A Match Made for Murder

by Iona Whishaw

  “Just say the word,” Ames said. He was trying to sound nonchalant, but inside a kind of unfamiliar anxiety had seized him. “We could use a lady police . . . person. I saw a few in Vancouver when I was there. I think they mostly have desk jobs.”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t be happy with that. I’d want to be where the action is! When is your boss getting home, anyway? He’s the one that inspired my thoughts about becoming a policewoman.”

  Trying to still a slight wince of disappointment that it wasn’t he who had inspired her, Ames said, “Another week and half, two. They went to Arizona. April, that Tina you mentioned. Do you remember her last name?”

  April shook her head. “Her dad ran a garage up the lake somewhere, I think.” She looked out at the drizzle that had begun to hit the windows. “Bet it’s nice in Arizona. You boys better eat up, or it’ll be cold.”

  Chapter Nine

  Ames sat in his office, too stunned to do more than stare at his typewriter. He felt as though he kept hearing April say, “Her dad ran a garage.” He remembered seeing Terrell glance up at him briefly, expressionless, when she’d said it. It was exactly what Mrs. Watts had said. A girl whose father ran a garage. He was in a complete state of confusion and, he realized, anger. How could she have lied to him? How could she have pretended she hadn’t known Watts when she most certainly had, and possibly intimately?

  “Tina,” Terrell had said, on the way back to the station. “That’s a coincidence if I’ve ever heard one. Can we assume it’s the same Tina? Did Miss Van Eyck say anything to you about her knowing this guy before? Not that it matters. Mrs. Watts says he didn’t go out that night.”

  “She did not,” Ames had answered glumly. “But what if it does matter? If Tina thinks he’s the one responsible for the painting then—”

  “I can’t see how it has any bearing on the man’s death though, which we still think is natural, in spite of the robbery and the locked car.”

  Ames was going to have to go back to take a picture of the paint on the door and explain that they weren’t going to be charging Watts, who apparently had an alibi and was now dead—and by the way, was there anything she’d like to add? Feeling terrible about asking the Van Eycks to leave that vile word on the garage door for a photo that the death of Watts had pushed out of his thoughts, he pulled his hat off the stand and buttoned himself into his coat, calling Terrell.

  “Let’s get that trunk open.”

  Taking the crowbar that Ames had placed in the police car, he and Terrell stood looking at the trunk. “It’s a shame to make a mess of the car,” Terrell commented. “It’s the only car Mrs. Watts’s got.”

  “Needs must,” Ames said, expertly popping the trunk open. There, indeed, was a small military-looking canvas carry bag with a brass clasp and leather handles. Using his handkerchief, Ames pulled it out, leaving Terrell to shut the trunk and stow the crowbar.

  “Hello,” said Terrell. He’d been about to shut the trunk but stopped. “Look at this.” He was pointing at the space where the bag had sat.

  Ames leaned in and looked, and then put his finger on the thick rubbery smudge on the floor of the trunk. “Paint,” he said. “Black. I’m guessing we don’t have to look any further for the garage-door vandal, after all. His wife said he didn’t go out that night. It looks like Watts was leading a double life.”

  Back in his office, Ames used the handkerchief to snap open the clasp. Both of them leaned in, surprised. The topmost layer in the bag consisted of some quite colourful lady’s clothes.

  He wasn’t going to take Terrell with him. When he got down the stairs, he saw the constable at his desk in the back corner typing his notes. He had piled the clothes in front of him on the desk and was listing them. “Underwear, sir, and two complete changes of clothing for her. Same for him. All new, but no tags. Size 16 R, whatever that is. They look like the woman wearing them would be quite slim. Though his wife is slender, I’m guessing they don’t belong to her. This bright-red dress doesn’t seem like her sort of style at all. It means, though, that there could have been someone in the car with him. It’s not enough clothing to run off for any length of time, but it’s enough for a lost weekend.”

