(36/40) The Fine Art of Murder Read online

  My head was spinning and it wasn’t because of that single glass of wine.

  “You will go to Italy to make the identification?”

  I gathered my thoughts and said, “Why do I have the feeling that you and the Italian detectives are working together to ensure that I go?”

  He shrugged and extended his hands in a gesture of submission. “Guilty as charged,” he said. “But think of it as fate, Jessica. We can travel together to sunny Italy and accomplish two things at once. You can do your civic duty and see that a murderer is put away where he belongs, and we will have time to discuss working together on our book.”

  “Travel together?”

  “Of course. The timing is perfect. I am due in Rome within the next few days to confer with the police on other matters, and you have your responsibilities to discharge. And please, do not allow my forwardness to be off-putting. Like Detective Lippi, I am the consummate gentleman. I assure you that it will be strictly business between us.”

  I hadn’t been thinking along those lines, nor had it occurred to me that he might think I would consider traveling with him to be inappropriate. No doubt about it, Anthony Curso was a charming man, but hardly my type. What appealed to me about his suggestion was having someone as knowledgeable and well connected as he was run interference for me with the police. Was I also interested in writing a book with him, using his vast insight into the underbelly of the art world as a basis for the story? At that moment the answer was no, but I hadn’t ruled it out completely.

  “Well?” he asked.

  “I think it’s a very good idea,” I replied, hoping that it would turn out to be exactly that.

  Chapter Fourteen

  I don’t consider myself an impetuous person. I like to take time to weigh the pros and cons of decisions I’m called upon to make and to factor those decisions into the overall scheme of my life. Reaching an agreement to join Anthony Curso in Rome after only a discussion at dinner might strike some people as being rash. I didn’t view it that way. If it was a matter of deciding to make a last-minute trip to Rome without a mission of my own, their assessment would be justified. But I’d decided late that afternoon to make the trip at the behest of the police; having a noted art appraiser (and, now I knew, a consultant to the Italian police on matters of art fraud and theft) at my side gave me a sense of comfort and well-being that traveling alone might not provide.

  Impetuous or not, my decision put a lot of pressure on me. I would have to leave Chicago, swing through Cabot Cove to repack, and go to Boston to catch a flight to Rome. Curso had wanted us to fly together, but I ruled that out. He was leaving in two days, which was too tight a schedule for me. Instead, we would fly separately, meeting up three days hence at the hotel he’d chosen, the d’Inghilterra, one of Rome’s finest, according to Curso. He was at his superlative best when describing the hotel: “All the great writers have stayed and drunk there—Henry James, Twain, Hemingway. The d’Inghilterra bar is the best in all of Rome, one of only twelve authorized Bond Bars in all of Italy.”

  My puzzled expression prompted him to explain.

  “Bond Bars offer a choice of James Bond’s twenty favorite drinks, including the 007 martini Vesper, created for the lovely Vesper Lynd in Casino Royale: gin, vodka, and just the right amount of Kina Lillet. Or the stone martini, which uses real stones soaked in vermouth for twelve hours prior to pouring gin over them. I consult with the bartender there whenever I am in Rome.”

  Not only did he seem to know every bartender in Chicago; his circle of mixologist friends spanned the globe.

  I decided after he had dropped me off that it wasn’t too late to call Marlise at her hotel. “Marlise, it’s Jessica. Hope I’m not waking you.”

  “Fat chance. Sleep doesn’t come easily these days.”

  “I don’t wonder. Marlise, I’m going to be leaving Chicago, probably late tomorrow.”

  “Had enough of the insanity, huh?”

  “It’s not that. I have to be in Italy to provide an ID for the Italian police.”

  Her silence reminded me that I hadn’t told her my tale of having been at the scene of an art theft and murder in Italy a few months earlier. I explained what had occurred, and that the Italian police had apprehended the man they believed to be the murderer and needed me to make an identification.

  “You never cease to amaze me,” she said.

  “It’s not something I aspired to,” I said. “As it happens, Tony Curso will be there as well.”

