(36/40) The Fine Art of Murder Page 14

  “My back?” I said, laughing. “It’s just fine.”

  “You must be the exception. Figured that everybody on the wrong side of fifty has a bad back.”

  I got off the subject of bad backs and said, “Not only does it seem everyone is lined up against Marlise, but they’re also protective of Wayne. He told me when he was at my house that his father had been disappointed in him, his leaving college to join a rock band, his lack of ambition.”

  “Yeah, Jonathon had high expectations for his kid, maybe too high. The problem with Jonathon Simsbury was that he never faced reality. Running the business was more like a hobby, nothing like his old man. Jonathon’s father was one tough dude, Mrs. Fletcher. I drew up his will before he died, and leaving the business to Jonathon wasn’t easy for him. He knew that his only son was a playboy, infatuated with gadgets and toys and all the things the old man had no use for. I suggested that he structure his will so that Jonathon would share in owning the company, have some people around him who cared about running a business, but the old man said he’d feel guilty if he did that. Guilty about what? Making a sound decision? Jonathon ran the business into the ground.” His laugh was rueful. “But I suppose he had a good time doing it, enjoying his plane and yacht and—and Ms. Hurley.”

  I was surprised Jonathon’s lawyer would speak so freely about his client, but perhaps he reasoned that death cancels any requirement for confidentiality. While I was a bit uncomfortable hearing such intimate details about Marlise’s husband’s life, I was also eager to learn more. Somewhere, somehow, the answer to Jonathon’s murder rested with those who knew him best.

  I wanted to ask Jankowski follow-up questions, but he stood, arched his back against his pain, and said, “I have to get back to my office. You said you were leaving soon. Back to Maine?”

  “Only for a short stopover to repack. I’m going to Italy to help in that case I told you about.”

  “Oh, yeah. They find the perp?”

  “It seems that way. They want me to provide identification.”

  “You lead an interesting life, Mrs. Fletcher.”

  “I’d prefer a simpler one,” I said. “I’ll be meeting Anthony Curso in Rome.”

  “No kidding. What’s he say about his appraisal of the art collection?”

  “Nothing, at least not to me.”

  “I understand Peters intends to sell the collection as soon as all the legalities are ironed out. Too bad.”

  “As the surviving owner, doesn’t he have that right?”

  “So their agreement stipulates. The estate will get its share of the profits. Jonathon never should have sold him a half stake in the collection. He was desperate for money, I suppose, but Peters isn’t—well, let me just say that he’s not the sort of partner I’d look for. He paid a pittance for his half interest. That’s how hard up for money Jonathon was. I advised against it, but he wouldn’t listen.” He twisted his torso again, groaned, and said, “Travel safe, Mrs. Fletcher.”

  “Thank you. I hope your back improves.”

  “It won’t,” he said glumly. “Comes with age. You get old and everything is patch, patch, patch. See ya.”

  I debated leaving with him but decided to stay. I knew it was silly to think that my presence in the house would somehow make the answer to Jonathon’s murder become apparent, would cause it to make itself known like some aura, a vision floating down the stairs. But each time I’d been there, another little piece of the puzzle had dropped into place. And selfishly, I wanted to wait until Marlise had completed her test. From what I’d learned about lie detectors, the examiner would come to an immediate conclusion. If Marlise passed, I wanted to be present to share in her victory, as legally meaningless as it might be.

  Twenty minutes later she entered the room with Corman and Lowden. The broad smile on her face testified to the result.

  “I passed,” she said.

  “Wonderful,” I replied. “I knew you would.” Frankly, I was as relieved as she was. I hadn’t been completely comfortable standing by her when the possibility existed that Wayne had told the truth. Of course, Marlise’s passing the test wasn’t a foolproof indication of her innocence, just as she hadn’t been exonerated by the negative finding in the gunshot residue test the police had conducted the night of the murder. But the two results went a long way toward satisfying me, as they obviously did her.

  Marlise escorted Lowden to the door, came back, and collapsed on a love seat. She extended her long legs and kicked them in the air. “I passed,” she proclaimed, then giggled. “That should end this nightmare.”

