The Fine Art of Murder (22 page)

Chapter Twenty-four

M
arlise heard the gunshot and ran to the parlor.

“Oh, my God! I was afraid it was happening again.”

The sight of her sent Mrs. Simsbury into a frenzy of cursing her daughter-in-law and accusing her of everything that had gone wrong in the family, crying and raging at the same time. It was a pathetic display; I admired Marlise for not responding. She stood in wonderment as the woman with whom she’d had such a toxic relationship melted before our eyes.

When the police responded to my call and came to arrest Mrs. Simsbury, she met them with a sweet smile and asked if they wanted something to eat. She had either succumbed to dementia or was putting on a convincing act that would support a temporary insanity defense. She explained she was a woman who’d adored and admired her late husband and expected everyone else to emulate him. When no one responded, she turned venomous, spewing a stream of profanity directed at Marlise. She shifted between lucidity and fantasy, one minute talking like a little girl, then without missing a beat becoming tyrannical.

As the house filled with police officials questioning everyone in attendance, the one I felt particular sadness for was Wayne.

“My father told me he was cutting me out of his will, leaving me a minimal amount. He said it would force me to grow up and learn how to take care of myself,” he told the police. “I was pissed. I admit it. I could have killed him myself. I would have if I’d had a gun in my hand. I yelled at him, accusing him of choosing Marlise over his own flesh and blood. I told him that his father didn’t cut
him
off. You know what he said? He said, ‘Maybe he should have.’ My grandmother came in in the middle of the conversation and things got really hot.”

“I expected things would blow up when Jonathon talked to Wayne about the new will, but I didn’t want to get involved,” Marlise whispered to me. “It was Jonathon’s decision. He felt he had Wayne’s best interests at heart. I supported him, but I knew how it would look. If I’d known Jonathon was talking to Wayne that night and that his mother would be there as well, I would have gone in to even the odds.”

“If you had, you might have been killed, too,” I reminded her.

“My grandmother said no one was going to cut me off, and when my father told her to keep out of it, it wasn’t her business, she pulled out a gun and shot him. I didn’t know what to do. I had no idea she meant to kill him. I didn’t even know she had his gun. I started to cry. She said to me, ‘You needn’t worry any longer, dear. Nana has taken care of everything.’” He broke down now, the tears coursing down his cheeks as he recalled the terrible scene.

Mrs. Simsbury had instructed Wayne to tell the police he’d seen Marlise pull the trigger. That’s when he ran, and came to my house in Cabot Cove. “I didn’t want to lie to all of you,” he said to Detective Witmer, “but I had to protect her, didn’t I? She killed him to protect me.”

Mrs. Simsbury sat straight in her wheelchair, a small smile on her lips. While she didn’t admit to having shot Jonathon, she didn’t deny it either. Her final words as they escorted her to a special police van were: “My husband would be so proud of me.”

Marlise, of course, was relieved that she was no longer considered a suspect. I was pleased when she expressed concern for Wayne, what would happen to him for providing false sworn testimony, and more important, what the rest of his life would be.

“I’m sorry,” he told her.

“I know you are,” she said. “I’d like to try to give our relationship another chance. I know I can never replace your real family, but you’ll always be welcome wherever I am.”

His response was noncommittal, but I had a hunch that they might reconnect one day after the dust had settled and clear thinking had emerged.

I caught a flight to Boston the following day, and Jed Richardson delivered me home to Cabot Cove, where I quickly settled in at my house and got back to work on my novel. Naturally, Seth, Mort Metzger, Susan Shevlin, and many others were eager to hear of my experiences in Italy and Chicago, and I filled them in over a succession of dinners. Seth, bless him, refrained from saying, “I told you so,” and even hosted a welcome home party for me. While I’ve run across quite a number of bad people over the years, I’m fortunate to have my loyal, loving friends in Cabot Cove to renew my faith in humankind.

