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

  According to the longest article, which appeared on the front page of the Tribune, the lead detective in the case acknowledged that the victim’s widow was considered a person of interest, but so were several others, and no formal charges had been filed. The detective viewed it as an open case with the investigation ongoing, and he pledged that the murder would be solved and the killer brought to justice.

  I looked for mentions of Wayne, who was cited only in passing. It had struck me that his stated reason for having left Chicago might not have represented the entire truth. If Marlise was considered a person of interest, it was likely that he was, too. I hated to think that he might have been his father’s killer, but that possibility lingered.

  I printed out a number of the articles, made a file folder for them, and returned to the living room, where Wayne still slept soundly. I thought about waking him but decided not to. Instead, I went back into my office and called our sheriff, Mort Metzger. I’m not a paranoid person, but I wanted someone to know that I had a visitor.

  “Hello, Mrs. F.,” he said. “Surprised to hear from you. Thought you were hibernating these days, working on your book.”

  “I have been hibernating, Mort, but I’ve taken a break. I’ve had a surprise visit from the stepson of an old friend. He’s in from Chicago, and I’m enjoying spending time with him. His name is Wayne Simsbury.”

  “Always nice to touch base with old friends,” he said. “He staying long?”

  “I’m not sure. I doubt it. Just wanted to say hello.”

  There was a pause on his end, probably because he found my call to be unusual.

  “Well, good to hear from you, Mrs. F. When you come up for air, Maureen and I would love to have you for dinner. Bring your friend along, too.”

  “Thanks, Mort. I may take you up on that.”

  I was about to see whether Wayne had awakened when the phone rang.

  “Jessica?”

  “Yes.”

  “Jessica, dear Jessica. It’s Marlise. Marlise Simsbury.”

  “Oh, my goodness! Marlise?”

  “I know. It’s been ages since we talked.”

  “I read about—”

  “That’s why I’m calling, Jessica. I’m trying to find Wayne, Jonathon’s son.”

  “I—”

  “I know it’s a shot in the dark, but I’m frantic. He’s disappeared, vanished, not a word to anyone. I’m calling everyone I know in case he’s tried to contact them. You have so many connections to the police. I thought perhaps you could help me get the word out. He’s not being accused of anything, of course, but his leaving at this point in the investigation is very inconvenient. His father’s murder was a terrible shock for him. I’m afraid he might do something stupid, or even harm himself.”

  What had been a two-month period of relative calm and productivity had suddenly deteriorated into a series of unwelcome shocks.

  First, I read about Jonathon Simsbury’s murder and that his wife, my old friend Marlise Morrison Simsbury, was home at the time of his death.

  Then, her stepson, Wayne, whom I’d never met, shows up unannounced at my door.

  And now Marlise calls out of the blue.

  “Marlise,” I said, “Wayne is here.”

  “He is?”

  “Yes. He arrived earlier today.”

  “Let me speak with him.”

  “He’s sleeping at the moment, Marlise. He was exhausted when he arrived. And hungry, too.”

  “I don’t care, Jessica. I must speak with him. He’s got to come back to Chicago immediately. We’ve had a terrible tragedy here and—”

  “I know, Marlise. I’ll—”

  A man came on the line. “Mrs. Fletcher?”

  “Yes.”

  “My name is Willard Corman. I’m an attorney representing Mrs. Simsbury. I’m with her now. She just told me that her stepson, Wayne, is with you.”

  “That’s right. I’ve already spoken with him about the importance of his returning home, but he threatened to run away. So you see—”

  “You’re aware of the tragedy that’s happened here. Mr. Simsbury has been murdered.”

  “Yes, I read about it,” I said. “A terrible tragedy.”

  “Mrs. Simsbury is under great pressure from the authorities, and Wayne’s statement to the police is urgently needed.”

  “I’m sure it is, Mr. Corman. And I understand she’s upset that anyone suspects she could have been involved.”

  “I’m convinced that she wasn’t,” he said, “and it’s my responsibility as her attorney to prove that to the authorities. That’s why it’s vitally important that I reach Wayne and see that he returns to Chicago. He can provide an alibi for her.”

