The Man with a Load of Mischief by Martha Grimes

put in Sheila, winking at Jury through a cloud of cigarette smoke. He noticed the hand holding the cigarette had very long fingernails. Secretary, my eye.
    â€œSo you neither of you saw this William Small after you went into dinner?” They shook their heads.
    â€œI can’t recall seeing him either after or before,” said Darrington.
    â€œAnd Ainsley—?” They both shook their heads. “But you were there the night Ainsley was murdered?”
    â€œYes. Sheila left a bit before I did. We had a . . . misunderstanding. Over my buying Vivian Rivington a drink.” A smile played on Darrington’s face, as if such misunderstandings were a source of constant amusement to him.
    A coal fell in the grate and lay smoldering. It had nothing on Sheila. “Don’t be silly,” was her weak response.
    Jury remembered Lady Ardry’s account — albeit undependable — of the various relationships between these people. “I understand Mr. Matchett is engaged to Miss Rivington. Vivian.” Simultaneously, there came an angry no from Darrington and a yes from Sheila.
    Oliver blustered. “Well, there’s been some talk of it. But Vivian would never throw herself away on someone like Matchett.”
    â€œWho would she throw herself away on, love?” Icicles hung from every word.
    Jury felt almost sorry for Sheila. She was shallow but not, he thought, brainless. Whereas, he suspected Darrington was a bit of both. He couldn’t quite square this with the crisp style of the Bent mysteries, and said, “I’ve read your book, Mr. Darrington. Only the first one, I must admit.”
    â€œBent on Murder ?” Oliver preened. “Yes, that was probably the best.”
    Sheila looked away, as if she were uneasy. Jury wondered why she should be disturbed by the mention of Darrington’s books. It was a point worth pursuing, thought Jury, who often annoyed his colleagues by not sticking to the facts. But what were “the facts,” strained through the grid of the individual perception, assuming even that one wanted to tell the truth? And most people didn’t because most people had something to hide. He was almost glad this lot had been drunk — or were said to have been — it made them realize that the picture was blurred. He could always tell when something had shiftedcenter, and something had definitely shifted with Sheila. It wasn’t the mention of Vivian Rivington, either; that had been pure, straightforward jealousy. Whatever this was, it was not straightforward. She was staring at the air over his head.
    â€œI wonder if you might have a copy of your second book?”
    Darrington’s eyes flicked toward the bookcase beside the door and then quickly away. Sheila got up from the couch and walked over to the fireplace, avoiding Jury’s eyes. She threw the stub of her cigarette into the fire and then started, yes, washing her hands together. The Lady Macbeth syndrome. Jury had seen it often enough.
    â€œThe second one wasn’t too well received,” said Darrington, making no move toward the bookcase.
    Jury did it for him. There they were, the colorfully dust-jacketed Bent mysteries, all in a row. “Isn’t this it?” Jury pulled it from the bookcase and watched Darrington dart a quick glance at Sheila. “Would you mind if I borrowed it? And the third also? Your Superintendent Bent might give me an idea or two.”
    Darrington recovered himself, and said, “If you want to bore yourself, go right ahead.” His laugh was unconvincing.
    They were both relieved to see Jury out.
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    Jury glanced at the map Pluck had made for him as he walked down the High Street, at the X showing the Rivingtons’ house. Why couldn’t these people have been gathered together for him fifteen minutes after the murder, the family all grouped in the drawing room, choking on their tea,