The Fine Art of Murder (14 page)

“Oh, that’s right, your little tryst with Tony Curso.”

“Hardly that,” I said, giving her a quick hug. “I’m glad you passed your test. I’ll be back in touch when I return.”

She left to take her call, having forgotten her suggestion that we celebrate. I was relieved. I had a five o’clock flight to Boston, where Jed Richardson was scheduled to pick me up for the trip to Cabot Cove.

When I walked out the front door, hoping to hail a taxi, I heard loud voices coming from the rear of the house. Curious, I took a path that circled around to the driveway until I reached a point where I could see the participants. The elder Mrs. Simsbury was in her wheelchair next to a garage where the chauffeur, Carl, was waxing one of the cars. The loud voice belonged to her. She was berating him about something, and although I couldn’t make out her words, her angry tone was evident. I was about to turn around and go back to the front gate when she spotted me and pointed a finger as though it were a weapon. Then, to my surprise, she spun the wheelchair around and headed down the driveway at me, her arms spinning the large wheels on either side of the chair like a physically fit contestant in a race for the handicapped. When it became apparent that she intended to run into me, I jumped out of the way. The chair passed where I’d been standing and came to an abrupt stop. In a voice dripping with menace she barked, “What are you looking at? Why are you even here? You’re not wanted here. So go! Go on! Go away!” With that, she used one of the wheels to turn the chair and headed back toward the garage.

This aggressive confrontation shocked me and I found myself breathing hard, my hands trembling at my sides. I considered pursuing and challenging her, but discretion won out over valor. What had I done to incur such wrath on her part? This was someone who despite her age, and whatever physical problem confined her to a wheelchair, had some very healthy anger genes.

I retraced my steps back down the driveway and in minutes had waved down a cab and was on my way to my hotel, where I was happy to be in the quiet, comfortable surroundings of my suite. Up until that moment I hadn’t been especially happy about making the trip to Italy. But it now had a new and urgent appeal—a chance to get away, if even for a few days, from the family madness within the Simsbury household.

Chapter Sixteen

I
t felt good walking into my house after the flight to Boston and being ferried to Cabot Cove by Jed Richardson. It was after eleven, too late to call anyone to announce my arrival, or to return the half dozen calls on my answering machine. Susan Shevlin had booked me on an Alitalia flight from Boston the following evening, which didn’t give me much time to accomplish everything on my list.

I unpacked and started a load of laundry. While the washing machine performed its sudsy task, I started packing for the next leg of my trip. I should have been tired, but my adrenaline had kicked in during the flight with Jed and I was wide awake. Flying with him in his single-engine Cessna was always a treat, especially since this trip afforded me some nighttime hours at the controls. I’d flown at night only a few times during my training with him and I enjoyed gaining the additional experience. Everything looks so different at night from five thousand feet, so serene and peaceful. Of course, having someone with all Jed’s hours as a commercial pilot in the next seat relieved any tension I might have felt as an amateur.

Eventually I turned off the light at two and slept until seven, reveling in the familiar feel of my own bed. Fortified with an English muffin and a cup of hot Earl Grey tea, I sat in my office and started making calls. The first was to Seth Hazlitt, who I knew was an early riser.

“Good morning, Jessica,” he said. “This is an unexpected surprise. Calling from Chicago?”

“No, Seth, I’m calling from here in Cabot Cove. I got home last night at about eleven.”

“Welcome back. Staying for a while?”

“No. I’m off to Italy tonight to identify the young man the authorities there have in custody.”

“Ayuh, you did mention that was a possibility. How did things turn out in Chicago?”

“Still up in the air. My friend, Marlise, passed a lie detector test before I left, which takes some pressure off her. But they still haven’t determined who shot her husband. It’s a strange household.”

“I’m sure you’re happy to be away from it.”

“Yes,” I said, although the feeling of having left unfinished business behind bothered me.

Everything that had happened since my arrival in Chicago continued to prey on my mind—the assortment of characters in the Simsbury house, the overt animosity and petty jealousies among them, the underlying scenario of adultery. What kept coming to the forefront of my thoughts was the new will that Jonathon had never gotten around to signing. His son, Wayne, would have lost forty percent of what he was to gain from the previous will, which certainly gave him a strong motive to prevent his father from signing the new one. It also undermined Marlise’s motive to kill Jonathon. She was to benefit from receiving the forty percent Wayne was to lose, coupled with the fifty percent she’d already been promised. She knew about the new will and had pressured her husband to execute it as penance for his affair with Susan Hurley. I didn’t admire her for doing that, but I was hesitant to pass judgment. How they lived their lives, as alien as it might be to me, was none of my business—except for the fact that someone in that dysfunctional family, or perhaps someone else altogether, had committed murder.

