The Fine Art of Murder (11 page)

“We hadn’t seen each other in years. I came here to—”

“To escort the young Simsbury chap—Wayne, is it?—back to the old homestead to accuse his stepmother of the crime.”

“I didn’t know at the time that he intended to do that.” I explained the circumstances of his arrival at my home in Cabot Cove and how I had assumed that he would help prove Marlise’s innocence. “Needless to say, I was as shocked as everyone else when he alleged that he’d seen Marlise shoot her husband.”

“And what do you think?” Curso asked.

I glanced at Peters, who seemed uninterested in the conversation.

“I really don’t know,” I said to Curso. “Naturally, I prefer not to think that my friend, Marlise, did such a dreadful thing. What interests me is the dynamic between Wayne and his stepmother, whether he has some underlying reason for claiming to have witnessed the murder and identifying her as the murderer.”

“Wayne Simsbury is a good kid,” Peters said. “He wouldn’t lie about something like that.”

“So you think that Mrs. Simsbury actually
did
the dirty deed,” Curso said to Peters.

“I don’t know who did what,” Peters said. “All I
do
know is that Wayne Simsbury was the apple of his father’s eye. The sun rose and set on him. Why would he kill a father who doted on him in every way?”

Peters’s analysis of the father-son relationship was not exactly what I’d been led to believe by others, but I didn’t challenge him.

“Would you be interested in seeing the collection, Jessica?” Curso asked.

I looked to Peters for a reaction.

“May I give Jessica a personal tour of the collection, Edgar?” Curso asked. “I plan to spend the day there tomorrow.”

Peters seemed conflicted but agreed. “I guess there’s no harm in it.”

“Splendid,” said Curso. “Shall we say ten in the morning?”

“That’s fine with me,” I said.

Peters drove me back to the Ambassador East and walked me into the lobby.

“Thank you for dinner,” I said. “You were right. Tony Curso is a fascinating man.”

“He is amusing,” Peter said, granting Curso a less than enthusiastic endorsement. “Mind some advice, Jessica?”

“I’m always interested in good advice.”

“I know that you and Marlise are close and that you don’t believe that she killed Jonathon.”

“Am I mistaken in that belief?” I asked, wondering where he was going.

“Jonathon’s murder is going to get messier as time goes by, and I think that you’d be wise not to become entangled in it.”

“I certainly don’t intend to become ‘entangled,’ as you put it,” I said.

“That’s good to hear,” he said. “The point is that Wayne Simsbury is a fine young man who wouldn’t lie about something like this. Sure, he’s had his troubles. Like most young people, he’s fouled up here and there. But Jonathon was a terrific father who had a close bond with his son, and Marlise would never win the stepmother-of-the-year award.”

I wondered whether he was aware that Jonathon had been about to execute a new will that cut his son’s inheritance down to ten percent, but I didn’t ask. It was interesting how Edgar Peters had a very different perspective on the Simsbury household than Marlise did.

Peters flashed a smile. “Just some idle thoughts, Jessica. It was a nice evening. Tony is obviously taken with you.”

“He’s charming,” I said. “Thank you again.”

I watched him leave the hotel, and as I rode up in the elevator, I replayed in my head what he’d said about Wayne and his relationship with his father. The young man had told me while at my house that his father was disappointed in him and that his relationship with Marlise was good. Marlise had said Jonathon was in the process of changing his will in her favor and to Wayne’s detriment. Would she have said that if it weren’t true? I didn’t know where the truth lay, and I realized that if I was to make any headway in solving the murder, I’d need to get a better perspective on the relationships within the family. One source with possibly less-biased views would be the household staff. But would Mrs. Tetley, the cook, Consuela, and the driver, Carl, be willing to talk to a stranger about the family they worked for? I made a silent pledge to seek them out.

In the meantime, I looked forward to the next day’s tour of the Simsbury-Peters art collection. If nothing else, admiring fine art would be a welcome reprieve from thinking about the less pleasant topic of murder.