  “Oh?”

  “She was in the house when the killing occurred, but she wasn’t feeling well and had gone to bed early, much earlier than when the crime occurred. Wayne’s testimony to that is crucial.”

  I went through a quick series of mental calculations.

  Obviously Wayne had to return to Chicago as soon as possible to corroborate Marlise’s claim. My initial instinct was to rouse the young man and put him on the phone with the attorney. But I hesitated. On the basis of what Wayne had said to me, there was every possibility that instead of cooperating, he would bolt. He’d left Chicago in a troubled mental state, and I doubted that this lawyer would be successful in ordering him to return. If Wayne balked at going back to Chicago, I wondered, could the attorney arrange for some arm of law enforcement to force his return? I had a feeling that if it came to that, Wayne would be out the door and on his way to another temporary sanctuary.

  I made a decision.

  “Mr. Corman,” I said, “give me some time with Wayne. I don’t know whether I’ll have an influence on him, but I’ll try to persuade him to come home on the next plane to Chicago. I’ll let you know later today whether I’m successful.”

  “Thanks for your cooperation, Mrs. Fletcher.”

  “You’re welcome. Could I speak to Marlise again?”

  I heard him tell Marlise what I’d suggested before she took the phone. “Jessica, dear, please do everything you can to get him to do what’s right.” She forced a small laugh. “I’m counting on you. I know how persuasive you can be.”

  “I’ll do my best. One way or the other, you’ll know what he’s decided to do before the day is up. Marlise, I’m so sorry about what’s happened.”

  “Thanks, Jessica. Ironic, isn’t it, how it’s taken this tragedy to put us back in touch again?”

  I agreed and we ended the call after exchanging phone and cellular numbers for her and for her attorney.

  I went to the living room, where I found Wayne awake and sitting on the couch, his head in his hands.

  “Wayne, we have to talk,” I said.

  “Boy, I really conked out,” he said.

  “Why don’t you go in the bathroom and splash some cold water on your face?”

  “Huh?”

  “It’s important that we have a talk, Wayne,” I said in a tone that indicated I was serious. “Go on now. Wash up.”

  When he returned, he sat on the couch next to me.

  “I received a call from your stepmom,” I said, “and the attorney who’s representing her, Mr. Corman. He told me that Marlise went to bed early the night of the murder and that you can corroborate that for the authorities, but you ran away.”

  He stiffened. “You told them I was here?”

  “Yes. I promised to call them later today about your plans, whether you’ll agree to return to Chicago as soon as possible. Marlise needs your testimony. She needs you, Wayne. Surely you can see that. Regardless of your relationship with her, at least you owe it to her to tell the police the truth.”

  He started to say something, but I continued.

  “I can understand your wanting to get away from what was obviously a wrenching situation. I’m not judging you for doing that. But you’re an adult, and you have adult responsibilities. You and Marlise have both
suffered a terrible loss, and you can help console each other. She’s not only lost her husband under dreadful circumstances, but now the police are pursuing her as a suspect. You must go home, Wayne, and do it immediately.”

  He leaned his head back against the couch and closed his eyes.

  “Wayne,” I said, “you have to listen to me.”

  His eyes opened, and he slowly shook his head. “You want me to go back for her sake, Mrs. Fletcher?”

  “Yes, and for your sake, too. You need each other at this time. You want to do the right thing, don’t you?”

  “What is the right thing?” he asked.

  “Supporting each other during this ordeal.”

  “I don’t know.”

  I stood and walked out, pausing in the doorway to address him. “You’re an adult, and I can’t tell you what to do. I only hope you’ll behave as your father would expect you to. It’s your choice, Wayne,” I said. “I’ll leave you alone to think about it. I’ll be in my office in the event you want to discuss it further.”

  I hadn’t been back in my office for more than five minutes when there was a knock at the door.

  “Come in,” I said.

  Wayne entered and stood across the desk from me. “You’re right,” he said. “I have to go back to Chicago.”

  I smiled at him and nodded. “You’ve made the right decision. I’ll make some calls and see what travel plans we can arrange for you.”

