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

“You’d cut off your own nose to spite your face!” she flung back at him. “You think I have money on my own? There’d be no more nice things if I left Rex.”

“There hasn’t been anything nice for a while, baby, and I don’t need your money. I told you, I love you. I told you that. Now make up your mind.” He had gone from debonair to sulky.

Someone came down the stairs and headed for the ladies’ powder room and they fell silent, looking at the floor.

“Nothing to say? Okay. See you around.” The man pulled himself off the wall he’d been leaning on, put his hat on, and walked up the stairs and through the curtain into the lobby.

Meg stood, congealed with pain and fear in the quiet hallway. She couldn’t follow him or call him back. It was more than her life was worth.

Griffin picked up the phone in his office and asked his secretary to put him through.

“Yes?” The voice that answered was curt.

“I thought you were going to take care of things. That sergeant is still grinding away at me. He’s found where the other money is going.”

“Look, I told you, the case is going nowhere. I’ve got problems of my own right now, all right? You have to trust me.”

“Honestly, I don’t care. I did trust you, and I did a favour for you on the basis of it. I’d just as soon not be involved. I don’t need another dead body on my hands.”

“What do you mean another?”

Griffin sighed. “I had to take care of a little family business, okay? It didn’t work out, but at least that cop, Martinez, is going in a good direction on that. Did I tell you I got a photographer? He takes pictures of the restaurant for my advertising flyers. He does some other stuff too. Very smart. I have a couple of nice photos of you and me, you know that? Anyway, I gotta go. I’m leaving this in your capable hands. But I don’t have a lot of time. I got a business to run.” He slammed down the receiver. It was useful to have a cop in your pocket, but it could be a big pain in ass.

Griffin flung the papers he was holding on the large oak desk that dominated his office at the restaurant. The man in front of him was looking down, trying to hide his fear.

“You’re an idiot, you know that? A simple job, that’s all I asked of you! Now what are we gonna do? The police are looking for answers. I can’t afford to keep them and you on the payroll if you’re going to be a jackass. I’ve got a good mind to toss you at them. One less stupid employee for me. Did you even listen to Hidalgo?”

The man said nothing. It was obvious to him that if Mr. Griffin did feed him to the police, it would just blow back on him, but it would make him even madder to hear that.

There was a long silence. Finally Griffin, perhaps reaching the same conclusion, blew out his breath in disgust. “Get out of here. Keep your nose clean, or I’m sending you to the operation in Albuquerque to get you outta my sight.”

When the man had gone, Griffin sat down heavily and closed his eyes. He’d been in tight situations before. Tighter even. His big problem was that he couldn’t trust anyone. People used to do exactly what he told them. His wife, his men. Now it seemed like everybody did whatever they wanted. He had a momentary idea that he was getting too old for the whole thing. That he should cash out and move to Florida. His wife would like that. She always used to talk about Florida. He’d forgive her and they’d live the good life in Miami or Tampa. Maybe after the court case. That, at least, was going as planned.

Chapter Eighteen

Galloway drove into the parking lot of St. Mary’s and turned off the engine. Staring glumly at the building, he pulled out his cigarettes and lit one. He inhaled a big lungful of smoke and then leaned his arm on the open window. Oddly, though he was assailed by some of the biggest problems he could remember having to confront—his wife was lying inside in a bit of a mess and he was beginning to have anxious doubts about the Griffin business—it was Darling who came to mind.

He’d liked Darling back in Nelson when he arrived from Vancouver in ’36. He was studious and paid attention, especially to what he’d said to him. He’d shown young Darling the ropes. Now look at him. An inspector, and no doubt thanks to everything he’d taught him. But instead of being grateful, he seemed—he couldn’t find the word. Condescending, almost, as if Darling couldn’t quite approve of him. It wasn’t anything he said. It was the opposite. It was his silences, his noncommittal nodding, as if butter wouldn’t melt. And then he turns up with that beautiful wife. Cultured, smart, from the upper crust. The real deal, not like poor Priscilla with that put-on accent trying to cover her Cockney roots. Darling didn’t deserve a woman like that. He wasn’t man enough for her, he thought in a sudden flight of fancy.

He flicked his cigarette onto the ground and rolled up the window. Maybe he could get Priscilla out today, get her home. She was making more of a fuss than was absolutely necessary, and he didn’t want to have to keep coming to the hospital. He hated hospitals. He’d talk to the doctor about it. Persuade him that she’d be better off at home where everything was familiar and she had a maid to look after her.

The elevator opened on the hushed beige and green floor, the nurse’s station directly opposite with two white-capped women busy with papers behind the counter. He wouldn’t bother them. He knew