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

  Her eyebrows went up. “You two are becoming quite an item.”

  “Don’t be silly, Marlise. He asked me to dinner and I accepted, but I was hoping you would join us. Will you? It’ll be fun being together.”

  “How will Tony feel about that?”

  “He said he’d be delighted. May I call him and tell him you said yes?”

  Curso reaffirmed his pleasure in having Marlise join us for dinner, and I passed along that message to her. He also said that he’d bring his other car, which had more room than his two-seater Austin Healey.

  Curso’s larger vehicle was a long, shiny black Cadillac with a red leather interior and a dashboard replete with electronics that looked like the inside of a space capsule.

  “How can a man get so lucky to be going to dinner with a lovely lady on each arm?” he said as we drove to the restaurant, which was on Milwaukee Avenue, away from downtown. “We’re going to Bob Chinn’s Crab House, the best seafood in Chicago. Absolutely the best, fresh from the cold, deep waters of the ocean and cooked to perfection.”

  Tony Curso at his superlative best.

  The Crab House was big and bustling—Curso told us that it served more than three thousand dinners every night and at one time had been the highest-grossing restaurant in the country. He knew, of course, not only one of the bartenders but the manager as well, and we were given a prime table on the outskirts of the busy scene. Curso and Marlise ordered drinks, his usual martini made to order by his friend behind the bar, and a double scotch on the rocks for her.

  “It feels so good to be out,” she said as we scanned the sizable menu.

  “You’ve been through the wringer,” Curso said, patting her hand. “But I may have something to pick up your spirits.”

  “Oh? What’s that?”

  “Well, as you know, I’m producing a documentary about art theft and forgery. I’ve invited Jessica to participate, but she’s declined.” He cocked his head at me. “Still your decision, Jessica?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Which I graciously accept. But you, Marlise, would be a perfect fit. You’ve had on-camera experience when you worked as a TV journalist, and you’re very familiar with the impact of art theft and forgery. In other words, I’m offering you the job of hosting my documentary, accompanied by a substantial fee, of course.”

  I had to smile. Anthony Curso was, among many things, the consummate operator, ready to pounce at every opportunity. I didn’t view him negatively; he was an honest man with multiple interests. Nothing wrong with that. I looked at Marlise, and from the expression on her face I could tell she was weighing the offer.

  “What do you say?” Curso asked as the waiter came for our food order.

  She checked me before exclaiming, “I say let’s do it!”

  Chapter Twenty-three

  The dinner ended on a decidedly upbeat note. Marlise was thrilled at having work on the documentary to look forward to, and Curso spent the rest of the meal waxing poetic about the project and giving Marlise, and me, a scene-by-scene account of how it would be put together and distributed. He was working closely with the Italian art detectives, and the direct link between Vittorio’s brutal murder and the Italian Mafia’s role in international art theft and forgery would add an undeniable and unexpected dramatic dimension to the documentary.

  He dropped us off at Marlise’s house and bid us good night with, “You two lovely ladies make my heart sing. Buona sera. Siete belle. You both are beautiful.”

  Marlise was in high spirits when we entered the house. She kicked off her shoes and flopped on a love seat in the parlor. “Maybe there is a God after all,” she said. “Isn’t he charming?”

  “Yes, he is, and I’m so pleased for you, Marlise.”

  “The cavalry has arrived in the nick of time. Joe told me today that I’m on my own. There’s nothing to inherit, and the estate owes him a small fortune. I wasn’t sure what I’d do once this nightmare was over. If the documentary is a success, it could open doors for me to get back in the business.”

  “I’m sure that will happen,” I said, stifling a yawn. I looked at my watch. “It’s after eleven,” I said, this time through the yawn that insisted on coming. “I’m heading to bed.”

  “And you sleep tight, my friend. If you hadn’t invited me to join you and Tony at dinner, this might not have happened. I owe you, Jessica.”

  “What you owe me is to get on with your life. Good night. See you in the morning.”

  I undressed for bed and used the adjoining bathroom for my nightly ablutions. I climbed under the covers and sighed. Although nothing had been resolved where Jonathon’s murder was concerned, my friend seemed poised to start a new life on a positive note. Without corroborating evidence, Wayne’s allegation against her likely wouldn’t hold up. More important, I’d finally dismissed even the possibility that Wayne had been truthful and that my friend was a murderess.

  I considered starting another book I’d brought with me, but my drooping eyelids dictated otherwise. A series of images flashed across my mind like a slide show as I hovered between sleep and wakefulness.

  The first was of Vittorio’s cave, a pleasant vision that had him very much alive, a glass of grappa in his hand, while he entertained me and Curso. But the slide that replaced it was distinctly more ominous. Vittorio was slumped in a corner, the back of his head blown away, his grappa bottle propped against his face as though the killer had created a piece of performance art.

  I squeezed my eyes shut against that picture until the next visual appeared on my mental screen. It was of the young man who’d knocked me down the Spanish Steps, a crooked, satisfied smile on his face. That image morphed into the face of the art thief and killer Danilo Lombardi. He, too, smiled as he held a gun to my face. I had to both shut my eyes and shake my head to make him disappear.

  Visions of my home and the streets of Cabot Cove came next, happy, smile-inducing snapshots of the town and people that I love. I sighed and smiled during that portion of my personal visual journey, the perfect note on which to turn off the projector and go to sleep.