Months later, we gathered to watch the premiere of Anthony Curso’s documentary on our public television channel. Marlise was a charming and professional on-camera narrator, and I was surprised when my name appeared in the list of those to thank at the end of the show. The documentary was a wonderful, thoughtful insight into art fraud and forgery and brought back a flood of memories for me, not all of them negative.

The week after the show aired, FedEx delivered a large package to my house. It consisted of a rigid wooden framework covered with multiple layers of foam and brown paper. I carefully opened it, peeling through the layers until I came to what was encased. It was a magnificent oil painting. A note from Tony Curso was included:

Dear Jessica,

Please accept this as a sincere expression of my respect for and gratitude to you. You’d mentioned that you had a large space on a wall in your home that needed a piece of art, and I hope this will fill that need. I should tell you that this work is Alessandro Botticelli’s
Portrait of a Youth
. It’s a copy, of course, provided to me by the Italian police as a thank-you for including them in the documentary. They found it among the paintings that had been taken from Vittorio’s cave, most of which they recovered. The original hangs in the National Gallery of Art in Washington, D.C. I wish it were an original, but that’s a little out of my league. However, it’s a wonderful example of Vittorio’s skill, a testimony to his sensitivity, talent, and artistry. I hope you’ll proudly display it. He would have liked that. Tony

The painting wasn’t the only item in the package. Shrouded in many layers of bubble wrap was a pint bottle of grappa with another note from Curso. He suggested I drink it as a shot after dinner, or add it to espresso.
Or freeze it and drink it straight from the freezer. It loses a little when frozen, but what the devil, huh?

My forged Botticelli now occupies a proud spot on my wall, and if I ever forget about my Italian adventure, I need only to look at it to remind me of all the young men—good and bad—I encountered.

On the basis of her appearance in Tony Curso’s documentary, Marlise was hired by a Chicago TV station to produce and narrate documentaries. The last I heard, Wayne had sold his grandmother’s house and was living with Marlise, although he wasn’t home very much. He’d gotten serious about music and had joined a rock band that toured frequently. Luckily for him—and I’m sure it involved a substantial fee for Willard Corman—his lawyer was able to persuade the police not to charge him with false testimony, and he was given a clean slate.

Tony Curso keeps in touch. He’s busy teaching courses in art history and consulting with the Italian police on matters of art theft and forgery. I treasure knowing him and look forward to catching up again in person one day.

According to Marlise, Susan Hurley went to work for Joe Jankowski. “He needed a good accountant. I’m sure they’re trying to figure out if there’s anything left in the estate to pay his fee.”

Marlise also passed along the information that Edgar Peters took the pieces in the art collection, sold the originals for not much money, and put the others up for sale on eBay, advertising them as coming from the hand of history’s greatest art forger, the Italian painter Vittorio.

As for me, I finished my novel and took a one-month hiatus to relax and catch up with friends. My travel agent, Susan Shevlin, called me a few months after I’d gotten home to say she had a wonderful Italian tour package that she knew I would love.

“Grazie,”
I told her. “Maybe another time. The only ‘Italian’ I want to hear for a while are the items on the menu at Peppino’s restaurant.”

Click here for more books by this author

OTHER BOOKS IN THE
Murder, She Wrote
SERIES

Manhattans & Murder
Rum & Razors
Brandy & Bullets
Martinis & Mayhem
A Deadly Judgment
A Palette for Murder
The Highland Fling Murders
Murder on the
QE2
Murder in Moscow
A Little Yuletide Murder
Murder at the Powderhorn Ranch
Knock ’Em Dead
Gin & Daggers
Trick or Treachery
Blood on the Vine
Murder in a Minor Key
Provence—To Die For
You Bet Your Life
Majoring in Murder
Destination Murder
Dying to Retire
A Vote for Murder
The Maine Mutiny
Margaritas & Murder
A Question of Murder
Coffee, Tea, or Murder?
Three Strikes and You’re Dead
Panning for Murder
Murder on Parade
A Slaying in Savannah
Madison Avenue Shoot
A Fatal Feast
Nashville Noir
The Queen’s Jewels
Skating on Thin Ice