The Fine Art of Murder (20 page)

“Because you’re right,” I said. “But at the moment, I desperately need to climb into this bed before I fall on my nose. Please understand, Marlise. You can ask anything you wish about the art collection when Tony Curso is back. He knows a lot more than I, and I don’t want to give you incorrect information.”

“The art collection means nothing to me, Jessica. My lawyer says it now belongs to Peters. I won’t see a cent from it. It’s just that maybe the collection had something to do with Jonathon’s murder. I wouldn’t put it past Peters. He’s smarmy.”

“We’ll talk later,” I said. “I promise.” This time I didn’t try to stifle my yawn.

She left and quietly closed the door behind her.

I took off my shoes, fluffed up the pillows, and stretched out. It felt heavenly to be in a prone position after spending the long trip strapped into an airline seat and the backseats of cabs. As I hovered between wakefulness and sleep, I questioned my decision to return to Chicago. I could be home in my own bed in Cabot Cove. And I could leave the resolution of this case to the Chicago police, who were undoubtedly capable of seeing through Wayne’s lies, as I was convinced they were.

The situation surrounding Jonathon Simsbury’s death was tangled at best, and had the potential of ending up among the one-third of murders that are never solved. Would my presence make a difference? It appeared that it wouldn’t, and I second-guessed my entire involvement with the Simsbury family and its muddled relationships.

Finally I dozed off, but slept for no more than an hour. I was awakened by a commotion somewhere in the house, loud voices from a male and a female. One belonged to Marlise; the man’s voice could have belonged to Wayne Simsbury, although I couldn’t be sure. I slipped into my shoes, went into the small bathroom adjacent to the bedroom, splashed some water on my face, and headed for the parlor. My assumption had been correct. The prodigal son had returned.

Wayne was sprawled in a chair in front of Marlise. From where I stood in the doorway, he looked bedraggled, unkempt. His eyes were red and watery and his speech was slightly slurred.

“You’re drunk,” Marlise said. “You reek of alcohol.”

“So what?” he responded, as his head fell back against the cushion of the chair.

“Were you drunk when you shot your father?” she pressed, standing over him.

“Shut up, Marlise.”

“Don’t tell me to shut up, you sniveling excuse for a man. Where have you been?”

“Away from here—and you.”

They seemed not to realize that I was witnessing the confrontation. Marlise turned suddenly, saw me, and said, “Look what the cat dragged in, Jessica, dear.”

I stepped into the room and greeted Wayne.

He looked up, startled that I was there.

“Any chance of getting some hot tea, and maybe some sweets?” I asked Marlise. “Is there any coconut custard pie? I know that’s a favorite of Wayne’s.”

Marlise looked at me quizzically—actually it was more of a bewildered expression. “Why should I wait on him?”

“I’m thinking we need to sober him up, and food is the first step.”

“All right. I’ll see what Consuela has.”

“Hi, Mrs. Fletcher,” Wayne said, as the sound of Marlise’s heels on the floor echoed down the hall.

“Hello, Wayne.” I pulled up a hassock in front of him and sat. “I’m glad to see that you’re home.”

“I just couldn’t stand it here,” he said, avoiding my eyes.

“The way you felt when you came to my house. I understand.”

I thought for a moment that he might cry, but he inhaled and ran a fist over his eyes.

“Where did you go this time?” I asked.

He shrugged. “Just a girl’s house. I didn’t really drink that much. I just spilled a beer on my shirt, and came home to change.”

“And who is this ‘just a girl’?”

“She used to be my girlfriend. We were in a band together.”

“I remember you telling me about her and the band. Are you still playing music?”

He guffawed. “Nah. I jam with myself sometimes, you know, play along with CDs. I’m not that good.”

“But you were good enough to go on the road with the band before. Maybe you need to practice, become more serious about your music.”

“I don’t care about it. I don’t care about anything anymore.”

“But other people care about you, Wayne. I do, and your grandmother does. I’m sure that Marlise does, too, when she isn’t furious with you for accusing her of murder.”

He twisted in the chair and locked eyes with me. “Give me a break,” he said. “The only person she cares about is herself.”