  Corman smiled, but I could tell that he was refraining from saying anything that would dash her enthusiasm.

  “I feel like celebrating,” she said as she got to her feet and pumped a fist into the air. “How about it, Jessica? A celebratory lunch or maybe dinner? You, too, Willard.”

  “Afraid not,” he said. “I want to get hold of someone from the prosecutor’s office to let them know of the test result. I’m hoping it will help them rethink taking legal action against you.”

  “He seems like a good attorney,” I commented after he was gone.

  “I hope so. Jessica, dear, a favor?”

  “If I can.”

  “Now that I’ve passed the lie detector test, I want Wayne to know about it.”

  “That makes sense. Mr. Corman thought your passing it might spur Wayne to change his story.”

  “That’s what I’m hoping, too. Would you tell him?”

  “Me? Why not you?”

  “I can’t. He sees me and runs the other way, usually behind his grandmother’s wheelchair. But if you were to tell him the news, he might reconsider.”

  “I already spoke with him this morning, Marlise, and he didn’t listen. Mr. Corman and I tried to reason with him, but he angrily declined to take the test, with his grandmother’s staunch support.”

  “That miserable old witch.”

  There was a knock at the door, and Mrs. Tetley poked her head in to curtly inform Marlise that she had a phone call.

  “Marlise, I’d better be going. I’m flying home this afternoon and then off to Italy.”

  “Oh, that’s right, your little tryst with Tony Curso.”

  “Hardly that,” I said, giving her a quick hug. “I’m glad you passed your test. I’ll be back in touch when I return.”

  She left to take her call, having forgotten her suggestion that we celebrate. I was relieved. I had a five o’clock flight to Boston, where Jed Richardson was scheduled to pick me up for the trip to Cabot Cove.

  When I walked out the front door, hoping to hail a taxi, I heard loud voices coming from the rear of the house. Curious, I took a path that circled around to the driveway until I reached a point where I could see the participants. The elder Mrs. Simsbury was in her wheelchair next to a garage where the chauffeur, Carl, was waxing one of the cars. The loud voice belonged to her. She was berating him about something, and although I couldn’t make out her words, her angry tone was evident. I was about to turn around and go back to the front gate when she spotted me and pointed a finger as though it were a weapon. Then, to my surprise, she spun the wheelchair around and headed down the driveway at me, her arms spinning the large wheels on either side of the chair like a physically fit contestant in a race for the handicapped. When it became apparent that she intended to run into me, I jumped out of the way. The chair passed where I’d been standing and came to an abrupt stop. In a voice dripping with menace she barked, “What are you looking at? Why are you even here? You’re not wanted here. So go! Go on! Go away!” With that, she used one of the wheels to turn the chair and headed back toward the garage.

  This aggressive confrontation shocked me and I found myself breathing hard, my hands trembling at my sides. I considered pursuing and challenging her, but discretion won out over valor. What had I done to incur such wrath on her part? This was someone who despite her age, and whatever physical problem confined her to a wheelchair, had some very heal
thy anger genes.

  I retraced my steps back down the driveway and in minutes had waved down a cab and was on my way to my hotel, where I was happy to be in the quiet, comfortable surroundings of my suite. Up until that moment I hadn’t been especially happy about making the trip to Italy. But it now had a new and urgent appeal—a chance to get away, if even for a few days, from the family madness within the Simsbury household.

  Chapter Sixteen

  It felt good walking into my house after the flight to Boston and being ferried to Cabot Cove by Jed Richardson. It was after eleven, too late to call anyone to announce my arrival, or to return the half dozen calls on my answering machine. Susan Shevlin had booked me on an Alitalia flight from Boston the following evening, which didn’t give me much time to accomplish everything on my list.

  I unpacked and started a load of laundry. While the washing machine performed its sudsy task, I started packing for the next leg of my trip. I should have been tired, but my adrenaline had kicked in during the flight with Jed and I was wide awake. Flying with him in his single-engine Cessna was always a treat, especially since this trip afforded me some nighttime hours at the controls. I’d flown at night only a few times during my training with him and I enjoyed gaining the additional experience. Everything looks so different at night from five thousand feet, so serene and peaceful. Of course, having someone with all Jed’s hours as a commercial pilot in the next seat relieved any tension I might have felt as an amateur.

