The Fine Art of Murder (3 page)

“Do they believe that their churches are holy grounds that no one would dare defile?” I asked.

“Precisely,” Lippi replied. “The fact is that theft from churches is six times what it is from museums, and seven times that of galleries.”

The subject changed as we worked our way through the various culinary courses, but we returned to theft in the art world during dessert, a sinfully delicious and fattening pistachio crème brûlée.

“This has been quite an education,” I said.

“You think you’ve learned enough to use in one of your books?” Lippi asked.

“I do, but I may need to consult you again when I have a question,” I replied.

“If I can be of any assistance, you have only to ask,” he said.

“You’ve already been enormously helpful,” I said, “pointing my thoughts in a different direction.”

We exchanged business cards at the end of our lunch and promised to stay in touch.

I wasn’t contacted again by the police during the remainder of my stay in Rome, for which I was grateful. On the one hand, I was anxious to see the young man who had murdered Mr. Fanello brought to justice and would have happily provided identification if it came to that. But I had a suspicion after speaking with the two detectives that finding and arresting him would be nearly impossible, which meant it was highly doubtful that I would be called upon to help them make a case.

I spent the rest of my week in Rome haunting galleries large and small and taking in as many major museums as I could fit in. It was a bittersweet couple of days, and I breathed a sigh of relief when I climbed on the Alitalia jet to return home. That young man’s face kept popping up at odd hours, sometimes replacing a portrait on a museum wall, other times coming out of the blue. I hoped that being back in my own home in Cabot Cove would serve to erase his face forever.

Chapter Three

T
ime has a way of masking unpleasant memories. Never completely, of course. My experience in that small church in L’Aquila had replayed itself now and then since my return to Cabot Cove from Italy, although each episode became less traumatic. I suppose it’s the brain’s way of filtering out horrific moments in our lives, allowing us to forge ahead without being crippled by past events.

I hadn’t heard anything from Detective Lippi, which said to me that they’d been unsuccessful in apprehending the young men who’d stormed the church, stolen the Bellini painting, and murdered Luca Fanello, and whose faces I had described to the police artist. I had mixed feelings about that. On the one hand, I wanted to see those two young men brought to justice. But there was another side of me that hoped I wouldn’t be called back to testify at their trial.

I had, of course, recounted my experience to a number of Cabot Cove friends, whose primary reaction was relief that the shooter hadn’t pulled the trigger when he turned his weapon on me. I certainly shared in that feeling. Staring down the barrel of a loaded weapon has a way of putting one’s life in perspective, and I was well aware how fortunate I was to have left that church alive.

I’d spent the two months since my return working on my next crime novel and had made significant progress. The word had gotten around town that I was in the midst of a new book, and my friends honored my need for some solitude. They’re wonderful that way, and I’m blessed to have them in my life. There were, of course, dinners and some involvement on my part in selected civic projects, but in the main, my computer and I were left alone, and the pages began to pile up.

But that idyllic period was marred by something I read in the newspaper. It was an Associated Press article with the headline CHICAGO CIVIC LEADER MURDERED. It took a few seconds for the name in the lead, Jonathon Simsbury, and the accompanying photo to register.

Jonathon Simsbury!

I read further. Yes, it was the same Jonathon Simsbury I knew, the husband of my friend Marlise Morrison Simsbury. The article said that he’d been shot to death in the study of his home on Chicago’s fabled Gold Coast. It was sad enough to read that he’d died, but that he’d been the victim of murder was especially jarring. It was the next paragraph that shocked me, though. The writer reported that Simsbury’s wife and son had been at home at the time of the shooting and were being questioned closely by Chicago police.

Jonathon Simsbury had married Marlise Morrison, a woman whom I’d met many years ago when we both lived and worked in New York City. Marlise, vivacious and strikingly beautiful, had been an up-and-coming New York television news reporter when she met Simsbury, the handsome and dashing son of a wealthy Chicago family whose money had come from a thriving import-export business. He’d taken over the firm upon his father’s death.

The fact that they lived in two different cities half a continent apart notwithstanding, Jonathon’s courtship of Marlise was of the whirlwind variety, featuring dinners in the fanciest restaurants, lavish gifts, and weekend getaways on his private plane. He’d swept my friend off her feet, and they announced their wedding plans within two months of having been introduced. It would be Jonathon’s second marriage; he’d had a son from his previous marriage, whose name, as I recalled, was Wayne. Marlise had confided in me the week before the wedding that her only apprehension about marrying Jonathon was the son.

