The Fine Art of Murder (21 page)

He looked up from his notepad. “And gets the wife off the hook. Did she know about the new will?”

“She did. She was eager for her husband to sign the new one, which would have cut Wayne’s share down to ten percent. There’s simply no motive for her to have killed him in advance of the new will being signed.”

He held up his hand. “Wait a minute,” he said. “You were talking about jealous women killing people. Maybe she was upset about the affair and shot her husband to get even.”

“Good point,” I agreed, “but knowing Marlise Simsbury the way I do, I’m certain that money would have trumped jealousy.”

“Maybe he changed his mind about the will, and she got furious and popped him off.”

“If Jonathon had had second thoughts, Marlise would have been far more likely to redouble her efforts to convince him to sign—in a loving manner.”

He conspicuously looked at his watch.

“I know,” I said, “my time is almost up. Give me a few more minutes to tell you about an experience I just had in Italy.” I gave him a shorthand account of what had happened to me while in Rome, along with the story about the artist Vittorio and Tony Curso’s involvement with him.

“So you see, the art collection may not hold the value people expect it to, and if it’s made up primarily of forgeries, that might have played a role in Jonathon Simsbury’s murder. That’s why I was interested in Edgar Peters’s whereabouts the night of the shooting. He was Jonathon’s partner in ownership of the collection.”

“Interesting story, Mrs. Fletcher, but we interviewed Peters and he is not a suspect at this time.”

“Fair enough. I just wanted to be certain you had all the facts to consider. Jonathon led a complicated life and had dealings with many people who may have had reason to kill him.”

I thanked Detective Munsch for his time and left. When I returned to the house, I spotted Tony Curso’s blue Austin Healey parked in front. It brought a smile to my lips. Despite the harrowing experiences he’d led me into, it would be good to see him again.

Curso was in the parlor with Marlise when I came in. He jumped to his feet, crossed the room, and gave me a hug, followed by a peck on the cheek. “Lovely seeing you again,” he said. He was dressed in a black-and-white checked sports coat over a crimson button-down shirt open at the collar, jeans, and loafers sans socks.

“Tony was just telling me about your adventures in Rome,” Marlise said. “You held out on me. God, you ended up in the hospital after being pushed down some steps, and you and Tony were together when you discovered the body of this Italian artist. What was his name?”

“Vittorio,” Curso provided. He said to me, “You’re just in time, Jessica. I was about to reveal to Marlise the true value of her late husband’s art collection.”

I took a chair and listened. Marlise took the news calmly, which didn’t surprise me. After all, she didn’t have a stake in the collection. When Curso paused, she laughed. “You’ll have to excuse me for finding this funny,” she said, “but it’s just another example of Jonathon’s blindness. He laid out millions of dollars for art that he was sure would appreciate, but it turns out to be worthless, like everything else he was involved with.” She laughed even louder and longer. “And Peters. I want to be a fly on the wall when you tell him what the collection is worth, Tony. I wouldn’t want to miss seeing his face when he gets the news.” She slapped her thigh. “What a hoot.”

I couldn’t share Marlise’s mirth at learning that her husband’s paintings were forgeries. Her reaction seemed inappropriate, even given the fact that the diminished assessment of the collection would have no impact on her. I didn’t say anything, but silently I pitied Jonathon, a man who’d been handed a lucrative family business and who’d run it into the ground through impetuous, ill-informed choices, including buying expensive European art based upon the false assurances of others. I also felt a modicum of sympathy for Edgar Peters, although that feeling was tempered by the man’s greedy self-interest in his transactions with his partner.

Marlise’s laughing jag passed and she asked Curso, “When will you tell Peters?”

“The next time I see him. I promised to have a final appraisal of the art in the warehouse by tomorrow. There are some originals in the mix, but none of those are of high value.”

A question struck me at that moment. Had Jonathon been as naïve as Marlise made him out to be? Had he become aware that most of his art collection consisted of forgeries, and had he knowingly suckered Peters into buying a half share? In some regards, that possibility was more satisfying than Jonathon’s reputation as a hopeless romantic and bungler.

We were interrupted by the arrival of Joe Jankowski. He lumbered into the room, muttered a hello to everyone, and took the largest chair.

“What brings you here, Joe?” Marlise asked.

“I need to talk to you, Marlise.”

“Here I am, Joe.”

Jankowski glanced at Curso and me.