  “Will you come with me?” he asked.

  I’m sure my expression mirrored my surprise. “Me? Come with you? That’s out of the question.”

  “Then I won’t go,” he said, a suggestion of a pout on his lips.

  “You had no problem coming here to Cabot Cove by yourself, Wayne, and I’m sure you can find your way back to Chicago. There’s absolutely no reason for me to accompany you.”

  “I mean it,” he said. “If you won’t come with me, I’ll take off from here and go someplace else. I thought you were Marlise’s friend.”

  “I am, but—”

  “She really needs a friend, Mrs. Fletcher, and so do I. At least do it for her.”

  I was a jumble of conflicting thoughts at that moment. The notion of just picking up and flying to Chicago with him was troublesome, to say the least. I’d been making good progress on my latest book and didn’t want to interrupt the momentum.

  On the other hand, delivering Wayne back to Chicago and helping Marlise fed my natural instinct to rally to a friend in need. I began to rationalize. Taking a day, or perhaps two, away from my work certainly wouldn’t pose much of a burden. Accompanying him to Chicago would ensure that he didn’t change his mind and run away again, and it would put me back in direct touch with Marlise, someone for whom I had nothing but warm memories and fond feelings. My heart went out to her, losing her husband in such a brutal way and carrying the heavy yoke of suspicion of having been his killer.

  “You will go back to Chicago if I come with you?” I said.

  “Yes.”

  “I want to believe you, Wayne, but—”

  “No, no, Mrs. Fletcher. I promise.”

  “I’ll have to make a number of last-minute arrangements, but I’m willing to do that,” I said, my mind calculating the myriad details I’d need to handle before we left. “I won’t be able to stay in Chicago very long, but I do want to see Marlise again. Maybe having an old friend there even for a day or two will help boost her spirits. You go get a soft drink from the refrigerator while I check travel options for us. I must call the attorney and tell him we’ll be there. It’s unlikely that we can make reservations for tonight, but I’ll do my best. If not, you can stay here overnight and we’ll go to Chicago tomorrow.”

  “That’s great, Mrs. Fletcher. I’m sure Marlise will be happy to see you again.”

  “What’s really important is that she’ll have you to help prove her innocence. Go on, now—get something to drink. I’ll join you as soon as I make my calls.”

  I felt good about having made the decision. As psychiatrists are fond of saying, “Any action is better than no action.”

  I called the number Marlise had given me for her, but Corman answered. “Mr. Corman, this is Jessica Fletcher. We spoke earlier.”

  “Yes. Is he coming?”

  “Yes. I’ve convinced him to come back to Chicago. He’s asked that I come with him, and I’ve agreed.”

  “When will you be here?”

  “Not before tomorrow. He’s a very confused and frightened young man, Mr. Corman. I think it best that I make his trip as easy as possible.”

  “Mrs. Simsbury will be greatly relieved,” he said. “So am I. May I disclose your plans to her?”

  “Of course. And please tell her that I’m looking forward to seeing her again and that she not only has Wayne’s support to count on, she has mine, too.”

  He gave me his office address and said that once he knew our travel arrangements he would send a car to pick us up at the airport.

  My next call was to Jed Richardson. Jed had been a commercial airline pilot, but eventually he tired of big-airline bureaucracy and left to establish his own charter air service in Cabot Cove, providing flights to nearby cities and giving flying lessons. I had become one of his students a few years back and was now the proud owner of a private pilot’s license, which always amuses my friends, since I don’t possess a driver’s license.

  “Hello, Jessica,” Jed said. “Planning another trip so soon?”

  “As a matter of fact I am, a very last-minute one. A young man who’s visiting me and I need to go to Chicago tomorrow. I’ve checked schedules out of Bangor, but there doesn’t seem to be any service from there.”

  “Boston?”

  “All booked. That was my first option, but I’m also checking Hartford.”

  “Either way’s fine with me. I’ve got a free day tomorrow. Happy to ferry you and your friend wherever you want to go.”

  After I booked two seats on a late-morning flight from Hartford to Chicago, I called Seth Hazlitt.