  But the projector wouldn’t shut off. I was back in Calcata, in the plaza, and that scene snapped me awake and had me sitting straight up in bed. I got up, found my slippers, put on my robe, and stepped into the hall. It was dark except for one small lamp high on a wall. I went to the room occupied by the elder Mrs. Simsbury and put my ear to it. The TV was on—a sitcom, judging from the canned laugh track. I knocked. When there was no response, I tried again, louder this time. Still nothing. I turned the doorknob, and the door opened. All lights were off in the room; the only illumination came from the TV set. Mrs. Simsbury wasn’t there.

  I closed the door and went to the head of the stairs. I heard voices from somewhere downstairs, muffled voices, the words indistinguishable. I carefully descended the stairs in the dim light, holding the banister tightly until I reached the ground floor. I knew now that the voices came from the parlor, and that one of them belonged to Mrs. Simsbury. The parlor door was closed and I stood outside until I recognized that the second voice was Wayne Simsbury. I drew a deep breath, opened the door, and stepped through.

  Mrs. Simsbury was in her wheelchair, covered with her usual red-and-black plaid caftan that shrouded her from the waist down. Wayne was in a robe and slippers, and stood a few feet in front of her. My unannounced arrival startled them. Wayne looked at me and turned away. His grandmother jutted her chin out and said, “What are you doing here?”

  “I couldn’t sleep,” I said, “and heard you here. But—”

  “Get out!”

  My response was to close the door.

  “I told you to get out,” she repeated.

  “Not before I ask a few questions,” I said defiantly.

  Wayne turned to face me. “Maybe it’s better if you leave, Mrs. Fletcher.”

  I stared Mrs. Simsbury down. As I did, the sight of her was replaced by a different one, one I’d seen while in bed, the aging Maf
ioso in a wheelchair in the Calcata plaza, covered with what appeared to be a heavy gray horse blanket, his eyes as dark and cold as pieces of anthracite, the handgun he pulled beneath the blanket menacing.

  Mrs. Simsbury replaced that picture.

  I said to Wayne, “I know that you lied about Marlise, and that your grandmother won’t let you tell the truth.” I directed my next comment to her. “Why, Mrs. Simsbury, don’t you want your grandson to be honest?”

  Wayne started to answer, but she stopped him with, “Keep your mouth shut. Say nothing to this prying troublemaker. She wants to hurt you the way they did.”

  “‘They’?” I said. “Who? Marlise? His father?”

  “I told you to leave,” she said.

  “Not until I prove something to myself,” I said in a strong voice to match hers. I addressed Wayne. “There was a time when I thought you might have shot your father and were blaming Marlise to get yourself off the hook. Now I believe you when you say you didn’t do it. But I don’t believe you when you say Marlise did. She didn’t kill your father. But you know who did.”

  “You’re wrong! He saw that witch of a stepmother do it,” the old lady said, rolling her wheelchair a few feet in my direction. “My grandson wouldn’t lie.”

  “I don’t think lying comes naturally to him,” I said, “but he might lie to please someone else.”

  When she didn’t respond, I added, “Someone like you, Mrs. Simsbury.”

  “Don’t listen to her,” she growled at Wayne. “She and that witch are in cahoots. They’re working together to get you jailed. She’s evil, like Marlise and, and—”

  “And like the man who was your son?” I interjected.

  “That weakling! He was no man. His father, my husband, was what a man ought to be, strong and willful, sure of himself, with no patience for the flunkies who tried to take him down. He crushed them all and left what he’d fought so hard for all his life, a thriving business. But none of that skill, that shrewdness, that power was passed on to his sniveling son.” Her expression was pure disgust. “Jonathon was weak. He fell victim to everyone and anyone who wanted something from him, the men he surrounded himself with, every one of them a bloodsucking leech. And then that woman batted her eyes and shook her bottom at him, and he fell for it.” Her voice was now a shout. “He married her! I told him that she was poison, was after his money, the money my husband worked so hard to make. I’ve cursed her every day since she sashayed into my home. May she rot in hell for the way she twisted my son around her little polished finger, getting him to change his will to—” Her voice rose until it was a shout. “Change his will to cut my grandson out and give it to her!”

  Wayne stood silently by the window during her tirade, hands clenched at his sides, his face a mask of confusion, torment, and pain.

  “And you shot him to prevent that from happening,” I said.

  She fell silent.

  “You took Jonathon’s gun from his bedside table, didn’t you?” I said. “You’ve had it hidden in the wheelchair under that caftan ever since the night you killed him. The police looked everywhere, but they would never violate an old lady’s dignity and privacy. Do you have it with you now? Give it to me and put an end to this madness.”

  She slumped in her wheelchair as though someone had pulled a plug and let all the energy out. She turned to Wayne and said in a sweet voice, “I did it for you, darling. You know that, don’t you?”

  Wayne looked at me with pleading eyes.

  “Tell her to go away, darling,” she said in that same cloying, saccharine voice. “Tell her that this is our house and we don’t want her kind in it.”

  “Did your grandmother tell you to blame Marlise?” I asked him. “Was that the way she decided to cover things up?”

  “I—”

  Her voice regained its strength. “Don’t be a coward like your father was,” she snapped. “Your grandfather wouldn’t stand for it.”

  She reached beneath the caftan, pulled out the gun, and pointed it at me. “I told you to get out and leave us alone,” she said. “Now you’ll wish you had.”

  I flinched, as I expected to hear the discharge and feel the bullet enter me. But Wayne sprang at her and grabbed the weapon. It went off, boring a hole in the ceiling. He wrestled the gun from her, dropped it to the floor, and collapsed on top of it, his sobs filling the room.

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Marlise 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 respons
e 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