  Eventually I turned off the light at two and slept until seven, reveling in the familiar feel of my own bed. Fortified with an English muffin and a cup of hot Earl Grey tea, I sat in my office and started making calls. The first was to Seth Hazlitt, who I knew was an early riser.

  “Good morning, Jessica,” he said. “This is an unexpected surprise. Calling from Chicago?”

  “No, Seth, I’m calling from here in Cabot Cove. I got home last night at about eleven.”

  “Welcome back. Staying for a while?”

  “No. I’m off to Italy tonight to identify the young man the authorities there have in custody.”

  “Ayuh, you did mention that was a possibility. How did things turn out in Chicago?”

  “Still up in the air. My friend, Marlise, passed a lie detector test before I left, which takes some pressure off her. But they still haven’t determined who shot her husband. It’s a strange household.”

  “I’m sure you’re happy to be away from it.”

  “Yes,” I said, although the feeling of having left unfinished business behind bothered me.

  Everything that had happened since my arrival in Chicago continued to prey on my mind—the assortment of characters in the Simsbury house, the overt animosity and petty jealousies among them, the underlying scenario of adultery. What kept coming to the forefront of my thoughts was the new will that Jonathon had never gotten around to signing. His son, Wayne, would have lost forty percent of what he was to gain from the previous will, which certainly gave him a strong motive to prevent his father from signing the new one. It also undermined Marlise’s motive to kill Jonathon. She was to benefit from receiving the forty percent Wayne was to lose, coupled with the fifty percent she’d already been promised. She knew about the new will and had pressured her husband to execute it as penance for his affair with Susan Hurley. I didn’t admire her for doing that, but I was hesitant to pass judgment. How they lived their lives, as alien as it might be to me, was none of my business—except for the fact that someone in that dysfunctional family, or perhaps someone else altogether, had committed murder.

  Who had killed Jonathon Simsbury? I knew that I wouldn’t be able to rest until I had the answer.

  But that would have to wait until I’d taken care of the business at hand, flying to Italy to identify the man who’d killed Detective Fanello and stolen the Bellini. Memories of that fateful day were never far from my consciousness, and the notion of seeing the gunman again wasn’t pleasant. But it had to be done, and I was committed.

  “Free for lunch?” Seth asked. “I’d suggest Peppino’s, but you’ll be having your fill of Italian food in Italy.”

  “Oh, thanks, Seth. I’d love it, but I can’t. Jed Richardson is flying me to Boston at two.”

  “Looks like you’re keeping our local flyboy in business.”

  “And thank goodness he’s here. I’ll only be away a few days and—” I almost mentioned that I’d be going back to Chicago once I returned home from Italy, but I didn’t want to hear any of my friend’s objections. “We’ll have that lunch when I get back,” I said.

  “Travel safe, Jessica,” he said.

  “Thank you, my friend.”

  I managed to take care of everything on my list by the time the taxi picked me up at one forty-five to take me to the airport, where Jed had just finished filling the plane with fuel and doing his usual walk-around to be sure that everything was in order. It was a beautiful, calm day to fly, and we arrived at Boston’s Logan Airport without incident.

  The flight to Rome was smooth and I used some of the time to make notes for what would happen in the next chapters of the novel I had abandoned when I’d taken Wayne home to Chicago. But my mind kept straying, alternating between the mystery of who shot Jonathon and my apprehension at having to identify the killer of Mr. Fanello.

  Rome’s Leonardo da Vinci Airport was bustling as I headed for the area where taxis waited, girding myself for the cab ride into town. To my surprise, a uniformed man stood at the door holding a sign that read JESSICA FLETCHER.

  “Buon giorno,” I said. “I’m Jessica Fletcher.”

  “Perfetto!” he replied loudly and with a broad smile. “Signore Curso has arranged for me to meet you and drive you to the d’Inghilterra.”