“I don’t know what kind of a stepmother I’ll be,” she’d told me one evening when we’d gotten together for a quiet dinner, just the two of us without the entourage that seemed always to follow Jonathon. “I’ve never been a parent.”

“I’m sure you’ll be a wonderful stepmom,” I assured her. “The important thing is to respect his relationship with his natural mother and not try to be too many things to him too soon. I’m sure it will work out just fine. Have you been able to spend time with your stepson?”

“No. He’s away at some fancy boarding school. I wasn’t even sure whether he’d be at the wedding, but Jonathon assures me that he will.”

“Well,” I added as we left the restaurant, “my only advice is to be patient when it comes to the boy. He may have mixed emotions about his father marrying again, but I’m sure he’ll fall in love with you just as his father did.”

“Do you really think so?”

“I do. Let things develop naturally, Marlise. I’m sure everything will work out just fine.”

The wedding was held at a posh Chicago hotel. I had been invited, but my schedule got in the way. Marlise sent me a page from the
Chicago Tribune’
s society section that featured an array of photographs from the ceremony and reception I’d missed. She was radiant in an off-white designer suit, and the groom was every bit the captain of industry. I looked for his son, Wayne, but there weren’t any youngsters in the photos.

Marlise and I kept in touch, but as is so often the case, our contacts became less and less frequent as the years passed, eventually reduced to the requisite Christmas card. I did occasionally learn something of their lives through various news reports about Jonathon and his philanthropic projects. He was a dependable supporter of the arts in Chicago and sat on numerous boards, including the Joffrey Ballet of Chicago, the Art Institute of Chicago Museum, the Chicago Symphony Orchestra, and the city’s Lyric Opera company, and as a couple they appeared in newspaper photos of those organizations’ social events. Jonathon was an ardent collector of fine art, with holdings rumored to be worth more than eighty-six million dollars. I’d always wondered whether Marlise would attempt to resume her TV news career in Chicago, but she never did as far as I knew. And, of course, I was naturally curious about the sort of relationship she’d developed with Jonathon’s son, Wayne. I’d asked about it in earlier letters, but she ignored the question. I never knew if it was a tender topic or simply one she wasn’t interested in discussing.

I reread the article, my mind flooded with memories of when Marlise and I were friends in Manhattan, the good times we enjoyed together, and the arrival of Jonathon in her young life. I stared at his photo. He’d aged, of course, but there were still the rugged good looks and an attitude that exuded confidence and power. As far as I knew, they’d lived a charmed life, although my evaluation was based solely upon their smiling faces in the society pages and the little I’d read about them in later years. Could it even be possible that Marlise had killed her husband? It seemed outlandish at best, although I reminded myself that what actually goes on between two people in a marriage doesn’t necessarily match up with an outsider’s public perception of the relationship.

I considered finding Marlise’s number, picking up the phone, and calling her, but I stifled the urge. We hadn’t spoken in years, and this was hardly the time for me to intrude upon her. A letter would be more appropriate, and I set about writing one. The words wouldn’t come. What could I possibly say at such an unfortunate, wrenching time in her life?

I put aside the letter, made myself a cup of tea, and sat at the kitchen table immersed in memories. I was deep into my reverie when the doorbell sounded.
Who could that be?
I wondered as I left the kitchen and went to the foyer.

I opened the door, looked into the face of my visitor—and gasped,
“Good heavens!”

Chapter Four

I
suppose that my overblown reaction at seeing my visitor was as upsetting to him as his presence was to me, at least for that brief moment. All I saw was the silhouette of a young man with familiar features. My initial reaction was that I was face-to-face with the young Italian art thief who’d murdered Mr. Fanello. He was the same age and height, had a dusky complexion, a prominent nose, and a full head of black hair that curled over his forehead. When I realized that this was not the same person, I quickly pulled myself together to greet my visitor.

“Mrs. Fletcher?” he asked.

“Yes?”

“I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“That’s quite all right,” I said. “It’s just that—”

“I know I shouldn’t have just shown up like this, but I came here at the last minute and haven’t been thinking clearly.”

“You are . . . ?”

“Oh, I’m sorry. I should have introduced myself right away. My name is Wayne. Wayne Simsbury.”

Hearing his name brought about the same visceral reaction I’d experienced when I’d first opened the door. I stumbled before finally getting out, “Marlise’s son?”