“We’ll leave you two alone,” I said, motioning for Curso to follow me. We walked down the hall toward the kitchen, and Curso stopped to peruse the art on the walls. “These are probably worth more than the whole damn warehouse,” he said, “provided they aren’t forgeries, too.”

“Funny,” I said, “but I hadn’t even looked at them. You’re back in Chicago to work on the documentary?”

“Right. I also have a few classes to teach at the university. Look, Jessica, we’ve been through a lot together the past week.”

“No argument from me.”

“I really want you to work with me on the documentary
and
a book.”

“Tony,” I said, “this is not the time to discuss it. I will say that the documentary is out of the question. As for a book, I can’t even consider the possibility at the moment.”

“Okay, but having you on the documentary would add immediacy to the story. You’ve lived it, first when you were in that church when the theft and murder took place, and now where Vittorio’s involved. Horrible what happened to him. I met with Maresca and Lippi after you left. No question that it was a Mafia hit.”

“Will they ever find who shot him?”

“Doubtful, but maybe they’ll be able to track down the paintings the thieves took from his cave. Come to dinner with me tonight and I’ll tell you what I’ve learned.”

“Thank you, no,” I answered, but something prompted me to reconsider. “On second thought, dinner would be fine, but we must include Marlise in the invitation.”

“Of course. I’d be delighted.”

“I wouldn’t have looked forward to having dinner here, and it’s even more uncomfortable for Marlise. Have you met the senior Mrs. Simsbury?”

“No, haven’t had the pleasure.”

“She’s not happy that I’m here. She’s accused me of ‘snooping.’ I don’t know, Tony, maybe she’s right. Originally, I came here to get Wayne Simsbury to return to Chicago, thinking that he wanted to help Marlise. It turned out to be quite the opposite. I shouldn’t have come back to Chicago after the last episode in Rome. I’ve been thinking a great deal about it. I belong at home in Cabot Cove with my friends, sitting at my computer writing my next novel. My dear friend Seth Hazlitt—he’s a physician and a very good one—is always critical of me when I end up involved in real-life murder, which has happened with too much regularity.”

“Sounds like you lead a dangerous life,” he said.

“I never considered it dangerous. The problem is that it’s brought me into contact—too close contact—with too many bad people, people whose greed and outsized ambition and arrogance have led them to do terrible things. Back in Cabot Cove, we treasure peace and the respect we have for each other. At least most of us do.”

“Sounds like an idyllic community. Is there a man in your life there?”

“Many.”

“Oh,” he said with a chuckle.

“But not in the sense you’re talking about. I had a wonderful marriage to a man named Frank, a gentle, bright, caring person. He died. Since then, I’ve busied myself writing and nurturing the many friendships I’m blessed with. There is one man who looms large. He’s a Scotland Yard senior inspector, lives in London. His name is George Sutherland. He would like to carry our relationship to another level, and I have to admit that it is an appealing idea. But I’m not ready for a serious commitment, and not sure I ever will be.”

“You never know what life will bring.”

“That’s true. What about you, Tony? Have you ever been married?”

He chuckled. “No. I’ve come close but never found the perfect woman.”

“Is there such a thing?”

“I suppose not. I have to admit that I’m selfish. I kind of enjoy being footloose and fancy-free, able to pick up and go someplace on a whim, indulge myself without having to be concerned about someone else.”

“It’s good that you recognize that about yourself, Tony. It’ll save grief for you and that ‘perfect’ woman, should she ever materialize.”

I walked him to the front door.

“Pick you up at seven?” he asked.

“That’ll be fine. I look forward to it.”

Marlise was still closeted with Joe Jankowski after Tony Curso left, so I decided to walk off some of the extra pounds I’d accumulated while in Italy. I headed in the direction of Lake Michigan, which wasn’t far away. Once there, I strolled along the lakeside, enjoying the brisk breeze off the water and the sun on my face. The change in my mood here on the lake was dramatic. I felt closed in back at the house, almost suffocated by the ill will that existed there. I was witnessing the deterioration of a family that from the outside appeared to have been blessed with riches and the good life that money can buy. But inside that impressive house were bitterness, jealousies, greed, and accusations that had torn the family apart.

I could have stayed at the lake for the rest of the day but thought I’d better get back to the house to tender our dinner invitation to Marlise. The door was open, but she wasn’t in the parlor. Rather than hunt through the house for her, I went directly to my room. At five thirty, Marlise knocked on my door. “Up for dinner out?” she asked.

“I was going to ask you the same thing,” I said. “I’ve made arrangements to go out with Tony Curso.”

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

T
he 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 Mafioso 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.