  Another silence, this one not only indicating surprise but also hinting at a sense of displeasure.

  I hastened to explain how we both were required to be in Rome at the same time. When I’d finished—and I wasn’t sure why I felt compelled to explain anything—she asked, “Has Tony finished his appraisal of Jonathon’s collection?”

  I almost corrected her and added Edgar Peters to the ownership list but didn’t. “I don’t know,” I said. “He didn’t say anything to me, but it’s something you might ask him.”

  “I thought you had all the answers, Jessica,” she said coldly.

  “Marlise, are you unhappy that I am spending time with these people?”

  She forced a laugh. “Oh, no, Jessica. You’ll have to excuse me if I sound a little testy. This nightmare is taking its toll. I have no idea what the future has in store for me. I wish I were as free to go about as you are.”

  I responded with my own reassuring laugh. “I’d be testy, too,” I said, “if I were in your shoes. I’d like to see you before I leave. Can we get together tomorrow?”

  “I’m not sure. Joe Jankowski is coming to the house again in the morning, and so is Willard Corman. Seems I can’t stay away from the place, even if I want to.”

  “Why do they need to come to the house?”

  “Willard wants Wayne to take a lie detector test.”

  “That makes sense.”

  “It’s about time. Willard also wants me to take one. He’s bringing in an expert tomorrow. He thought it would be more convenient to have us all in one location.”

  “Has Wayne agreed?”

  “He’d better.”

  “Sounds like tomorrow is an especially busy day.”

  “I just want to end it, Jessica. You said you wanted to come by. Please do. We’ll find time to talk during breaks in the madness.”

  “I’ll be there, Marlise. Get some sleep. You sound as though you could use some.”

  I should have given myself the same advice. I was wide awake when we ended the conversation, and I paced the living room of my suite, thoughts and images coming and going, questions suddenly appearing out of the blue and disappearing just as quickly.

  I sat at the room’s desk and started making notes before those thoughts and questions could vanish completely. It was hard focusing on Jonathon Simsbury’s murder, and the dynamics surrounding it, with my unexpected trip to Italy interfering. I made a list of things I had to accomplish before leaving, starting with calling my travel agent in Cabot Cove, Susan Shevlin, first thing in the morning to book a flight to Rome. I’d also have to call Jed Richardson to arrange for transportation to Boston.

  I was still busy making notes when the phone rang.

  “Mrs. Fletcher, it’s Diane Albanese at the Trib. Hope it’s not too late to call.”

  I was tempted to say that I preferred not to receive calls from the press at any hour, but stifled the urge.

  “We’re going with a feature in tomorrow’s edition, Mrs. Fletcher, about the Simsbury murder, and I need to clarify something you said to me earlier.”

  As far as I could recall, I’d said nothing to her.

  “When I mentioned that I’d been led to believe that you doubted Wayne Simsbury’s accusation that his stepmother had shot his father, you said—just a minute, I wrote it down—you said that you ‘hadn’t come to any such conclusion.’ Does that mean that you might suspect that your friend Marlise Simsbury had something to do with the murder?”

  I tried to s
ummon a recollection of having said that but wasn’t successful. “Ms. Albanese,” I said, “if I did say that, it was only because I didn’t want to indicate having come to any conclusions whatsoever about the case. I’m here in Chicago as Marlise Simsbury’s friend, to lend moral support. It’s not my role to make judgments about who’s responsible for Mr. Simsbury’s death. That’s the responsibility of the police.”

  “Fair enough,” she said. “May I ask a favor?”

  “You can ask.”

  “I’ve been trying to nail down an interview with Mrs. Simsbury ever since the murder took place, and especially after Wayne Simsbury leveled his charge at her. I was wondering, since you are friends, if you might, say, run interference for me and help arrange an interview.”

  “I couldn’t possibly do that,” I said.

  “The feature in tomorrow’s paper doesn’t paint a particularly flattering portrait of her, Mrs. Fletcher, and it would be in her best interest to give her side of the story for a follow-up piece.”

  “That would be entirely up to her,” I said, masking my annoyance. “I really don’t wish to discuss this further, but I don’t want to be rude and hang up on you.”