  “And that someone either took advantage of his heart attack to steal his money or fled and someone else did. Listen, I’m going out to ask Miss Van Eyck a couple of questions and let them know they can paint the garage because I still think it’s likely Watts was the culprit. I’ll stop by Mrs. Watts’s and ask about the clothes, just in case. Could you get down to the train station and learn anything you can about his work, his mates, whether he shared his plans with anyone? You know, that sort of thing.”

  “Yes, sir. I’ve been doing these notes. Even before the lady’s clothing, something has struck me as—”

  “Odd?” Ames supplied.

  Terrell smiled, “Yes, sir. Mrs. Watts said he’d go to the coast for some sort of training, but I find that kind of, yes, odd, because he was essentially a labourer, even if he was supervising a group. They clean up the yard, move track, shovel coal. I can’t imagine these jobs would require them to go anywhere for special training.”

  “Yes, I see what you mean, but she said he was away a lot after he got back from Europe. Worth looking into because it’s strange that this time he didn’t tell his wife he was going anywhere. A lost weekend with someone, or going away for good?”

  “By the way, sir, Mrs. Watts would like the car back as soon as we are able. It’s been hard for her to get around without it as she lives so far out of town.”

  The rain had moved on, and the sky had cleared, bringing with it colder temperatures. Ames bumped down the road to the garage and stopped the car, sitting for a moment looking despondently at the garage doors, which were both shut. The offending word had been covered with an old sheet, but even with the possible sin of her having lied to him about knowing Watts, he could not imagine anyone applying the word to her, or any woman, now that he thought about it. With a sigh, he was about to open the door when a truly disquieting thought hit him like a clap of thunder.

  What if Terrell was wrong? What if this did have something to do with Watts’s death? If Tina had lied to him about knowing Watts, could she have something to do with his robbery? What if she was the one he was running off with? He sat, staring at the doors, trying to take this idea in. He checked his apprehension and reminded himself he was a police sergeant. He’d have to take this on board and be very cautious.

  He heard banging coming from the inside of the garage as he approached. The small door at the side was ajar. The overhead lights barely seemed to penetrate the obscurity of the inside. When his eyes adjusted, Ames saw Tina hammering at the rim of a tyre and Mr. Van Eyck leaning into the engine of a 1927 half-ton Chevy truck. Van Eyck pulled up at the sound of Ames’s “Hello.”

  “Pretty sound, these things. I’ve kept this one on the road for twenty years.” Van Eyck looked for a rag and, not finding it, wiped his hands on his coveralls. “You’re here to take the picture,” he continued. “Tina! The sergeant is here!”

  Tina stopped and stood up straight. “Sergeant,” she said by way of greeting.

  “Could I have a moment of your time, Miss Van Eyck, outside?”

  Something in Ames’s voice made her frown. “I suppose so. Why? I thought you were here to take the picture.”

  “Just step outside, please.” He was surprised by how officious he sounded, even to himself.

  Outside, Tina watched with her arms crossed, alert now as Ames paused, apparently unable to articulate his first question. She shifted from one foot to the other. “Well, what is it? I have work to do.”

  “Yes. Me too. First of all, Barney Watts. He likely did this, but he won’t be doing any more. We found him dead in his car near the Harrop ferry.”

  This revelation caused Tina to gasp and lean against the front of the maroon police vehicle. She had
blanched and was shaking her head. “Dead? How can he be dead?”

  Her pallor startled him and concern outweighed Ames’s determination to be the hard and clinical policeman. “Can I get you some water, Miss Van Eyck?” He looked toward the garage, wondering if he should get her father.

  Tina saw where he was looking. “No! For God’s sake, I don’t want him here. I’m fine. I’m just shocked, that’s all. How did he die?”

  Ames watched her face. Was she pretending, or was she genuinely shocked? He took a breath. “Miss Van Eyck, I have reason to believe you may have known Barney Watts better than you let on last time I was here. Why didn’t you say?”

  Tina turned away, looking toward the water through the now-skeletal trees. “All right. Yes. God, I can’t believe it. I absolutely hated him, but this . . .”

  “Miss Van Eyck, where were you yesterday afternoon?” Ames regretted it as soon as he’d said it. It sounded far-fetched, but what if she was the one planning to run off with the dead man? In the next instant he knew how unlikely it was and wondered if he was just getting back at her for lying to him about knowing Watts.

