A Match Made for Murder Iona Whishaw (pride and prejudice read .TXT) 📖

“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 talk 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