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

  Wayne said little during the trip and dozed for much of the flight to Chicago. But when we deplaned, he suddenly became animated and looked around the vast terminal as though searching for something that might pose a threat.

  “We have to find the driver that Mr. Corman is sending for us,” I said.

  He said nothing.

  “Are you all right?” I asked.

  “I dread this,” was his response.

  I spotted a man wearing a black suit, white shirt, and black tie and holding a sign with my name on it. Minutes later, Wayne and I were in the backseat of a large black SUV and on our way to the attorney’s office.

  Chapter Five

  Willard Corman’s law offices were in a high-rise building on Michigan Avenue. Wayne and I got out of the SUV and I did a three-sixty turn to take in the city. I’ve always found Chicago to be beautiful, cosmopolitan yet down-to-earth, its architecture inspiring, its people unfailingly friendly. It’s particularly lovely at night, when its lighting rivals that of Paris. On this day, with the sky a cobalt blue with tiny white, puffy clouds coming and going behind the skyscrapers, I felt very much alive and happy to be there despite the seriousness of my visit.

  The final call I’d made before going to bed the night before was to book a room in a hotel that’s always been a particular favorite of mine when visiting Chicago, the fabled Ambassador East, now part of the Omni chain. It’s conveniently located in a neighborhood of multimillion-dollar homes, just a short walk from Lake Michigan and Lakeshore Drive, and in the other direction is Chicago’s “Miracle Mile” of upscale stores and restaurants. If nothing else, I would have a little one-day vacation before returning to Cabot Cove and the work that awaited my attention.

  The driver had been instructed to wait for us; he was at our disposal for the rest of the day and evening. I asked him to deliver my small wheeled suitcase to the hotel while we met with Corman, and he readily agreed, assuring me that he would be back in plenty of time to pick us up. Obviously, Wayne would stay at his family’s home.

  We stepped out of the elevator, told the receptionist we were there to meet with Mr. Corman, and took seats in the reception area. Wayne was visibly nervous. He fidgeted with his hands, and his legs were in constant motion, doing a seated tap dance on the carpet. It wasn’t long before Corman arrived to gather us. He was younger than I’d expected—I’d say no older than forty or forty-five—with just enough gray at his temples to add gravitas, and a ready smile. We shook hands and he led us into a conference room with floor-to-ceiling shelves containing the firm’s law library.

  “Thank you for coming, Mrs. Fletcher. Please, have a seat,” he said, holding out a chair for me at the long conference table and indicating that Wayne was to sit next to me.

  “Will Marlise be here?” I asked.

  “No. I thought it best that I get a formal statement from Wayne without her present. She’s at home waiting for you to arrive after we finish up. She’s delighted that you’ve come back, Wayne, and was absolutely ecstatic when I told her that you would be here, too, Mrs. Fletcher.”

  “I’m eager to see her,” I said. “It’s been a long time.”

  A young woman entered the room carrying a court stenographer’s apparatus. “This is Ms. Robertson, one of our paralegals,” Corman said. “She’ll be recording Wayne’s statement. You and she can act as witnesses, Mrs. Fletcher, if you don’t mind.”

  “Not at all. Happy to do anything I can to help.”

  “All right,” Corman said, “let’s get started.” He nodded at the paralegal. “First of all, Wayne, I want to compliment you on behaving in an adult and responsible manner. You are a key witness in your father’s unfortunate killing, as are all the people who were in the house at the time. We will take your statement today, but the police will also want to question you again. It’s imperative that you be clear and consistent in your communications with both of us, that you think through exactly what you heard and what you saw carefully, so that the police can pursue the case with all the facts on their side. Are you ready?”

  Wayne nodded but said nothing.

  The attorney swore the younger man in, asking whether what he was about to say would be the whole truth and nothing but the truth. Wayne hesitated, then affirmed that he would be truthful and lowered his hand. Ms. Robertson had already begun speaking into a stenomask that covered her mouth, repeating what was said into her recording machine.

  “Your stepmother has already given us her statement,” Corman said. “Please tell us in your own words what occurred that night.”

  All eyes went to Wayne, whose nervousness hadn’t abated. He looked back and forth among the three of us. We sat quietly, waiting for him to begin providing the details that the attorney was seeking. Finally he said, “I was home that night because the date I had fell through. She called me late in the afternoon to tell me she wasn’t feeling well, which was a bummer. I really liked this girl. We have a lot in common, including our taste in music. Anyway, I ended up at home with nothing to do, so I hung out with Marlise. I kind of enjoy spending time with her. She can be really cool. She used to be a TV news reporter, and she’s always yelling at the TV, criticizing the reporters, for their lame questions.” He laughed. “Anyway, she’s a trip.

  “What I mean is that she really keeps up on the news,” he continued. “I couldn’t care less what’s going on in the world, all the wars and killing, all the political BS. They’re all crooks and liars, the politicians. You can’t believe anything they say.”

  I cast a quick glance at Corman, who kept his frustration in check. I was sure that he wasn’t interested in Wayne’s view of the world and politics, or in a recounting of his love life. I waited for Corman to redirect Wayne’s focus, but he allowed the young man to continue without a prompt.