  “How’s the book coming?” he asked.

  “Fine. I’m about to take a break for a day or two. I’m going to Chicago tomorrow.”

  “A book signing?”

  “No, I’m going to see an old friend, Marlise Morrison Simsbury.”

  “Don’t recall you mentioning her, Jessica.”

  “We go back a long way, to when I was living in New York. She was a TV reporter then and—”

  “Simsbury? Seems I just read about a wealthy fellow in Chicago named Simsbury.”

  “You did?”

  “Ayuh. There was a piece in this morning’s paper. Fellow was murdered, as I recall. He wouldn’t happen to be any relation to your old friend?”

  “Well, as a matter of fact, Marlise was married to him. Her stepson, Wayne, dropped in to see me unexpectedly today and I’m accompanying him back home.”

  There was a long, meaningful silence on Seth’s end before he said, “Why do I have the feeling, Jessica, that this little jaunt of yours to Chicago isn’t as innocent as you make it sound?”

  “I suppose there is more to it, Seth, but nothing I can’t handle. My friend, Marlise, needs her stepson’s support and I’m just making sure that he returns home to provide it.”

  “Seems to me, Jessica, that it was only a few months ago that you took a pleasant little trip to Italy and ended up not only witnessing a murder but almost getting killed yourself.”

  “That was just a matter of me being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Going to Chicago with my friend’s stepson is—well, it’s just something that I feel I must do. Not to worry, Seth. I’ll be back in a day or two. I just wanted you to know that I’d be away in case you tried to reach me.”

  “As you wish, Jessica, but my advice is to deliver your friend’s stepson, turn directly around, go back to the airport, and take the first available flight back home.”

  “Which is exactly what I intend to do. Talk to you in a few days.”

&nb
sp; I weighed whether to take Wayne out to dinner that evening, but decided to stay home. Chances were that we would run into friends, who would naturally have questions, and I wasn’t eager to put myself or Wayne in the position of having to answer them. Instead, I ordered Chinese food from a new restaurant outside town that had delivery service, and we had a pleasant dinner together. When I raised the topic of his family, Wayne resisted talking about his father and stepmother, but opened up when I asked about his band and the music they played. Clearly, it was a passion of his, although not an interest he’d been able to share with his father.

  Before retiring for the night to my guest room, he put on an old bathrobe of mine and used my washing machine and dryer. I admit to being somewhat on edge as I tried to fall asleep knowing that he was in the next room, but I reminded myself that such fears were unfounded and eventually fell into a deep, albeit fitful, sleep.

  The next morning I was up early and had to make several attempts to wake Wayne. He finally arrived in the kitchen wearing his freshly laundered clothing, eagerly consumed the breakfast I put out for him, and was ready to leave the moment the taxi arrived. The driver took us to Jed Richardson’s hangar at the airport, and fifteen minutes later we were airborne and on our way to Hartford, Connecticut, where we would connect for our flight to Chicago. I love flying in a small plane—you feel the experience of flight so much more powerfully than you do in a jetliner. Wayne didn’t seem impressed that we were flying on a private aircraft, although I suppose years of having flown on his father’s private plane left him blasé to such experiences. He insisted on paying for his share of the flight, including half of Jed’s fee, using a platinum American Express card. This was a young man with access to anything he wanted, no matter the cost, and I wondered to what extent his exposure to easy money and luxury had spoiled him. He was far more self-assured than he’d initially led me to believe when it came to spending. Yet he also seemed to be brooding much of the time, his brow and mouth set as though he were pondering heavy thoughts. I attributed his somber demeanor to the death of his father and the violent circumstances in which it came about. What son wouldn’t mourn the loss of a parent, even if the relationship hadn’t always been ideal? Yet I wondered how much his pensive pose was a true expression of his thoughts and how much it was a screen to avoid having to deal with simple issues of humanity. A scowl discourages others from approaching you. But I noticed that when he wanted something, Wayne was capable of using a different strategy. When he did smile on occasion, his face lit up, and I was convinced that those around him wished he would do it more often.