  She turned and looked at him furiously. “Oh, for Pete’s sake, stop being such an ass, Sergeant!”

  June 1935

  Tina sighed happily as she walked down the road to the garage from where the school bus had dropped her off. Last day of school, ever! There had been little rain, and the sun made the grass in the unused fields on either side of the road golden. The line of aspen behind the garage below her was a picture of white bark and green flittering leaves; it was impossible to tell if it was the lake that sparkled or the trees.

  She turned at the sound of a car bumping down the road behind her. A customer. She stepped onto the grassy bank on the side to let it go by, but it stopped. A man with black wavy hair leaned out of the window and smiled at her. He wasn’t young, but he was very good looking, she thought. His lips were curled into a confident smile that made her feel flushed. His dark blue eyes seemed to bore into her.

  “Need a lift?”

  His playful tone gave her an unfamiliar confusion, and she felt embarrassed that it must be visible on her face. “It’s okay. I’m just going home to the garage.”

  “Well, that’s where I’m going, so hop in.”

  “But it’s just down there,” she said. She tried to look away, but his eyes held hers. They were like the blue of the sky above the lake.

  “Come on! I’m not going to hurt you,” he coaxed. “Come around and hop in.” He leaned away from her to push the passenger side door open.

  She looked nervously down the hill to where the garage lay basking in the June sun, imagining her father inside working, her mother in the house or out feeding the chickens, and then she went around and got in. The man moved his hat from the seat and tossed it into the back.

  But he didn’t drive. He put his arm up on the back of the seat so that his hand was near her head. “What’s your name, then?”

  “Tina,” she said, barely above a whisper. She felt the presence of his hand acutely but would not have been able to name what she was feeling. She pushed her hand into her pocket to hold the little embroidered purse her grandmother had given her. It had her name on it. It always made her feel secure.

  “Mine’s Barney Watts. You can call me Barney. Your dad run that garage?”

  “Yes, Mr. Watts.” She had never called a grown-up by a first name in her life. His invitation felt like a door opening up into some place she had no business going.

  “Barney, I told you,” he said, laughing. “You’re a pretty thing, I’ll say that. School all done now?”

  “Yes. I’m graduating this year. Today was the last day.” She didn’t dare look at him, so she stared at the book bag she had on her lap.

  “Well, you’re all grown up then. What are you, now, seventeen, eighteen?” His hand had moved, and he fingered a blond curl.

  “Sixteen,” she said, feeling breathless. He was nothing like the boys at school.

  “Sixteen! That’s pretty young to be graduating.”

  “I skipped fifth grade,” she said. She wanted to pull her head back, away from his hand, to get out, to have the world be as it was only a few minutes before.

  “Pretty and smart! Bet you have a boyfriend. Hey, there’s your dad.” Mr. Van Eyck had come out of the garage and was standing looking up the road toward them. He pulled his right hand back to the steering wheel and looked at his watch. “I promised him I’d bring the car in by four and it’s ten after.”

  As he put the car into gear and trundled down the road to the garage, Tina exhaled relief slowly so he wouldn’t think she’d been nervous.

  “What are you going to do now you’ve done with school?” Barney asked.

  “I’m going to help my dad in the garage.” She was feeling normal again, happy as they approached the open bay doors where her father stood, just as he always did. She liked working on cars.

  “You don’t say!” Barney stopped the car and waved at Mr. Van Eyck who had moved to the shade of the bay, hands on hips, watching them, his eyebrows drawn together. Barney went to open his door and then leaned back toward her. “You should let me take you out some time. Pretty girl like you. I could show you a good time like you deserve. Celebrate your graduation. What do you say?” He dropped his voice. “You wait for me at the top of the road next Saturday at eight, eh?” Without waiting for an answer, he got out of the car and waved at her father and called out, “Thanks for doing this. I’m on the road tomorrow, and I’m just not sure about the clutch.”