  “What about when Wayne Simsbury came to your home in Maine?” she asked. “What did he tell you that—?”

  “Please, don’t cause me to be rude,” I said. “I have nothing further to say.”

  “I find it interesting that he chose to come to your home and—”

  I grimaced as I held the phone away from my ear, as though I was about to do something terribly painful. I heard her fading voice as I gritted my teeth and slowly lowered the handpiece into its cradle. “I’m sorry,” I said to the dead phone.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Marlise answered the door the following morning. “Come in,” she said. “Have you seen today’s paper?” I hadn’t.

  “According to the Trib, I’m no better than the Wicked Witch of the West,” she said, chuckling. “I know who that reporter’s been talking to. Nice to have your enemies so close at hand, isn’t it?” She glanced down the hall, then said, “Follow me. Joe is already here, bugging Consuela for a snack, and Willard will be arriving shortly with the lie detector examiner.”

  “Wayne has agreed to take the test?”

  She guffawed. “No, he hasn’t, the twerp. He’s holed up with his precious grandmother, who treats him like he’s twelve years old. Talk about spoiled. Maybe you can convince him, and her. He’s listened to you before.”

  “I’m not sure I agree with that, but I’ll be happy to talk with him.”

  “Oh, good.” She led me to the parlor, which by now had become familiar territory. Seated in her wheelchair and covered with a heavy tartan blanket was the elder Mrs. Simsbury. Next to her on a hassock he’d drawn up at her feet was Wayne, who wore jeans, a maroon sweatshirt with the Chicago Cubs logo on it, and flip-flops.

  “Here’s your chance,” Marlise said under her breath.

  Grandmother and grandson looked at me, but said nothing as Marlise quickly left.

  “Good morning,” I said in as upbeat a voice as I could muster.

  They offered nothing in response.

  I entered the room and stood at a respectful distance from them. The old woman glared at me, her expression lethal.

  “Do you mind if I sit down?” I asked, taking a wing chair without waiting for their answer. “I realize that I’m an outsider,” I said, “but I can’t help being concerned, Wayne, that you refuse to take a lie detector test. After all, what you’ve accused your stepmother of doing is deadly serious. Surely you’d want to prove that you’ve been truthful.”

  Mrs. Simsbury answered for him. “No one,” she said in a voice far stronger than her frail physical condition promised, “is going to accuse my grandson of lying.”

  “I didn’t say he was,” I hastily added. “All the more reason for him to take the test willingly. One person is already dead, and the life of another person hangs in the balance.” I switched my gaze to Wayne. “This isn’t a game, Wayne,” I said. “Please reconsider your decision.”

  He started to respond, but his grandmother cut him short. “You say nothing to her, son. You say nothing to anyone. You’ve already done what’s right and that’s that!”

  It was evident that as long as his grandmother was present, my chances of changing the young man’s mind were nil. We were sitting quietly, occupied with our own individual thoughts, when Mrs. Tetley bustled down the hallway and opened the door to admit Corman and an older man wearing a heavy brown tweed suit and carrying an oversized briefcase.

  “Good morning, ladies, Wayne,” Corman said as they joined us. “This is Mr. Lowden. He’s a former FBI lie detector expert who now administers the test on a freelance basis.”

  Mrs. Simsbury pushed Wayne’s shoulder, and the young man responded by getting to his feet and heading for the door.

  “You’re making a mistake, Wayne,” Corman said.

  Wayne stopped and snarled at the attorney, “I’m not taking any damn lie detector test and nobody can make me.”

  “That’s right, Wayne,” said Corman, “nobody can make you. But by refusing to take one—and I believe the prosecutors will feel the same—you cast doubt upon the veracity of your statement regarding your stepmother’s involvement in your father’s murder. Think about that.”