“Don’t be so quick to judge,” I said. I didn’t know how far to take my soft approach with him. He seemed to have reacted positively to it when he was at my house, and I hoped that discussing things in a calmer atmosphere would be productive. His disappearances weren’t of particular concern to me. What I was hoping was that I could lead him into a conversation about his claim that he’d seen Marlise shoot his father. I didn’t expect my effort to be successful, but it seemed worth a try. I still didn’t believe him, although I had nothing tangible upon which to base that feeling.

Consuela interrupted as she delivered a tray with tea and two slices of coconut custard pie.

“See what you miss by running away?” I said to Wayne.

He managed a smile, and reached for a piece of pie.

“Wayne,” I said, as I poured a cup of tea for myself, “I know this is something that you don’t want to hear, but I’m going to say it anyway. You accused Marlise of shooting your father. But there’s no other evidence to support that claim.”

“Isn’t my word good enough?”

“Probably not, especially since you recanted your first story. Any good lawyer will use that to cast doubt on your new statement. It might be enough to sway the jury if the case ever got that far.”

He started to say something, but I held up my hand. “Please, just hear me out,” I said. “Without any additional evidence, it’s highly unlikely that the case will even get to court in the first place. I doubt Marlise will be charged with the murder. But that’s all right. I’m convinced that someone else killed your dad. My point is that since accusing Marlise won’t result in anything happening to her—and
if
you were mistaken—then now is the time to retract what you said and put an end to what is obviously a painful situation for both you and Marlise.”

Taking another slice of pie was his response.

I continued. “You and Marlise both have lives to get on with, Wayne. I don’t know how much will be left in your father’s estate for either of you.”

He stopped eating and stared at me.

I forged ahead. “Which means that she’ll have to put together a new life, maybe going back to working as a journalist, and you have—well, you have your music if that’s what you wish to do. Think of how wonderful it would be if the two of you could recapture a pleasant relationship and support each other as you move into the future. But that can never happen if your accusation continues to hover over both of you.”

He stood up abruptly, almost knocking the tray over.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” he snapped.

“That’s your prerogative,” I said. “All I ask is that you
think
about what I’ve said. Life is really just a matter of making decisions. You make good ones and things go pretty well, barring acts of nature or other unforeseeable calamities. You make bad ones and things don’t go so well. You can have a bright future, Wayne, but only if you make the right decisions.”

For a moment, I thought I’d gotten through to him. His bloodshot eyes pleaded for understanding. He looked down at me and extended his open palms as though to say, “I’m scared.”

That prompted me to add, “Nothing bad will happen if you tell Mr. Corman and Marlise that you misspoke about seeing her kill your father. Because if you don’t tell the truth about that, you’ll have to carry that burden for the rest of your life.” I deliberately chose the term “misspoke” as a gentler substitute for “lying.” Wayne had seen enough talking political heads on television to recognize the euphemism.

He cast a final glance at what was left of the pie on his plate before leaving the room.

Marlise returned a few minutes later.

“What was the tea and pie routine all about?” she asked.

“I wanted to have a calm, rational conversation with him,” I explained.

“And?”

I shrugged. “We’ll see,” I said. “We’ll see. Have the detectives been back?”

“Not recently.”

“I’d like to speak with them again,” I said.

“Why?”

“I have some ideas about the investigation I’d like to share with them. Do you know if they questioned Edgar Peters?”

“I don’t.”

“The household staff was questioned.”

“Sure—anybody who was here the night of the murder.”

“Was there any indication that Jonathon might have had a visitor the night he was killed, someone whom he let in, perhaps met with privately in his office, without anyone else being aware of it?”

“Are you referring to Peters?”

“Or others.”

She shook her head.

“Is it possible that his mother might have heard someone with Jonathon?”

Marlise’s laugh was dismissive. “God, no, Jess. She’s half deaf and plays her TV at maximum volume.”

“Where is her room?”

“Upstairs, at the head of the stairs.”

“I’d like to see it.”

“Go on up. I’m sure she’s there.”

“I’d rather see it when she
isn’t
there.”

“She’ll be down for dinner. She always eats alone, before anyone else, then heads back upstairs.”

“Would you take me there while she’s having dinner this evening?”

“Sure, although I don’t know what you hope to see in the dragon’s lair. By the way, did you get your nap in?”

“A short but refreshing one. Marlise, I need to make some calls back home.”

“Use the phone in this room,” she said, pointing to a cordless telephone on the small desk. “I’ll leave you alone.”