  “She’s always watching the news shows on TV, all the talking heads, stuff like that. She really keeps up with what’s going on. Anyway, it was late afternoon. I watched a couple of shows with her. I had nothing else to do. My date for the night had canceled on me, so I didn’t mind sitting around. My father was away at some meeting—he was always at some meeting—so Marlise suggested we have dinner together. She’d been complaining about an upset stomach and told the cook she just wanted soup and salad. Oh, yeah, and some bread, too. I was in the mood for fried chicken, and Consuela—that’s our cook—made it for me. We had a nice time together at dinner, some good conversation. Marlise was never without something to say, always had an opinion about things. Anyway, after dinner she said she still wasn’t feeling right and was going to her room. She and my father had three bedrooms, one for her, one for him, and one for when they wanted to get together. I thought it was weird, but I kept my mouth shut about it. She said she was going to read and get to bed early.”

  Corman interrupted. “About what time was that?” he asked.

  Wayne shrugged. “Seven. Seven thirty, maybe. I wasn’t sure what to do for the rest of the night. I thought about hooking up with some buddies, maybe hitting a few clubs, but they don’t open till late. I decided to hang in my room, play some video games and watch TV. I went into the kitchen, and Consuela—she’s really a terrific baker—gave me a slice of coconut custard pie that she’d just made. I was eating it when Dad got home. He came into the kitchen and told Consuela that he’d already had dinner and would be working late in his office.”

  “His office is in this house?” Corman asked.

  “Yeah. Just down the hall.”

  “Okay. Go on.”

  “Anyway, we talked for a couple of minutes. He got on my case about what I was going to do with the rest of my life, which I didn’t feel like hearing. I know he meant well and wanted me to make something of myself, get a college degree and go into business with him. That didn’t interest me. I didn’t make a big deal out of it. I just finished the pie and went to my room.

  “I stayed there until maybe nine thirty, ten o’clock. I’m not sure. I remember dozing off and being bored when I w
oke up. I decided to come downstairs for another piece of that pie.” He rubbed his chin and a small smile played on his lips. “It was really good pie. Consuela had left the rest of it on a platter with a clear cover over it. I cut a piece, sat at the table, and started to eat. Then I heard Marlise’s voice coming from Dad’s office. I couldn’t make out what she was saying, but she sure sounded angry. Then I heard my father, and he sounded mad, too.”

  There was an instant tension in the room, a heavy silence as Corman leaned forward in his chair, his face creased. Obviously he hadn’t been aware that Marlise had left her bedroom and confronted her husband.

  “I’m not sure I understand, Wayne,” the attorney said. “Marlise told me that once she’d retired for the night she stayed in her room until she heard a loud noise and came downstairs.”

  Wayne took in those of us at the table, then avoided our eyes as he said, “I left the kitchen and went down the hall to his office. The door was half open and I saw my dad and Marlise standing face-to-face. They were arguing. I figured it wasn’t right to be eavesdropping on them like that, and I started to walk away.”

  “And?” Corman said.

  Wayne drew a deep, audible breath, looked at me, and said, “Before I turned, I saw Marlise pull a gun from the robe she was wearing.”

  We all tensed.

  “And she pointed it at my father and pulled the trigger.”

  Chapter Six

  Corman slumped in his chair and rubbed his eyes as though to massage away what he’d just heard. The paralegal looked to him for guidance but received a blank stare in return. As for me, I wasn’t sure if it was appropriate to say anything, so I waited.

  Finally Corman spoke. “I know that my hearing is good, Wayne,” he said, “so I don’t doubt that I heard right. You say that you saw—actually saw—Marlise kill your father?”

  For a moment I thought that Wayne might correct what he’d said, rescind it, modify it. He didn’t. He simply nodded.

  “That’s why I left Chicago,” he said. “I didn’t want to have to tell the police what I saw, didn’t want to be the one to hurt Marlise. I wish I wasn’t the one to see it. I’d give anything if it didn’t happen. I will never forget that night as long as I live, the sound of the gun going off, my father groaning, then seeing him fall to the floor.”

  “Did you run in and try to save him?” I asked, still unsure whether it was my place to be asking questions, but plunging ahead anyway. Corman didn’t object.

  “I was so scared, Mrs. Fletcher. I didn’t know what to do. I was sort of paralyzed, I guess. I didn’t know whether Marlise might turn the gun on me, so I ran back to my room and locked the door.”

  I’m sure that Corman was pondering the same question that was going through my mind:

  Was Wayne telling the truth?

  He’d admitted to me that he hadn’t made Marlise’s entry into the family easy. Yet here he’d indicated he enjoyed spending time with her. Had their relationship never really improved? If so, was he claiming to have seen her murder his father as a way to get revenge? Why hadn’t he told me this before we set out for Chicago? He’d allowed me to believe that he would be helping Marlise by returning home. Was this some sort of sordid grandstand play on his part, some perverted attempt at becoming important?

  I also couldn’t help but speculate that he might be lying to cover up his own involvement in his father’s death.

  These were unsettling thoughts, but they did represent realistic possibilities.