  Martinez said, “Martinez” into the receiver, wishing the phone would just stop ringing for five minutes. It never rained, but it poured. Not only was the Griffin business weighing on him, with its attendant anger from Galloway, he had the murder at the Santa Cruz Inn to think about, and he was fielding any number of minor calls about missing animals and a robbery from a tobacco shop in South Tucson, which he had to deal because none of their officers was available and he spoke Spanish.

  “Good morning, Sergeant Martinez, this is Inspector Darling. I’m sorry to bother you again. I tried Assistant Chief Galloway and he’s not in just now.”

  Martinez shook his head. He liked the inspector. He’d found himself wishing out loud to his wife the night before that Galloway was more like the inspector. “No trouble at all, sir. How can I help?”

  “It’s just that my wife and I had dinner with Jack Renwick’s brother last night, as he was on his own, and he expressed a great deal of bitterness about his brother, said he was glad he was dead. It seems he was in love with his brother’s wife and this would free her up, as he sees it. Unfortunately for him, she doesn’t see it that way and has refused to talk to him. He’s short of money and is moving out today to a rooming house near the station. He says he has leave from the insurance company he works for, Equity House Insurance Company. I know you interviewed him yesterday, and I certainly don’t want to interfere, but I am uneasy about him. He drinks excessively, and he’s angry. I’m a bit worried about Mrs. Renwick’s safety.” He stopped short of recommending any particular course of action, though he wondered how long she was expected to stay on.

  “I see,” Martinez said. He had written down the name of the insurance company and circled it with a question mark. Renwick had not mentioned it. In fact, he’d said he worked for his brother’s company still, in some minor capacity.

  When he hung up, he pulled his notes toward him. It seemed to him there were only two possible avenues of inquiry. It was possible Meg Holden had something to do with it. She was standing right next to him; though she certainly hadn’t shot him, she might know who had. Darling had called to tell him that she’d been spotted on Stone Avenue talking to a man who was neither her husband nor her lover. Or Jack Renwick’s own brother was involved somehow, maybe had him killed. He was after all a man who, by all accounts, hated J
ack, was a serious alcoholic, and was in love with his sister-in-law. The latter he considered more likely. In his experience people were most often murdered by someone they knew and very often as the outcome of a contested legacy. The trouble was that, as attractive as he looked for the shooting from every other point of view, he’d not been contacted in Wisconsin until his brother was dead. Furthermore, he had produced his bus ticket from Phoenix for the day after the shooting. He had arrived there by plane from Wisconsin, an expense he said his sister-in-law was going to make up. All he could produce from that leg of the trip was a baggage claim ticket, as he’d lost his airline ticket, but gave the flight number and arrival time in Phoenix, which had checked out.

  He drew up a to-do list. Under “Holden” he wrote, “Interview again. Ask Darling’s wife for a full description of the man Mrs. Holden was talking to at the hotel.” Was it the same man Mrs. Darling had seen her with on the street? He hadn’t shared his suspicions with Galloway yet. “Explore any possible connection between Jack Renwick and Meg.” Had she become his lover as well? Mr. Holden was rich. He could have had his rival picked off by someone. He smiled wryly at the thought of all these murderers- for-hire he was conjuring up to make these theories work.

  Under “Renwick” he wrote, “Call insurance company in Wisconsin to verify Ned Renwick’s whereabouts. Re-interview Ivy about Ned Renwick’s behaviour toward her.” He professed to be in love with her. Had he taken the obsession as far as getting rid of her husband, thus killing two birds at once? Was Mrs. Renwick hiding something else? She had arrived at the scene with bags, saying she’d been shopping, but was that all? Had she been outside the hedge on the street shooting her husband? They’d gone over every speck of ground outside the hotel and had not found either an abandoned weapon or even a bullet casing.

  In a state of irritation, he pulled open the drawer of his desk and looked accusingly at the blank space among his files where the Griffin notes and financial evidence ought to be and wrote, “Find who took the damn evidence.” Because if he didn’t, he’d go to court with only a rickety story about Jimmy Griffin pushing some of his gambling money through the nursing home, which had squeaky clean financial accounts.