She closed the door behind her and I finished my cup of tea. The pie was appealing, but I fought the urge. The trip to Italy had been a high-calorie indulgence, thanks to Tony Curso, and I wasn’t pleased with the few extra pounds I’d put on.

I crossed to the desk and picked up the sleek black phone but then put it back down and took my cell phone out of my purse. The atmosphere in the Simsbury house served to heighten my paranoia. There were undoubtedly extensions throughout the house, and I didn’t want to chance anyone listening in on my conversations.

Chapter Twenty-two

M
arlise led me to the elder Mrs. Simsbury’s room while her mother-in-law was dining alone down-stairs. The room was surprisingly messy, although I couldn’t expect a wheelchair-bound elderly woman to spend much time tidying up. Hadn’t the housekeeper taken on that chore? It didn’t look as though she had. Perhaps the old woman had barred her from the room.

“When they were looking for the murder weapon, did the police search this room, too?” I asked Marlise.

“Without question,” she replied with a wry smile. “They left no pillow unturned. Mrs. Tetley was in a snit for days. They even searched the elevator. Jonathon had it installed when his mother was no longer ambulatory. She’s the only one who ever uses it.”

“Where is the elevator?”

“Just down the hall. I’ll show it to you when you’re finished here.”

Even though Marlise had brought me to see the room, I felt a bit guilty inspecting it without the owner’s permission and didn’t stay long. I’m not sure what I was looking for, perhaps just a sense of how other people in the household lived. We took a quick look at the elevator—only large enough to hold a wheelchair and perhaps an attendant pushing it—and returned to the parlor. We waited until Mrs. Simsbury had finished her meal and gone back to her room before taking seats at the dining room table, at which point Consuela served our own dinner.

“I hope you don’t mind my saying so, Jessica, dear, but you look exhausted.”

“I think the jet lag is catching up to me,” I said.

“Well, I’ll let you go in a minute,” she said. “Tell me your plans for tomorrow?”

“I’d like to meet with the detectives on your case, if they’ll talk to me. Marlise, just how dire is the financial picture for you?”

She blew a stream of air at a lock of hair that had fallen over her forehead before answering. “According to Joe Jankowski, Jonathon was flat broke. He’d borrowed a gazillion dollars to keep the company afloat, and all those loans are long past due. Apparently, each time Jonathon needed money, he ceded a little more of the art collection to Ed Peters. The whole thing now belongs to Peters, so I won’t see anything out of it. The house belongs to his mother and—”

“It does?”

“Yes. How’s that for a slap in my face? Jonathon put it in her name for tax reasons, or so he said, and he never changed it after we were married. It seems I’ve been a tenant here for years with the old lady my landlord. Joe says she can’t kick me out until the will is probated, and he’s holding off on that to see what happens with the murder investigation.”

Marlise shook her head and sighed. “I used to think that I was pretty savvy—you know, worldly. I thought I had street smarts and could avoid the pitfalls that so many people end up falling victim to. But I was blinded by Jonathon’s charm and optimism, always ready to have my curiosity about our finances bought off by a trip to Europe or a cruise on the company yacht, a new piece of jewelry or a shopping spree at an upscale store, all of it bought on the come, as they say, borrowed money, leveraged money. I can’t believe how stupid I was.”

“You’re not the first person to have been taken in by charm, Marlise. Look at all the victims of deceitful Wall Street investors who promised great returns and then used the money of those who trusted them to keep their Ponzi schemes afloat.”

“Those investors must have been so naïve.”

“Or greedy,” I said, fighting a yawn.

“You’re suggesting I was greedy?” She gave me a sardonic smile. “I guess I was.”

I admired her honesty when it came to admitting her own fallibility under the circumstances, but I certainly wasn’t brimming over with sympathy. As I’d told her stepson, life involves making decisions. Blinded by her rich lifestyle, Marlise had obviously made some bad ones, but at least she recognized her mistakes.

“Did Susan Hurley know what was going on? You once said she knew more about Jonathon’s affairs than you did.”

“If she did, she wasn’t about to share that knowledge with me,” Marlise said, her mouth a tight line. “If Jonathon’s murder holds one consolation for me, it’s that Susan didn’t get to complete her campaign to steal my husband. Unless, of course, she was the one who killed him.”

“Do you think she did?” I asked.

Marlise shrugged. “I only know it wasn’t me, despite what Wayne claims.” A sly grin crossed her face. “Wouldn’t it be ironic if Jonathon promised to take care of her, and then she learned he had run out of money? Is breach of promise a legal excuse for murder? I like that idea.”