  “I suppose what I said really shocked you, huh?” he said.

  “A classic understatement,” Corman replied. He followed up with, “Let’s backtrack a little, Wayne. What happened after you saw your stepmother shoot your father? You obviously didn’t confront her. She’s operating under the impression that you would verify that she’d gone to bed early and hadn’t awakened until after the shooting.”

  “I stayed in my room until almost midnight,” Wayne said.

  “You never went into your father’s office to see whether you could help, to see whether he was still alive?” I asked.

  “I should have, I know, but I was too scared.”

  “Did you call the police?” I asked.

  “No. Marlise did. The police arrived and all hell broke loose. When I came downstairs she was talking to the cops. I heard her tell them that she had gone to Dad’s office to suggest that he come to bed. That’s when she said she found him dead on the floor.”

  “She didn’t mention hearing a loud noise and coming downstairs to investigate?” Corman asked.

  “No.”

  “Did the police question you?” I asked.

  He shook his head no. “I mean, they did ask me some questions, but I never told them what I’d seen. Marlise said that she had gone to bed early because she wasn’t feeling well, and I backed her up.”

  “But that was true,” Corman said.

  “Mostly,” Wayne said. “I mean, she wasn’t feeling well and she did go to bed early. But she got up and—”

  “Now you’re changing your story.”

  “Now—now I’m telling the truth.”

  “Did you ever find a moment alone with Marlise when you could tell her what the truth was, that you had witnessed her killing your father?” the attorney asked.

  “No, I never did. I guess I was afraid of how she’d react.”

  “And so you just picked up and left,” I said.

  Wayne turned to me. “I guess you don’t think much of me, Mrs. Fletcher.”

  “It’s not my place to judge you, Wayne,” I responded.

  Corman said, “That’s your statement, Wayne?”

  The young man nodded.

  “Nothing else to add?”

  A shake of the head.

  “Well,” said the attorney, “I suppose we might as well gear up to tell Marlise about this.” He instructed Ms. Robertson to have the statement printed for Wayne’s signature.

  “You can do that so quickly?” I asked.

  “We work with a voice recognition program,” he said. “She feeds what she’s dictated into the computer. It comes up on the screen. She cleans it up and prints it. Takes only minutes.”

  Corman left Wayne and me in the conference room, saying he’d be back shortly with the statement.

  “I can’t go see Marlise,” Wayne said.

  “What other choice do you have?” I said.

  “She’ll go nuts.”

  “It doesn’t matter how she reacts.” I leaned closer to him. “Wayne, are you certain that the statement you’ve made here today is the absolute truth?”

  His face hardened. “Are you saying that I’m lying?”

  “I’m not saying anything of the kind, but this is not the story you told me in Cabot Cove. I just want to be sure that—”

  Corman’s return interrupted us. He slid the printed pages in front of Wayne and handed him a pen. “Read it over,” he said. “If it’s an accurate transcript of what you’ve told us, sign where indicated.”

  Wayne didn’t bother reading, just scribbled his signature and dropped the pen on the desk. Corman suggested that I sign on one of two lines reserved for witnesses. Ms. Robertson had signed in the other space.

  “I’ll call Marlise,” Corman said, “and tell her we’re on our way. I’ll wait until we’re there to break the news about what’s occurred here today. I don’t want her to be alone when she hears it. It’s good that you’re here, Mrs. Fletcher. She’ll need a good friend.”

  Had I been honest, I would have admitted that had my suitcase not already been delivered to the hotel, I would have considered hailing a taxi and heading right back to O’Hare Airport. The thought of being a buffer against what was sure to be an anguished reaction from Marlise wasn’t a palatable contemplation. There she was, alone at the home in which her husband had been brutally murdered, expecting the arrival of her stepson, who supposedly would validate her claim of what she had done the night of the killing. Instead, he was delivering what
could be a death warrant.

  Corman’s expression reflected abject pain as he said, “Under the rules of disclosure, I’m obligated to inform the DA’s office of Wayne’s allegation. That’s bad enough. It’s possible that based upon what he’s stated here the DA will bring formal charges against her. I’m not happy having to break the news to Marlise. She was so relieved that Wayne was returning and would vouch for her innocence. She’ll be devastated.”

  Corman’s feeling mirrored mine. Of course, he didn’t have a choice. As an officer of the court he was legally obligated to turn Wayne’s statement over to the prosecutors. For a fleeting moment I wondered whether it would have been better for Wayne to have stayed away, to have disappeared for good, but I knew that wouldn’t have solved anything. I also suffered a moment of guilt at having persuaded him to return to Chicago. But such thoughts were unrealistic at best. Wayne had a duty to report what he’d seen, no matter who was hurt in the process, and I’d done the right thing in encouraging him to come home and face the music.

  Corman called Marlise from the conference room and simply told her that we’d be there in half an hour. Although I couldn’t hear her side of the conversation, it was obvious that she asked the attorney questions that he deftly avoided answering. At one point he said, “We can get into that when we get there, Marlise. What? Yes, Wayne and Mrs. Fletcher will be with me. See you soon.”