  “I didn’t expect that,” I said, “but I’m pleased that you’re here.”

  A slender young man with a mop of blond hair, who’d been standing behind the driver, suddenly took a few steps to the side, raised his camera, and pressed off a rapid series of photographs. I didn’t have a chance to ask who he was or why he was taking my picture before he turned and ran toward the exit.

  “Do you know what that was about?” I asked the driver.

  His shrug was accompanied by, “The paparazzo. Testa vuota!”

  “Pardon?”

  “The paparazzo. No brains. Somaro! A moron.”

  The driver, whose name was Luigi and who spoke excellent English, led me to his black Mercedes parked at the curb and we chatted all the way to the hotel on Via Bocca di Leone. It was located in the Piazza di Spagna, on a charming, flower-laden street of older buildings, some of which had been converted into luxury hotels like the d’Inghilterra. The outdoor sidewalk café was busy as Luigi carried my suitcase into the lobby and wished me a pleasant visit. I learned at the desk that I’d been preregistered by Curso, and I was handed a key and told that my luggage would be delivered to the room within minutes. As I walked to the elevators, Curso appeared from nowhere and intercepted me. “You’re here, safe and sound,” he observed. “Good flight?”

  “Fine, although it was a rush to make it.” I gestured toward the lobby. “It’s lovely,” I said.

  “I knew you’d like it. I’ve reserved you a deluxe room, all the amenities, splendid view, fresh fruit and champagne ready for you to enjoy. Go freshen up. I’ll meet you in the bar in half an hour.”

  The room was everything he’d said it would be. The large, beautifully made-up bed beckoned—a nap would have been heaven—but I didn’t want to disappoint him. Besides, I had to contact Detective Maresca and arrange a time to go to police headquarters, a call I decided to put off until after meeting with Curso.

  When I walked into the wood-paneled bar off the lobby—it had all the trappings of a British gentlemen’s club—I immediately spotted Curso in a corner booth with another man. It wasn’t until I got closer that I recognized Detective Lippi of the Carabinieri’s art squad, who’d treated me to lunch the last time I was in Rome. Both men stood as I
approached. Lippi shook my hand and Curso kissed it.

  “What a pleasant surprise,” I said to Lippi.

  “Anthony called and suggested that I be on hand to greet you, Mrs. Fletcher. After all, you’ve come here at great personal sacrifice to help us.”

  “Oh,” I said, “having an excuse to come to Rome again could never be considered a personal sacrifice.”

  Curso, dressed in a double-breasted tan suit, a blazing red tie, and a pale blue shirt, was working on a martini despite the early hour. The detective sipped an espresso. I ordered sparkling water with a slice of lime.

  “Well,” I said, “I suppose I should know what’s in store for me over the next few days. Do you use a lineup in Italy the way we do back in the States?”

  “Yes, it is very much the same,” Lippi said.

  “The young man won’t be able to see me behind a one-way glass?”

  “Exactly. He will never know that you are there, except that—”

  Curso and Lippi looked at each other before the detective continued. “This case has become—how shall I say it? It has become the source of interest for members of the press.”

  I immediately thought of the man who’d taken my picture at the airport and mentioned it.

  Lippi sighed. “Damn media vultures,” he growled. “They care nothing about privacy or how their intrusions affect ordinary people.”

  “But why would he single me out at the airport?” I asked. “He obviously positioned himself by the driver who held up a sign with my name on it. Why would I be of interest to him, or to anyone else in the media, for that matter? I’m not giving any talks and I’m not here to promote my books.”

  Lippi gave another furtive glance at Curso before answering. “Unfortunately, there has been a disclosure from our department, a leak, as you say. Someone—if I knew who he was he would be fired immediately—someone told a reporter that you would be coming to provide an identification in the case. Because you are such a popular writer, Mrs. Fletcher, they naturally grabbed on to that bit of news.” He leaned over, withdrew a copy of a newspaper from his briefcase, and handed it to me. It was in Italian, of course, and I couldn’t read it. But the picture of me spoke louder than any words could. It was a photo that appeared on the back of some of my novels, many of which had been translated into Italian.