“Stepson,” he corrected.

“Yes, of course,” I said. “You’ll have to excuse me, Wayne, if I seem somewhat befuddled. The timing of your arrival is—well, it’s really remarkable. I was just reading about your father and—”

He nodded as though he knew precisely what I was thinking, that maybe I shouldn’t have mentioned his father’s murder. “That’s okay,” he said softly. “I guess you were pretty shocked to read about what happened. I didn’t know whether you knew, and I wasn’t sure how I would tell you.”

There was an awkward silence as we tried to decide what to say next. Standing at the open door, with me inside and him outside, didn’t seem right, so I invited him in.

“Sure it’s okay?” he asked. “I know I’m probably interrupting something, maybe one of the books you’re writing. Marlise told me that you’re a pretty famous murder mystery writer.”

“That’s what I do for a living, Wayne. Come in, come in.”

He stepped into the foyer and I closed the door. He followed me to the kitchen, where he didn’t hesitate to take a chair at the table.

“Would you like a cold drink?” I asked. “Or tea?”

“A Coke or something would be great,” he said. His eyes went to a lemon pound cake on the table and I encouraged him to have a piece. He didn’t hesitate and energetically consumed a slice.

“Would you like some lunch, Wayne? I have some crab cakes and a salad left over from dinner last night.”

“If it wouldn’t be too much bother,” he replied. “I guess I forgot to eat today.”

I pulled the leftovers out of the refrigerator and put the crab cakes into my toaster oven. “Did you just arrive in Cabot Cove today?”

“About an hour ago,” he said. “I flew into Bangor last night and took a bus here first thing this morning.”

I had a dozen questions to ask but decided to wait until after lunch. The way he attacked the meal gave credence to his having forgotten to eat.

“Delicious,” he said when he was finished.

“I’m glad you liked it,” I said. I took the chair across from him. “I’m sure you understand that your unexpected arrival here raises some questions, and I hope my asking them won’t be perceived as prying.”

He sat back and shook his head. “I suppose the big question is why I’m even here,” he said.

“That’s a good place to start.”

He drew a deep breath as he gathered his thoughts. “Marlise always talks about you, Mrs. Fletcher—how you were good friends in New York years ago. She says you’re the most levelheaded person she’s ever known.”

“That’s quite a compliment,” I said. “Your stepmother and I were good friends when we were both living and working in New York. I have many fond memories of her, including the time when she met your father. I was so happy for her when they decided to marry. You were just a small boy then.”

He snickered. “Yeah, I was just a spoiled little brat. I’m sure I didn’t make it easy for her to come into our home and our lives.”

I gave what I hoped was a reassuring smile. “It’s never easy for a child to accept a father’s new wife,” I said. “I know that Marlise was anxious about becoming your stepmother. She wanted so much to do the right thing and to establish a loving, positive relationship with you.”

“I guess I was too young and spoiled to appreciate that,” he said. “I had some growing up to do before I could accept her. She turned out to be a terrific stepmom, and I know she made my father happy, which was the most important thing.”

“How old are you, Wayne?”

“Twenty-three.”

“Are you in college?”

“I was—the University of Chicago. I didn’t have a great academic record in high school, but Dad was on the board of directors at the university and got me in. I dropped out after my second year, but I’m thinking about going back.”

I was well aware that I was avoiding the obvious set of questions—about his father’s murder. I suppose I was hoping that he would get into that without my having to prod.

“I guess I’m typical of kids my age,” he said, “trying to figure out what to do with my life. Dad always kept pushing me to focus on something, some career, some profession, but I haven’t been very good at that. I got involved with this girl. She’s a singer with a rock band. I play bass guitar, not great but good enough to work with her group. We went on the road for a few months, but that went bust—lots of drugs and booze and not getting paid. My father was furious that I dropped out of college to do that. I’ve been a real disappointment to him.” He’d been looking directly at me. Now his eyes became moist, and he lowered them as he added, “Looks like he won’t be disappointed anymore.”

It occurred to me that he’d arrived on my doorstep without luggage. He’d obviously traveled with only the clothes on his back—black jeans, a pale blue T-shirt, beat-up white sneakers, and a lightweight tan jacket.

“Wayne,” I said, “I think it’s time you told me why you’ve come here.”

He raised his eyes and looked at me again. “Like I said, my stepmother always said that you were the most levelheaded person she knew, and I really need to talk to somebody like that.”

