused him to stagger and then fall in an ungainly heap onto the sidewalk.

  Jack opened and closed his eyes, trying to get back some focus, and began to push himself off the ground. Edward had started to walk away, and Jack thought he should call him back, but the blow had disoriented him. Finally he was on his feet and looking for his hat, which had tumbled into the street. He put his hand to his cheek and whimpered.

  “Ned, for God’s sake,” he managed, retrieving his hat.

  Edward, who had disappeared around the corner, suddenly appeared again, striding toward his brother and then stopping. “You can go back to that so-called wife and your happy little life living on what’s mine and leave me alone. What I do is none of your business. I don’t need sympathy from you,” he said, “or rescue.” He spat and turned back down the street and disappeared.

  Darling and Lane entered the library, where a gleaming candlelit bar and waiters crisply attired in white had replaced the usual tea paraphernalia. Smoke rose from cigarettes and spread across the ceiling, and the dim room hummed with quiet conversation punctuated by intermittent peals of laughter. It was a room full of people who might have heard of the tragic events of the last couple of days but had determined to put it out their minds—and were succeeding.

  “What’ll it be?” Darling asked.

  “Something exotic.” Lane looked around. “Something like that.” She pointed at a woman holding a cocktail glass full of amber liquid with a lemon twist balanced on the rim.

  Darling pushed off through the crowd, and Lane, near the fireplace, surveyed the room. Certainly some of the guests she had not seen at any of their previous meals or by the pool. She guessed they had arrived after the shooting and must simply have felt lucky to find themselves fêted on their first night at the expense of the hotel. She could see Darling leaning on the bar, waiting for the drinks, and she smiled at the thought of him as she had first met him: formal, serious, correct, with the tiniest whiff of a dark sense of humour. And now he loved her and let himself be loved by her. She was happy in a way she had never imagined possible. She chided herself for the incongruity of her happiness in the face of recent horrific events and then fell fully to earth.

  Standing in the doorway, with a double whisky, neat, was a man who looked so like the recently deceased Renwick that she emitted a little gasp. She was watching the ash accumulating on the cigarette he held loosely in his mouth when Darling made his way back holding his own whisky and the amber drink. “It’s called a sidecar,” he said, presenting it to her. “Chin-chin.”

  “Darling, look over there. I realize it’s because this room is cast in atmospheric cocktail darkness, but that man looks exactly like Jack Renwick from here. It gave me quite a turn, I can tell you. It must be the brother.”

  “Shouldn’t he be comforting the grieving widow, not here guzzling whisky?” Darling commented, sipping his own.

  “This is actually very good. What’s it got in it?”

  “Sorry, I wasn’t paying attention. He looks a bit like someone who’s had several already. Didn’t you say she said he was a bit of a handful?”

  “Yes, quite given to drink, apparently, and professed himself violently in love with her. Ought we to go and, I don’t know . . . talk to him? I mean, we are probably the only ones here who even know he’s just lost his brother. How on earth did he get here so fast?”

  “He must have flown. An expensive proposition, but I suppose since his brother was murdered, he wanted to hurry out. I assume the police have already talked to him, and they’ve obviously found no reason to hold him. I suppose there’s no harm,” Darling said.

  “How do you do?” Lane said, offering her hand when they had made their way through the crowd. “Sorry to barge up like this, but I believe you might be Mr. Renwick? I’m so sorry for what you must be going
through.”

  “Not as sorry as I am,” the man said. He’d been leaning against the wall and now pulled himself upright. He stubbed out his cigarette and offered a hand. “Who are you again? And how do you know who I am?”

  “Sorry, yes, I should have said. I’m Lane Winslow, and this is my husband Frederick Darling. I was one of the first people on the scene when your brother died. We had been dining with him and Mrs. Renwick only the night before. It was a terrible thing. We’re so very sorry. How is Mrs. Renwick doing?”

