Mike Shayne Mystery Magazine Annual, No. 3, 1973

My wife was a born matchmaker. But that was before she made her last rendezvous — with bullets and blood in the night.

* * *

It’s generally conceded that most women — wives especially — are inveterate matchmakers at heart. Certainly my bride Julie was no exception.

In the fourteen months since our marriage, our social contacts had gradually resolved into relationships with our own set, neglecting former associates as yet unattached, but every so often I’d have occasion to present, to Julie an eligible bachelor.

At such instances she would immediately flick through her mental file of ladies in waiting with, the surety of a high-speed computer, considering, rejecting, selecting, plotting a subsequent confrontation.

I’d just about given up trying to dissuade her, as had, indeed, her detective lieutenant brother. Fortunately, for him, Ed Talbot had been happily wed for some eight years.

All of which isn’t to suggest I wasn’t at least partially responsible for the frenetic events of that crisp October evening. I was. I took Bill Ashton home to dinner.

But it was Julie’s penchant for romantic promotion that really sparked the fuse.

It all started when I got back to town — I commute to Capitol City — and found my car wouldn’t be ready for another half hour. I’d left it at the garage that morning for a motor tune-up, but they were short-handed and had run into some trouble with the fuel pump. Whatever, to kill the time I visited a nearby bar — and ran into Ashton.

Bill Ashton and I had known each other in high school, but we’d never been particularly close friends. Ashton had been the complete extrovert, brash, self-confident. From high school we’d gone on to different colleges, and while we’d both made the usual periodic returns home, we hadn’t sought each other out.

After college, we’d settled into our respective careers — his, I’d heard, was public relations. I’d stayed on in town, subsequently marrying Julie; Ashton had sought a more cosmopolitan base. I hadn’t seen him for some years.

From the foregoing, you’ll likely believe there was no special reason for me to extend a dinner invitation, and you’re right. In point of fact, the suggestion wasn’t even in my mind when I first recognized Ashton, finishing a martini at the far end of the bar.

“Hi, fellow,” I said, taking an adjacent stool and holding out my hand. “Good to see you back.”

“Hello, Paul.” His smile was ready, his grip firm. “It’s just for the day; a personal matter. I’m catching the ten-ten express.”

I motioned the barkeep, indicating a refill for Ashton, a duplicate for myself. “Too bad you couldn’t stay over.”

His smile held.

“I suppose it is,” he agreed, “but in my business they keep you running.”

Patronizing? To a degree, yes. Knowing Ashton, though, I tried to ignore a mild spurt of irritation. “Public relations, isn’t it?”

“That’s right.”

“Things really humming, eh?”

“Couldn’t be better.” He savored his drink. “What about you?”

“I’m in production control with Standard Ceramics,” I told him. I couldn’t help adding, “Doing pretty well.”

“Married?”

“Yes,” I said, “for over a year.”

“Anyone I know?”

“I think so. Julie Talbot. Her brother Ed’s on the police force.”

Ashton nodded, gaze a bit sardonic.

“It figures,” he told me.

“Eh?”

“You, married. I always pegged you for the domestic bit.”

My irritation burgeoned a mite.

“You’re not?” I countered.

“Nuh-uh. No time.”

I shook my head. “When the right girl comes along, you’ll make time.”

He drained his glass.

“Don’t bet on it,” he assured me. “A lone rider goes farthest.”

In sober truth, I suppose my unwitting dinner invitation was triggered at that point. At any event, I was abruptly conscious of an overwhelming desire to show Bill Ashton just how far I’d come: a nice suburban home, a pretty wife, our sundry acquisitions — in short, all the evidence of my ‘success.’

“You’re a cynic,” I remarked pleasantly, “but I won’t argue with you. You haven’t eaten?”

“No.”

“All right, then. Come on out to the house, meet Julie again and have dinner.”

He sobered somewhat. “Thanks, Paul, but I wouldn’t want to impose—”

“You won’t be imposing; we’ll enjoy having you.” I finished my own drink. “My car’s being worked on, but it’ll be ready shortly. Order us another round while I phone Julie we’re coming.”

Ashton’s look remained sober for another moment; then his smile came back.

“All right,” he agreed, getting out his wallet to pay for the drinks I’d intended buying. “But they tell me wives don’t favor such short notice.”

“Don’t give it another thought,” I assured him. “Julie will understand.”

And she did — so readily, in fact, that I should have had an inkling of the truth before Ashton and I arrived some forty minutes later. As it was, still anticipating my rebuttal of Ashton’s cynicism, I gave no further thought to Julie’s prompt acquiescence until I tooled my car into the drive and recognized the yellow compact model drawn up ahead of me.