(36/40) The Fine Art of Murder Page 20

  “Was involved?” she said. “He isn’t any longer?”

  “No. The artist died recently.”

  “How recently?”

  “A day or two ago. He was murdered.”

  “Oh, Jessica Fletcher, why do I suspect that there’s a lot you’re not telling me?”

  “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 th
ought 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

  Marlise 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!”