Marlise was being flippant, and I was too tired to respond in kind, but a thought occurred to me. “Joe Jankowski seems like an intelligent man, Marlise. He’s been Jonathon’s adviser, as I understand it. Didn’t he ever step in and stop the financial bleeding?”

“Joe is someone who collects his fees and doesn’t lose a minute’s sleep over whether his clients go under. I suppose he advised Jonathon of how grim things were, but that doesn’t mean that Jonathon would listen. He didn’t listen to anyone. For Jonathon, everything would miraculously get better. He personified the term ‘cockeyed optimist.’”

“What about Jankowski?” I asked, rubbing an eye. “I assume that he’s owed money, too.”

“Plenty. He told me that he hadn’t been paid for months.”

“Then why would he keep working for Jonathon?”

“He must have his reasons, Jessica. Frankly, I don’t really care whether Joe hasn’t been paid or not. I have myself to worry about. Now go to bed before you nod off in front of me. I tend to be offended when people fall asleep while I’m talking.”

I thanked Marlise for her hospitality and her understanding, and went to my room. Just walking down the hall revived me a bit. I sank into an easy chair and tried to sort things out. It took me less than ten minutes to decide that if I couldn’t make headway in solving Jonathon Simsbury’s murder over the next two days, I’d pack up and go home.
Home
. Cabot Cove, Maine, never sounded so good.

The house was quiet that night. I climbed into bed intending to finish the last chapter of a novel I’d started reading on the flight from Italy, but my eyes refused to stay open. The next thing I knew it was six the following morning. I showered and dressed, and read the last four pages of my book before going downstairs. Marlise was in the kitchen with Consuela.

“Good morning, Jessica, dear. Sleep well?”

“As a matter of fact, I did. Good morning, Consuela.”

The cook nodded and busied herself at the sink.

A harsh voice from the dining room said, “I want more tea!”

“Jonathon’s charming mother,” Marlise said. “She’s always shouting at somebody for something.”

Seconds later Mrs. Simsbury wheeled herself into the kitchen. She stopped just inside the door and looked at me. “You planning on taking up residence here?” she growled.

“Good morning,” I said pleasantly.

Wayne Simsbury appeared behind her. He was sober and looked considerably more put together than he had the previous afternoon.

Marlise excused herself and swiftly exited the room by another door.

“Where’s my tea?” Mrs. Simsbury demanded of the cook.

“The water is boiling, ma’am,” Consuela replied.

“You can’t even boil water properly,” the old woman snarled.

“Yes, ma’am,” Consuela said, checking the kettle. “It will be ready soon.”

“I hear you’ve been lobbying my grandson,” Mrs. Simsbury said to me.

“We did have a nice talk yesterday.”

“You leave him alone,” she said. “You pack up your things and leave. This is my house. We don’t need the likes of you snooping around.”

“I’m Marlise’s guest,” I said. “She invited me to stay.”

“I’ll be glad when she’s gone, too. A bunch of leeches and interlopers.” She muttered something else under her breath, pivoted her wheelchair, and pushed past Wayne, who stood transfixed. The door closed behind him and he stepped into the kitchen.

It was evident to me that he wanted to say something. I waited.

The whistle of the kettle on the stove startled us both. Consuela poured the boiling water into the teapot and carried it past Wayne to his impatient grandmother in the dining room.

“Have you thought over what we discussed yesterday?” I asked him.

“I don’t know what to do,” he said, almost in a whisper.

“It’s simple,” I said. “Do the
right
thing. Tell the truth.”

He started to speak, but his grandmother’s reappearance in the doorway stopped him.

“Don’t talk to that woman,” she said.

When he didn’t move, she added loudly, “Come with me, Wayne, and do it now! My tea is getting cold.”

He left with her. It was now clear that if I were ever to be successful in persuading Wayne to change his testimony about Marlise, it would happen only outside the presence of his overbearing grandmother.

After Mrs. Simsbury departed, Marlise rejoined me in the kitchen and we shared breakfast before I called for a taxi to take me to police headquarters. I had made up my mind to simply show up rather than phone ahead. It was a ploy I’d used before, knowing that it would be more difficult for the officers to put me off in person than over the phone.