  He released Lane’s hand and shook Darling’s. “Ned Renwick.” He tilted his head to look at the ceiling, sighed, and turned to Lane. “I have no idea in the world how she’s doing. She won’t see me.” He took a drink. “It’s only what I deserve, I suppose. Police won’t release his body. They questioned me this afternoon, and they don’t appear to want to release the idea that I might be the one who shot him. I’m a good shot, or I was, but with the best will in the world I could not have shot him from Wisconsin. I don’t really know why she even asked me to come. Especially when she won’t talk to me now that I’m here. Insult to injury to be questioned by the police on top of that!”

  “Look, I think they’ll be calling us to dinner soon. Why not sit with us?” Lane suggested, ignoring a not so subtle elbow from Darling.

  “Well, I got no one else, and a pretty woman is always a good companion, begging your pardon, Mr. Darling.”

  “Inspector,” corrected Darling.

  The man laughed, whatever he’d already had to drink making him slightly sloppy. “Inspector. That some sort of police title? So you’re the fuzz. I suppose you’ve been sent here to keep an eye on me.”

  “I am not the American fuzz. I am the Canadian fuzz. I assure you I have no jurisdiction. We are here on holiday,” Darling said.

  “Well, all right then. Dinner it is.”

  When they had settled at a table near the door, Renwick looked around, holding his glass as if he would order another whisky, but then put it down. “I can’t afford to stay here, but if there’s a free dinner and drinks going . . . ” He shrugged. “She can afford it okay,” he added bitterly. “She’s got the whole pile, now. But you don’t want to hear about my troubles. Tell me about yourselves.”

  Lane, who rather did want to hear about his troubles, smiled. “We’re just here for our honeymoon. It’s my first time in the United States.”

  “Jack and Ivy were here for the same thing, though they’ve been married now for three years. So, what’s Canada like?”

  “More trees than here,” said Darling austerely, resenting that this bitter and vaguely unhinged third party was ruining his dinner.

  Renwick laughed. Wine was poured and plates of salad produced. He took up his glass. “To honeymoons, then. And trees. God knows this place could sure use some.”

  “What do you do in Wisconsin?” Lane asked, then felt guilty immediately as she remembered he’d been, as he would see it, done out of his company.

  “I used to work for my father, just like Jack, and Saint Ivy, for that matter, but when I got back stateside from serving our almighty flag, I found myself out on my ass. Dad willed the whole thing over to darling Jack, so now I work at an insurance company that was willing to hire a down-and-out vet.”

  “Where will you stay while you wait for the police to release the body?” Darling asked, wanting to steer Renwick away from any further maudlin disclosures.

  “There’s a rooming house in the town. I found it yesterday. I don’t know why I bothered to come. She doesn’t seem to need me to do anything, so she can be in charge of getting his body home.” He waved his fork at the salad. “This is okay, whatever it is. I prefer a good steak, myself. Preferably wild. I hunt back home. In fact, I could be hunting now instead of sitting here like a chump. No offence, ma’am.”

  “None taken. You’ve had a dreadful time of it. It sounds like you might not stay on then?” Lane asked.

  “I don’t know. I’m sure the Equity House Insurance Company will indulge me for a few more days, but I can’t look a gift job in the mouth. It depends on Ivy. She and I could have . . .” but he didn’t finish his thought. “I’m not sorry. I came down to see if she’d see things my way now he’s out of the way.” He looked at them sharply. “There. You’re shocked. I’m just telling the truth.”

  Lane wasn’t shocked. This fit with what Ivy had told her about Ned, but she was surprised to hear him say it out loud. There’s the demon drink for you, she thought, wondering what anyone could possibly say after that sort of revelation. She daren’t look at Darling, but amazingly, it was he who came to the rescue.

  “What sort of hunting do you get up in Wisconsin?”

  By the time the dishes of ice cream arrived, Darling was heartily tired of Ned Renwick’s company, but he’d been provided with some food for thought, much to his annoyance. He might have to get involved after all.

  Ames got up and stretched. A day later and they still hadn’t heard from the coroner on cause of death. Ames had asked Gilly to report anything unusual when he’d finished his work at the city morgue. Gilly had, on first look, been inclined to agree with the medic about the heart attack. They’d also contacted the Nelson Daily News to report the accident, without any of the details, and put out a request to the public for information.