Who had killed Jonathon Simsbury? I knew that I wouldn’t be able to rest until I had the answer.

But that would have to wait until I’d taken care of the business at hand, flying to Italy to identify the man who’d killed Detective Fanello and stolen the Bellini. Memories of that fateful day were never far from my consciousness, and the notion of seeing the gunman again wasn’t pleasant. But it had to be done, and I was committed.

“Free for lunch?” Seth asked. “I’d suggest Peppino’s, but you’ll be having your fill of Italian food in Italy.”

“Oh, thanks, Seth. I’d love it, but I can’t. Jed Richardson is flying me to Boston at two.”

“Looks like you’re keeping our local flyboy in business.”

“And thank goodness he’s here. I’ll only be away a few days and—” I almost mentioned that I’d be going back to Chicago once I returned home from Italy, but I didn’t want to hear any of my friend’s objections. “We’ll have that lunch when I get back,” I said.

“Travel safe, Jessica,” he said.

“Thank you, my friend.”

I managed to take care of everything on my list by the time the taxi picked me up at one forty-five to take me to the airport, where Jed had just finished filling the plane with fuel and doing his usual walk-around to be sure that everything was in order. It was a beautiful, calm day to fly, and we arrived at Boston’s Logan Airport without incident.

The flight to Rome was smooth and I used some of the time to make notes for what would happen in the next chapters of the novel I had abandoned when I’d taken Wayne home to Chicago. But my mind kept straying, alternating between the mystery of who shot Jonathon and my apprehension at having to identify the killer of Mr. Fanello.

Rome’s Leonardo da Vinci Airport was bustling as I headed for the area where taxis waited, girding myself for the cab ride into town. To my surprise, a uniformed man stood at the door holding a sign that read JESSICA FLETCHER.

“Buon giorno,”
I said. “I’m Jessica Fletcher.”

“Perfetto!”
he replied loudly and with a broad smile. “Signore Curso has arranged for me to meet you and drive you to the d’Inghilterra.”

“I didn’t expect that,” I said, “but I’m pleased that you’re here.”

A slender young man with a mop of blond hair, who’d been standing behind the driver, suddenly took a few steps to the side, raised his camera, and pressed off a rapid series of photographs. I didn’t have a chance to ask who he was or why he was taking my picture before he turned and ran toward the exit.

“Do you know what that was about?” I asked the driver.

His shrug was accompanied by, “The paparazzo.
Testa vuota!
”

“Pardon?”

“The paparazzo. No brains.
Somaro!
A moron.”

The driver, whose name was Luigi and who spoke excellent English, led me to his black Mercedes parked at the curb and we chatted all the way to the hotel on Via Bocca di Leone. It was located in the Piazza di Spagna, on a charming, flower-laden street of older buildings, some of which had been converted into luxury hotels like the d’Inghilterra. The outdoor sidewalk café was busy as Luigi carried my suitcase into the lobby and wished me a pleasant visit. I learned at the desk that I’d been preregistered by Curso, and I was handed a key and told that my luggage would be delivered to the room within minutes. As I walked to the elevators, Curso appeared from nowhere and intercepted me. “You’re here, safe and sound,” he observed. “Good flight?”

“Fine, although it was a rush to make it.” I gestured toward the lobby. “It’s lovely,” I said.

“I knew you’d like it. I’ve reserved you a deluxe room, all the amenities, splendid view, fresh fruit and champagne ready for you to enjoy. Go freshen up. I’ll meet you in the bar in half an hour.”

The room was everything he’d said it would be. The large, beautifully made-up bed beckoned—a nap would have been heaven—but I didn’t want to disappoint him. Besides, I had to contact Detective Maresca and arrange a time to go to police headquarters, a call I decided to put off until after meeting with Curso.

When I walked into the wood-paneled bar off the lobby—it had all the trappings of a British gentlemen’s club—I immediately spotted Curso in a corner booth with another man. It wasn’t until I got closer that I recognized Detective Lippi of the Carabinieri’s art squad, who’d treated me to lunch the last time I was in Rome. Both men stood as I approached. Lippi shook my hand and Curso kissed it.

“What a pleasant surprise,” I said to Lippi.

“Anthony called and suggested that I be on hand to greet you, Mrs. Fletcher. After all, you’ve come here at great personal sacrifice to help us.”

“Oh,” I said, “having an excuse to come to Rome again could never be considered a personal sacrifice.”

Curso, dressed in a double-breasted tan suit, a blazing red tie, and a pale blue shirt, was working on a martini despite the early hour. The detective sipped an espresso. I ordered sparkling water with a slice of lime.

“Well,” I said, “I suppose I should know what’s in store for me over the next few days. Do you use a lineup in Italy the way we do back in the States?”

“Yes, it is very much the same,” Lippi said.