Chapter Twelve

J
udging from the car Anthony Curso drove, his career as an art historian and professor paid well. The vehicle was, he explained after picking me up in front of the hotel—and eliciting numerous “oohs” and “aahs” from admiring passersby—a gleaming 1964 Austin Healey 3000. “The color is Healey Blue,” he said with obvious pride. “It’s the best big Healey ever made.”

“It’s beautiful,” I said as I ran my hand over the burl wood dashboard.

“My baby,” he said. “Mind the top down?”

“No, not at all,” I replied, untying the scarf I’d fortunately worn around my neck and retying it over my hair. I enjoy a ride in a convertible, but not the rat’s nest the wind makes of my hairstyle.

The expression on his face was sheer joy as he smoothly shifted gears while navigating city traffic. He wore a red tam, a pale blue safari jacket over a red button-down shirt, and jeans that were a cut above Levi’s or Wranglers.

We eventually left the city and drove into an industrial park that appeared to have recently been built. At the rear of the complex was a one-story concrete and steel building. Curso parked in front, hopped out to open my door, and led me to the side of the building. He punched a code into a keypad, and I heard the door unlatch. He pushed it open, flipped on overhead lights, and entered another series of numbers into the alarm system’s keypad. Despite the building’s double alarm system, I couldn’t help but wonder whether the storehouse was secure enough to be the repository of millions of dollars’ worth of fine art. I asked.

“I had the same question,” Curso said. “When I mentioned it to Ed Peters, he said that Jonathon was content with the building’s security, although Ed didn’t seem convinced. An amateur thief could break in here in a couple of minutes. Of course, if no one knows what’s in the building, that’s unlikely to happen. It goes without saying, I am relying on your discretion.”

“And it goes without saying that I would never disclose this location,” I said.

“At least it’s climate controlled,” he said, looking around. “Amazing how some collectors don’t have a clue about how to preserve and secure their paintings. But that isn’t my problem, Jessica. Come see the latest piece I’ve been appraising.”

Curso had established a work area in a corner of the spacious room. A table contained a large microscope, two magnifying glasses, and various small dishes that held liquids. Dozens of books were piled on one corner of the table, along with a thick notebook. The table and its contents were illuminated by a pair of powerful gooseneck lamps. An easel held a painting covered with a crimson piece of cloth. He removed the cloth and directed one of the lamps on the painting. It wasn’t very large, maybe two feet tall by less than a foot wide. The subject was a nude female whose bronze body had been elongated by the artist.

“A Modigliani,” I said.

“Yes, probably painted in 1908. Typical of his approach to painting nudes.”

“His style is easily recognizable,” I said.

“Yes, it is, and apparently easy to replicate. Even so, his works are eagerly sought by collectors around the world, and an expert can usually spot a fake. Modigliani was born in Italy but spent his final years in Paris living the bohemian Montmartre life to the fullest. He was sickly; a typhoid epidemic had almost killed him. As it was, he lived only thirty-six years.”

“Another great artist who died young.”

“Unfortunately for him, but the consequent limited number of his paintings lifts their value.”

“What is a painting like this worth?” I asked.

Curso shrugged as he held a magnifying glass to the canvas, focusing on the lower left-hand quadrant. He was totally engrossed in his examination of the painting. After spending a number of minutes at his task, he lowered the glass, made notations in the notebook, and said, “This particular piece isn’t listed in the catalogue raisonné.”

“What is that?”

“It’s a list of all works known to be executed by an artist. This particular piece isn’t in it.”

“Which means it might not be a Modigliani?”

“It raises that suspicion, Jessica, although the catalogue isn’t infallible.”

“Marlise Simsbury told me that Jonathon had copies made of works he’d bought, and that those copies are the ones hanging in their home.”

“Not unusual,” Curso said.

I laughed. “Somehow I find it strange that someone would buy expensive artworks and have them copied. I think that I’d prefer to enjoy the beauty of the originals every day in my own home.”

“Which is why people should buy art that pleases them, not as an investment. Of course, think of wealthy women who own expensive jewelry and have copies made to wear in public while the originals gather dust in a safe-deposit box.”

I laughed again. “I know a few of those women,” I said.