  For a moment I thought that Wayne might change his mind. His expression was one of utter confusion. He looked back at his grandmother as though she held the answer to his dilemma, and in a way she did. She propelled her wheelchair to the center of the room, stopping only a few feet from Corman. “You leave my grandson alone,” she demanded. “You hear me? You leave him be. You want to defend that harlot, that’s your dirty business. But my grandson told the truth.” She said to Wayne, “Go on, son, leave now. Go to your room. They won’t bother you again.”

  She followed him, wheeling around in the doorway to look back with a satisfied smile.

  Corman sank down in a chair, slowly shook his head, and blew an imaginary lock of errant hair from his forehead. “The kid’s lying,” he said, “but proving it’s another matter. Oh, Mrs. Fletcher, say hello to Jim Lowden.”

  I shook the lie detector technician’s hand. “I wish he’d let you administer the test,” I said.

  Lowden, who looked like a man who’d seen every aspect of the human condition, good and bad, simply shrugged. It wasn’t his role to decide who took the test. His responsibility was to give it to anyone who’d agreed to take it and who would pay his fee.

  “Marlise is taking the test this morning,” Corman said.

  “I hope it will help her case,” I offered.

  “We feel that way,” Corman said, “but it won’t be admissible in court, should it ever come to that.”

  I’d participated in a one-day Mystery Writers of America seminar on the use of lie detectors and took from it an understanding that the test has a certain degree of fallibility, especially where false positives are involved. Still, should Marlise’s result indicate that she was telling the truth, it would go a long way toward salving her hurt, to say nothing of bolstering her case and possibly forcing the issue where Wayne was concerned.

  Lowden made a point of looking at his watch, a sign to Corman that his fee meter was running. Corman rose and asked, “Will you be here when we’re through, Jessica?”

  “I’m not sure,” I replied. “Probably.”

  They’d no sooner walked out when the other attorney, Joe Jankowski, and Jonathon Simsbury’s administrative assistant, Susan Hurley, replaced them.

  “How’s it going?” Jankowski asked me in his familiar loud, gruff voice. He looked down and brushed some crumbs off the front of his jacket.

  “Just fine,” I answered. “Hello, Ms. Hurley.”

  “Hello, Mrs. Fletcher. I see that you’re still here.” Her tone made it clear that she would have preferred that I not be. Dressed in a form-fitting beige suit, a tailored white blouse, and cinnamon-colore
d snakeskin heels, she gave every appearance of having arrived for a routine day at the office. She crossed to a desk in the corner and began pulling files from a drawer.

  “I’ll be leaving shortly,” I said.

  “Marlise is taking the lie detector test,” Jankowski said as he lowered himself into the room’s largest chair.

  “I know,” I said. “Will anyone else be tested?”

  “The kid refuses,” said Jankowski. “Makes you wonder, huh?”

  Hurley shoved the file drawer closed. “Why is everybody on Wayne’s case?” she said angrily to Jankowski. “He said what he saw, pure and simple.”

  “But Marlise has denied what he’s said,” I offered. “Surely her version of things should be considered.”

  A self-satisfied smirk crossed Hurley’s face. “I don’t see why. I learned right after coming to work for Jonathon that nothing Marlise says can be believed. Your friend is an inveterate liar, Mrs. Fletcher. Sorry to break that to you, but it happens to be the truth.”

  “Perhaps your version of the truth is not without a bias,” I said as she stacked the files on the desk.

  Her head came up. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Simply that your admiration for Jonathon may have colored your opinion of his wife.”

  “See? Marlise has been filling your ears with lies, hasn’t she?” She gathered the files and exited the room.

  “She’s a piece of work, isn’t she?” Jankowski said.

  “She’s certainly not fond of Marlise,” I said. “It seems that no one in this household is.”

  “Hurley has her reasons. As you’ve apparently learned, she did more for Jonathon than open his mail.”

  “I’ve heard that they were romantically involved. Marlise was well aware of it.”

  “Not a bad reason to shoot the guy, is it? Jealousy. A staple motive in the homicide business.”

  “Whose reason would that be? Marlise’s or Ms. Hurley’s?” I asked.

  He raised a finger and aimed it at me. “Good point.” He shifted in the chair and grimaced as he did. “Bad back,” he said. “How’s your back?”