“I’m listening.”

He got up from his chair, went to the kitchen window, and stared out of it, his shoulders hunched as he pressed his hands into the countertop. I waited patiently. He eventually turned, leaned against the counter, and said, “I had to get away from there.”

“From Chicago?”

“Yes. It was like a nightmare. There was my father in a pool of blood in his study, a bullet hole in his chest. It was awful. The police were all over the place, and the damn media was everywhere, up and down the street, TV trucks and reporters hanging around, hoping to get some juicy tidbit about what happened. Once it was on the news, the phone never stopped ringing, over and over, ring, ring, ring. It drove me crazy.”

“I can certainly understand that,” I said, “but did you just pick up and leave? What about your stepmother? She must’ve been frantic, too. In the article I read it said that police were questioning her about your father’s murder. I can’t imagine that they suspect her, but wouldn’t you have been helpful to her by staying?”

“I wasn’t thinking about her, Mrs. Fletcher. That may seem selfish, but all I wanted to do was get away, escape, go where I could clear my head and think things through.”

“What about the police? Did you tell them that you were leaving?”

He shook his head. “I didn’t tell anybody. Nobody knows where I am.”

“Well,” I said, “I can understand the need for clarity, Wayne, but what you’ve done is wrong. Coming here isn’t going to solve any problems. My suggestion is that you pick up the phone, call your stepmother, and arrange to return to Chicago.”

“I can’t do that, at least not right away. I was hoping I could camp here for a few days. I promise I won’t be any trouble.”

“I can’t help but feel, Wayne, that there’s something you aren’t telling me. I understand how traumatic your father’s murder must have been and that you wanted to get away. But surely leaving unannounced as you did and traveling here to Cabot Cove is not the answer. Again, I urge you to call your stepmother and tell her that you’re returning home. If you’d like, I’ll make that call.”

“No, please don’t do that, Mrs. Fletcher. Maybe I made a mistake coming here to your house. I’ll leave and go someplace else.”

He got up from the table and started out of the kitchen. I grabbed his arm and stopped him. “I don’t want you getting on another bus, Wayne, and running to God knows where. Come, sit down again. Let’s talk. I don’t know whether I am levelheaded, but I do consider myself a good listener. Maybe together we can figure out the right course of action for you.”

He pondered whether to stay or leave. Then he managed a small smile and returned to the table.

I poured him another Coke and asked, “What about Marlise, Wayne? Finding her husband shot to death must’ve been horrific. How is she handling it?”

He looked up at the ceiling, deep in thought, his elbows on the arms of the chair, his hands clasped tightly above his chest. Finally, he leaned forward and said, “She became hysterical, of course. Mrs. Fletcher, do you mind if I lie down for a little while? I haven’t slept in days.”

“No, I—”

“I know I’m imposing on you, showing up here like this, hungry and—well, I’m really beat. I didn’t sleep at all last night. I just hung around the bus depot until this morning. I can’t keep my eyes open.”

“All right,” I said. “Why don’t you stretch out on the couch? I have things to take care of in my office.”

We went to the living room, where he removed his sneakers before curling up on the couch.

“I’ll wake you in an hour,” I said.

“Thank you,” he said, closing his eyes and emitting a contented sigh.

I watched him doze off almost immediately, and then I left the room and went to my home office. He had looked so peaceful, even angelic, lying there. At the same time, I was apprehensive. Although I had no reason to doubt that he was Marlise’s stepson, he was still a total stranger who, having enjoyed lunch in my kitchen, was now fast asleep on my couch. But I was happy that he’d needed a nap. I wanted time alone to sort things out. His unexpected arrival had happened so suddenly that I hadn’t had a chance to process what it meant.

I sat in front of the computer, clicked on Google, typed in “Jonathon Simsbury murder,” and watched the search results appear on the screen. While the Associated Press piece had contained some information, the local papers gave a fuller account. Simsbury’s murder was big news in Chicago. He’d been an imposing figure in the city’s art scene, having donated millions of dollars to various artistic endeavors. A variety of photographs accompanied the articles, including a recent one of Marlise and Wayne. If I’d had any doubt that the young man resting on my couch was indeed Wayne Simsbury, the article’s photo of him put my mind to rest. Despite Marlise’s having aged, her youthful beauty still shone through. She seemed radiant in the photo, happy and at peace with the world as she stood with her arm around Wayne’s shoulders.

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.