“The artist who copied many of Jonathon Simsbury’s originals is in Los Angeles. A very talented chap who decided there was more money in copying the works of the masters than in creating his own art. He has not only made a decent living copying originals for their owners, like Simsbury, but he receives commissions from people who pass off his work as original art by the masters and proudly display his copies on their walls. Very much like those scoundrels who pour inferior whiskey into empty bottles containing the labels of top-shelf liquor to impress their guests.”

“People do that?” I said, demonstrating my naïveté.

“More than you realize,” said a voice behind me. Edgar Peters, hands tucked in the pockets of his yellow sports jacket, strolled across the warehouse to where we stood.

“So, you came to check out your investment today?” Curso said to him.

“I knew you both would be here, and decided to see what you’re up to.”

“I wish I could say we were up to no good,” Curso said, winking at me, “but Mrs. Fletcher—Jessica—is, sad to say, able to resist my charms. Perhaps you’ll have better luck, Ed.” He didn’t wait for Peters to reply, but turned to me. “You asked what this particular painting is worth,” he said, referring to the Modigliani. “If it was listed in the catalogue, and certified by a Modigliani expert, it would go at auction for, say, two million, possibly more.”

“But without the catalogue listing, or certification?”

Another shrug from the art expert.

“Are you saying this is a fake?” Peters said, frowning.

“If it isn’t a Modigliani, it’s an excellent forgery,” Curso replied. “There are collectors who buy such bogus works. But of course its value would be much less. A hundred thousand, perhaps.”

I was momentarily confused. “I thought all the paintings and sculptures here in the warehouse were originals. Are you saying, Tony, that some of the works here might be forgeries?”

“He better not be,” Peters growled.

“Oh, no, Jessica. You were asking what it might bring on the open market and I gave you two hypothetical scenarios. Don’t misconstrue what I said.”

I leaned against the table and shook my head. “Frankly,” I said, “I never gave much thought to forged paintings. I take it that buying art, especially expensive art, is a risky business.”

“Extremely risky. Forgeries are sold to unsuspecting buyers every day.”

“But not to people who have experts vet the work before the money changes hands,” Peters said.

The three of us spent the next hour looking at the paintings in the warehouse, with Curso providing a running commentary about each piece. His knowledge was encyclopedic; I felt as though I was taking a college course in art history. When we were finished, I suggested that he had work to do and that I was getting in his way.

“Not at all,” he said, “but I do have to leave for a luncheon appointment.”

“I can drop you off, Jessica,” Peters put in. “Would you like me to take you to your hotel?”

“Do you mind driving me to the Simsbury house? I want to see Marlise again. I’ll call to make sure she’s there.”

Marlise was at home, and Peters, Curso, and I left the warehouse. As Peters double-checked that the alarm was functioning properly, I thanked Curso for the tour.

“My pleasure.” He lowered his voice. “Free for dinner tonight?”

I glanced over at Peters, who was punching numbers into the keypad. I turned back to Curso. “At the moment, yes,” I said, “but I’d like to keep it open, if you don’t mind.”

“I don’t mind at all. Here.” He handed me his card with his cell phone number listed on it. “Call if you’re free, Jessica. There’s something I’d like to discuss with you.”

“Oh?”

“I think you may find the subject interesting. Don’t mention it to Peters, if you don’t mind.”

“All right.”

“Give my best to Mrs. Simsbury,” he said in a loud voice and went to his car.

I watched him drive away and wondered what it was that he wanted to discuss. He certainly had captured my attention.

The housekeeper answered the door when Edgar Peters dropped me off at the Simsbury mansion.

“Hello, Mrs. Tetley. I’m Jessica Fletcher,” I said, not sure whether she’d remember me. “I’m here to see Mrs. Simsbury.”

“Follow me,” she said. “I’ll tell her that you’re here.”

She led me to the same room where I’d been before. As she turned to leave, I said, “Mrs. Tetley, would you have a few minutes for me?”

She looked at me quizzically, hands on her broad hips, narrowed eyes exaggerating the lines around them.

“I’m working with some people to find out what happened the night of Mr. Simsbury’s murder. Not officially, of course, but—”

“Working to get her off, you mean.”