“The young man won’t be able to see me behind a one-way glass?”

“Exactly. He will never know that you are there, except that—”

Curso and Lippi looked at each other before the detective continued. “This case has become—how shall I say it? It has become the source of interest for members of the press.”

I immediately thought of the man who’d taken my picture at the airport and mentioned it.

Lippi sighed. “Damn media vultures,” he growled. “They care nothing about privacy or how their intrusions affect ordinary people.”

“But why would he single me out at the airport?” I asked. “He obviously positioned himself by the driver who held up a sign with my name on it. Why would I be of interest to him, or to anyone else in the media, for that matter? I’m not giving any talks and I’m not here to promote my books.”

Lippi gave another furtive glance at Curso before answering. “Unfortunately, there has been a disclosure from our department, a leak, as you say. Someone—if I knew who he was he would be fired immediately—someone told a reporter that you would be coming to provide an identification in the case. Because you are such a popular writer, Mrs. Fletcher, they naturally grabbed on to that bit of news.” He leaned over, withdrew a copy of a newspaper from his briefcase, and handed it to me. It was in Italian, of course, and I couldn’t read it. But the picture of me spoke louder than any words could. It was a photo that appeared on the back of some of my novels, many of which had been translated into Italian.

“This is terrible,” I said.

“It couldn’t be helped,” said Lippi. “These reporters, they have contacts in every government department, including the police.”

“But how did that photographer know that I’d be arriving on that flight?”

“They have their associates in the airlines, too, I am afraid. They are like mice, able to squeeze through even the smallest of openings, always finding a way to get what they want.”

I wasn’t sure that I would have used that analogy to describe the paparazzi, but it was as good as any at the moment. What was of considerably greater concern to me was what it would mean having my photograph in the newspaper. If the young man under arrest read the papers, he would know who I was, and, more important, he would know that his fate might rest in my hands. Of course, he wasn’t in any position to harm me—but what of his accomplices? What of others of his ilk?

“Have you arrested the second man involved in the murder?” I asked.

“No, we have not. I hope that with your positive identification, the man we have in custody will provide us with information about others in the ring.”

I hadn’t examined the newspaper article beyond my photograph, so I picked up the paper again and scanned the page. Mine wasn’t the only photo accompanying the piece. Staring out at me was the young man who’d shot Mr. Fanello, the one I was there to pick out of a police lineup.

“That’s him!” I blurted.

“Si,”
said Lippi.

“What does the caption say?” I asked, referring to the words in Italian beneath the photo.

“That he has been accused of murder and art theft. The entire story is about how the theft of art in Italy has become big business, a lucrative source of income for the Mafia. That other photo is of Enzo Felice.”

I focused on the photo Lippi pointed to. Enzo Felice, a corpulent man wearing a three-piece suit and sporting a wide smile, was being taken into custody by uniformed police.

“He’s in jail?” I asked.

“No, he is very much a free man. We arrest him, his lawyers get him off. Men like Felice create many layers between themselves and their crimes. Felice is a very big man here in the Mafia,” Lippi further explained. “He controls numerous gangs, including those whose job it is to steal valuable paintings. The young man in custody worked for him.”

I felt a knot develop in my stomach. It hadn’t occurred to me that the Mafia would be involved, although its connection to art theft had been mentioned in earlier conversations.

“What does the article say about me?” I asked.

“Only that you are a famous writer of murder mysteries and are an eyewitness to the crime for which
l’idiota
Lombardi has been accused.”

“That’s his name?” I asked. “Lombardi?”

“
Si
. Danilo Lombardi.”

Curso, who’d remained silent during the conversation, finally spoke. “Nothing to worry about, Jessica,” he said, his words accompanied by a laugh. “The only person you have to worry about is this young punk Lombardi, and he’s already behind bars and will remain there for the rest of his wretched life once you have identified him. Besides, the police will be with you every step of the way, and so will I.”

I smiled at my new friend but didn’t say what I was thinking. As charming as he was, Anthony Curso didn’t represent a source of physical security for me.

“So,” Lippi said in an attempt to lighten the mood, “I propose a toast to our lovely guest, Jessica Fletcher.”

“Thank you,” I said, raising my glass to touch his espresso cup.

Our toast was interrupted by a light going off in my face. I looked up to see the same young man from the airport standing a few feet from us, his lens raised, the camera’s motor whirring as it captured shot after shot. Lippi jumped to his feet as members of the restaurant staff ran across the room in our direction. Lippi grabbed the photographer by the front of his jumpsuit and propelled him across the handsome room and out the door.

“
Mi dispiace
, so sorry, so sorry,” the bar’s maître d’ said to Curso, wringing his hands and rolling his eyes. “How dare he intrude on you like this?”

“It is nothing, signore,” Curso said. “Forget about it.”