When I reached headquarters, I was informed that Detective Witmer wasn’t there but Detective Munsch would be able to accommodate my request for a few minutes of his time. He came to the main reception area shortly and greeted me, although he gave off a vibe that said he wasn’t sure why I was there. I quickly explained.

“I’ve just returned from Italy,” I said, “and I’m staying with Marlise Simsbury at her home. I’ve been doing a great deal of thinking about Jonathon Simsbury’s murder and would appreciate the opportunity to speak with you about it.”

“The department is doing everything we can, Mrs. Fletcher. Pressuring us won’t make a bit of difference.”

“Of course. I wouldn’t presume to pressure you, Detective Munsch. I’m not here to criticize either. I promise I won’t take up much of your time. Surely you can spare me fifteen minutes.”

He said through a sigh, “Sure. Come on back.”

His office was cramped and littered with file folders. He wore a red-and-white striped shirt, red suspenders, and a burgundy tie. A handgun was nestled securely in a holster beneath his arm. “Have a seat,” he said, “if you can find one.”

I moved a pile of papers that had been on a chair to the floor and took a seat.

“Okay, Mrs. Fletcher, what’s on your mind about the Simsbury murder?”

“May I first ask what progress you’ve made in the case?”

“Sure. If we’d made any progress, I’d cut you off right now. But the truth is, we don’t have any leads aside from what the Simsbury kid claims, that he saw his stepmother shoot his father. As far as I’m concerned, that should be enough to bring her in, but the DA has a different view of it. He wants corroboration. We don’t have any at the moment, but we’re working to change that.”

“Let me be frank with you, Detective. I don’t believe Wayne Simsbury’s allegation.”

“Neither does Mrs. Simsbury’s attorney. But unless the kid recants, his accusation is still hanging out there.”

“The last time we talked, you or your colleague Detective Witmer indicated that the murder weapon was never found. I assume that your search for it was extensive.”

He looked at me as though I’d accused him of corruption. “You bet it was,” he said. “What makes you think otherwise?”

“Please don’t misunderstand,” I said. “It just seems strange to me that whoever killed Jonathon Simsbury was able to get rid of the weapon—unless the killer was someone from outside the household and took it with him or her. Did you interview his business associates?”

“Like who?”

“His partner in his art collection, Edgar Peters.”

“Peters? Yeah, we talked to him.”

“Can he account for his whereabouts that night?”

“As a matter of fact, he did; it’s not an airtight alibi, but enough to satisfy us. We weren’t looking at him as a suspect anyway, but he did give us a rundown of his activities during the time of the murder.”

“With someone to confirm it?”

“Look, Mrs. Fletcher, I’ve got a busy day ahead of me. What else is on your mind?”

“The weapon,” I said. “If the shooter was someone from the Simsbury household, getting rid of the weapon wouldn’t be easy unless—”

“Unless that ‘someone’ took it with him when he left the house, like the son. He flew the coop right after we questioned him.”

“Correct. Or unless the weapon is still somewhere in the house.”

“Unlikely.”

“But possible.”

“Forget it. If the weapon
was
in the house the night of the murder, and somehow my guys missed it—and I doubt that very much—it’d be long gone by now.”

“Would you consider conducting another search?”

He shrugged. “I wouldn’t, but I’ll run it past Detective Witmer. He’s the lead investigator.”

“I can’t ask for more than that,” I said. “You’re aware that the housekeeper, Mrs. Tetley, has left.”

“Uh-huh. We ruled her out as a suspect.”

“I’m sure you were right in doing so. The victim was having an affair with his administrative assistant, Susan Hurley. How closely did you question her?”

His bored demeanor changed. He leaned forward in his chair and said, “Are you a PI in your spare time, Mrs. Fletcher?”

“I’m not a private investigator, but I do notice things and remember what I hear.”

“Well, suppose you tell me what you’ve heard about Mr. Simsbury’s adultery.”

I explained how Marlise Simsbury had confided in me about the affair, ending with, “A jealous or betrayed woman has been known to kill before.”

He took his first note since we’d started talking.

“That could be applied to Marlise Simsbury, you know.”

“But also to Ms. Hurley.”

He grunted and jotted another note on his pad.

“And surely you know about the new will that Jonathon never got to sign, leaving ninety percent of everything to his wife.”

He made another note without commenting.

“That gives Wayne Simsbury a strong motive to kill his father before Jonathon was able to execute it.”