“Pardon?”

“Get her off. Mrs. Simsbury. The wife.”

“No, you’re wrong about that,” I said. “I don’t have any preconceived notion about who might have killed Mr. Simsbury. All I want is to find out the truth. I’m sure you want that, too.”

Her expression softened.

“Did Mrs. Simsbury and Mr. Simsbury’s son, Wayne, get along?”

“If you mean were they lovey-dovey like she makes it sound, the answer is no.”

“What about Wayne and his father? I’m led to believe that there might have been bad feelings between them.”

Her deeply furrowed brow said that she was pondering how to answer the question.

“Was Mr. Simsbury disappointed in his son?”

She looked toward the door to ensure that no one was about to walk in, and then she said, “You seem like a nice and proper lady, Mrs. Fletcher, and I know that you’re a famous writer. I’ll be leaving here soon, so I don’t mind telling you what I told the police when they sat me down and asked me their questions. As much as I’ve never been partial, shall we say, toward Mrs. Simsbury, her hubby, Mr. Jonathon Simsbury, was no saint either, him and his fancy clothes and toys and chasin’ after Ms. Hurley.” She cast another look at the door before adding, “Now there’s somebody you should be gettin’ to know, if you get my drift. She and him were disgraceful the way they carried on, and I saw plenty of their grabbin’ each other and talkin’ sexy and the like.”

“Was Mrs. Simsbury aware of what was going on between her husband and Ms. Hurley?” I asked, knowing that Marlise was, indeed, aware of the affair.

“Probably so,” was the housekeeper’s reply, “only it wouldn’t have mattered none to her, not as long as the money kept comin’. ”

Voices in the hallway caused Mrs. Tetley to place her hand over her mouth and to turn and leave the room as Marlise and the cook, Consuela, came in.

“Jessica, I’m sorry. I know I told you I was free, but I’m huddled with my attorney and will probably be with him for another half hour. Consuela will make you some lunch while you’re waiting.”

“No need for that,” I said.

“Nonsense,” Marlise said. “Tell her what you’d like. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

“All right,” I said as Marlise left the room. “Anything simple will be fine, Consuela.”

The attractive Hispanic woman, who I judged to be in her early thirties, stared at me as though she needed something besides my food order.

“Are you all right?” I asked.

She nodded, but the tears that welled up in her large dark eyes said otherwise.

“Please, sit down,” I said, indicating a chair.

“No,” she said, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand. “I will make you lunch.”

“Would you stay for a minute?” I asked. “I’d like to ask you something.”

“No, señora,” she said. “Excuse me.”

Knowing that something was bothering her only prompted further curiosity on my part. Was her upset the natural result of working in a household where a brutal murder had recently taken place? Or was there something she was afraid to share?

I got up from my chair and went to the hallway. I didn’t know where the kitchen was but assumed that it would be toward the rear of the house, close to the large dining room and its table set for sixteen. I walked in that direction and passed a room with closed doors behind which I could hear voices, a woman and a man who I assumed were Marlise and Corman. Eventually I reached the kitchen, which was the size of many a kitchen found in restaurants, with a huge stainless-steel refrigerator, a professional-grade eight-burner gas stove, and a large center island above which gleaming copper pots hung. Consuela was busy at the double sink and didn’t hear me come in. I coughed. She turned.

“I hope you don’t mind me coming here,” I said pleasantly. “I know this is your domain and I don’t want to intrude on it.”

She leaned back against the sink, her hands clasped in front of the blue-and-white checked apron she wore over a white uniform. Her eyes left me and went to a far corner of the kitchen in which a small round café table and two chairs were wedged. Seated there was Wayne Simsbury, whom I hadn’t seen since that fateful afternoon in Willard Corman’s law office.

“Hello, Wayne,” I said.

He stood. He was dressed in purple pajamas and a matching silk robe. “Hi, Mrs. Fletcher,” he said.

“Am I interrupting your lunch?” I asked, even though I could see that the plate on the table in front of him was empty.

“Not really. I’m just leaving anyway.” He walked past me, stopping only to cast a menacing look at the cook, who hadn’t moved from the sink.