  Ames, who had asked Terrell to come to his office, thought he recognized something of himself in the rookie constable. Ames was finding it strange to have a subordinate, but he thought of how Darling, though inclined to sarcasm, had treated his ideas with respect. They’d been discussing the case, and Terrell had had some good insights. It felt a bit like completing the circle, to be giving Terrell the same respect. Now Terrell was silent, waiting for Ames to sum up.

  “So,” Ames said, “this is what we’ve got: Watts appears to have taken a bag of some sort to go away but doesn’t tell his wife. Instead of going to work, he drives in the opposite direction and is found dead of apparently natural causes near the Harrop ferry, only his keys are gone, the doors are locked, and someone has swiped the cash out of his wallet and disappeared into thin air. And where’s the bag? Locked in the trunk of the car, of course. Well, the car’s around back. We can jimmy open the trunk.” Ames shook his head. “What I don’t have any more is a suspect for the mess on the garage door. But I suppose Miss Van Eyck seemed pretty adamant she didn’t want our involvement in the matter, so that’s that. I’m starving. I can’t think any more. The trunk can wait for half an hour. Why don’t we go next door and have a bite? It’s our usual place. Great grilled cheese and ham. Maybe someone will call in with something while we’re gone.”

  “Sure. I can do up these notes later.”

  “Well, well,” said April. “Look what the cat dragged in. And who have we got here, Sergeant Ames?”

  Ames wasn’t sure he entirely liked the way she emphasized sergeant, but replied cheerfully enough, “This is Constable Terrell. He’s new.”

  “Yes, I guessed as much. Nice to meet you, Constable,” said April, beaming. “Start you off with coffees? It’s freezing out there! We’ll be getting snow any time now.”

  The two policemen sat at the counter, Terrell rubbing his hands to get some warmth into them.

  “Where are you from?” April asked, filling the two thick white mugs she’d slid into place in front of them.

  “Nova Scotia.”

  “You don’t say! I guess you two are pretty busy right about now. I read in the paper today that Barney Watts has been found dead. Not before time, if you want my opinion.” This she said in a conspiratorial whisper, leaning toward them. “What’ll it be, gentlemen?”

  “I’ll have my usual ham and cheese, grilled,” said Ames.

  “Quelle surprise,” April said. “And you, Constable?”

  “I’ll have the same, I guess.”

  “We do have other stuff, you know. Or yo
u could just skip it all and go right to the pie. Apple blackberry today.” She smiled winningly.

  Terrell smiled back. “Maybe another time.”

  When she had gone to put the order slip up, Ames turned to Terrell and said in a low voice, “Now what do you think she meant by that? She must know something. She’s not usually bloodthirsty like that.”

  Terrell glanced at April’s back. “I’m glad to hear it. And I wondered the same thing.”

  When the sandwiches came, Ames said, “Have you got a second, April?”

  April looked around the café. There were only two booths occupied; it was pushing one-thirty and the lunch crowd had mostly dispersed. “I knew I shouldn’t have said anything. You want to know what I meant by that remark about Watts, I suppose.”

  “You’re psychic. That’s exactly what we want. Did you know him?”

  “No, not exactly. By reputation, more. I have a sister who’s six years older than me, and he had a reputation back in the thirties of going after girls way too young for him. I think one of Sandra’s friends got into some kind of trouble. Then there was a girl called Tina for a while too, back in . . . oh I don’t know, way before the war, anyway. He works down at the yards, and I think he has a wife, and maybe even a kid, but that doesn’t seem to stop him from tomcatting around. I’ve heard he’s got a girl in town somewhere.”

  “You don’t know who she is?” Terrell asked.

  “No, but I hear stuff. Maybe now that this is in the paper, I can chat with some of the regulars, see if they know anything.”

  “And do you remember your sister’s friend’s name?”

  “Nah, but I can ask Sandra. She’s up in Prince George with her husband. I owe her a call. I can do that for you. Maybe I should go into the police force myself after all this,” she said, smiling.