The Fine Art of Murder (8 page)

“I’ll figure that out tomorrow. Dessert?”

“I’d better not.”

She motioned for the bill and insisted upon paying for both of us. We said good-bye to the restaurant’s owner—“If there’s anything I can do, Marlise, please just ask,” she said—and hailed a taxi, which dropped me first, at the Ambassador East.

“I’m planning to return home to Maine tomorrow,” I said before getting out of the cab.

“Sure you can’t stay, at least for a few days? I certainly could use a friend I can trust about now.”

“Let me think about it. We’ll touch base in the morning.”

I hadn’t been in my room for more than fifteen minutes when the phone rang.

“Jessica, dear, it’s Marlise. I just got off the phone with Willard Corman. He delivered a copy of Wayne’s lie to the prosecutors. I can’t believe he didn’t give me time to absorb all this. He said he had to do that. Anyway, two detectives are coming to the house at nine in the morning to question me again.”

“That was inevitable,” I said.

“I tried to get Willard to have them come to the hotel, but they insisted that the interview be held at the house. I hate to ask it of you, but would you be there with me?”

“Oh, Marlise, I really don’t think that—”

“Please, Jessica. I know it’s an imposition and that you intended to go home, but it would mean so much to me. Please.”

“All right,” I said. “I can put off my flight a few hours. I’ll be there before nine.”

“I knew I could count on you,” she said. “That’s what old friends are for, isn’t it? Here we are, not having seen each other in years, and it’s like we were never apart. Thank you, thank you, thank you, Jessica, dear. I’ll see you in the morning.”

Yes,
I thought,
that’s what old friends are for, only it’s rare that one of them has been accused of killing a spouse in cold blood.

Chapter Nine

W
hen I arrived at the Simsbury home the following morning, the housekeeper, Mrs. Tetley, answered the door. She was a solidly built woman with a round Irish face and a no-nonsense expression.

“Yes?” she said.

“I’m Jessica Fletcher. I was to meet Mrs. Simsbury here this morning.”

She said nothing as she turned and led me to the same room in which I’d been the previous day. It was only a few minutes past eight. I hoped it wasn’t too early, but I wanted to have some time with Marlise prior to the detectives’ arrival, and thought I’d catch her as soon as she arrived from her hotel. I assumed that I’d preceded her to the house and was surprised when she walked in a minute later.

“Did you change your mind and stay here last night?” I asked.

“God, no! I just couldn’t sleep. I got here hours ago.”

We heard the sound of a distant door chime. Marlise looked at her watch. “That should be Corman,” she said.

“Mrs. Fletcher,” the lawyer said as he entered the room. “I didn’t expect to see you.”

“I asked Jessica to be with me this morning,” Marlise said. “I need all the moral support I can get. God, how I dread this.”

“You don’t have to answer their questions,” Corman said.

“Why wouldn’t I answer? I haven’t done anything wrong. I told you exactly what I did that night. It’s the truth.”

“That aside, if they get into areas you’re uncomfortable with, just refer the questions to me.”

The door chime sounded again. A minute later Mrs. Tetley escorted a large, gruff-looking man into the room. He was easily six feet, four inches tall and slightly stooped. His short black hair was fringed with gray. A healthy patch of gray and black hair protruded from his ears. His face was gray, too, an unhealthy look enhanced by a premature five o’clock shadow. His suit matched his other grayness.

“Hello, Joe,” Corman said, getting up from his chair and shaking the new visitor’s hand. The man accepted a peck on the cheek from Marlise, then looked at me and scowled.

“Meet Jessica Fletcher,” said Corman. “She’s an old and dear friend of Marlise’s. They go back to their days together in New York.”

The newcomer grunted his name, Joe Jankowski.

“I wasn’t expecting you, Joe,” Marlise said.

“We need to talk,” Jankowski said.

“The detectives are coming at nine and—”

“There’s been a turn of events, Joe,” Corman said.

The big attorney settled in a chair and said, “What’s that mean?”

Corman told him of Wayne’s allegation that he’d seen Marlise shoot Jonathon.

“That’s nuts,” Jankowski said. “When did this happen?”

“Yesterday,” Corman replied. “We thought he’d come back to Chicago to back Marlise up. Instead, the kid made this accusation.”

“Why wasn’t I told?” Jankowski asked angrily.

“It was a busy day, Joe,” Corman said.

The chime was heard again.

“Must be the detectives,” Corman said.

Mrs. Tetley arrived and said to Marlise, “The cleaning people are here.”

“It’s about time,” Marlise muttered. “Show them to Mr. Simsbury’s office and tell them to be quiet while they work. I want the rug removed, burned.” She turned to me. “Not that there’s much left of it after the police cut out several big pieces.”

As Mrs. Tetley turned to leave, the chime sounded again.

“I’ll go,” Corman said. “It’s probably the detectives.”

He returned with two men, one middle-aged, the other younger. Both wore off-the-rack suits. The senior detective introduced himself as Larry Witmer; his younger colleague was Walter Munsch. There was no need for an introduction to Marlise. They’d been part of the team that had responded to her call the night Jonathon was murdered.

Once they were seated, Corman said, “We appreciate you coming here to interview Mrs. Simsbury. Having to go to headquarters would have been awkward.”

“We’ll still want Mrs. Simsbury to come to headquarters to make a formal statement,” Munsch said.

“Of course,” Corman said.

Witmer looked at Jankowski. “Your reason for being here, Joe?” he asked.

“I represent the estate,” Jankowski replied. “I was Jonathon Simsbury’s legal counsel.”

The detective’s attention turned to me, his raised eyebrows and cocked head asking the same question he’d asked Jankowski.

“I’m a friend of Marlise Simsbury,” I said. “She’s asked me to be here this morning.”

“That’s right,” said Marlise. “I want her here.”

“All right,” Witmer said, turning to Marlise and directing his next statement to her. “As you know, your stepson, Wayne Simsbury, has given a sworn statement to your attorney, Mr. Corman, in which he claims to have witnessed you shooting your husband.”

“It’s preposterous,” Marlise said. “I did no such thing, and I can’t imagine what would cause him to lie like that.”

Detective Munsch jotted notes on a pad while Witmer continued. “His accusation makes you a person of interest, Mrs. Simsbury.”

“But you did some kind of test on me the night my husband was killed, and you told me I was cleared,” Marlise said. She turned to Corman. “I’m sorry. In all the confusion, I forgot to mention that to you.”

Corman’s face turned red. He addressed the detective. “What did you do? A paraffin test?” he said, referring to a procedure to detect gunshot residue. “You had no right to examine my client without my being present.”

“We use a chemical test kit in the field now, and yes, we swabbed her, but we asked her permission first,” Witmer said, “and she agreed.”

“Of course I agreed. I have nothing to hide,” Marlise said.

“And?” Corman said.

“It was negative for nitrates,” Witmer said.

“Which only proves the kid is lying.” Corman clapped his hands on his knees and rose. “I guess that settles that.”

Marlise flashed me a grin, relief clearly written on her face.

“Not so fast, Mr. Corman. Please keep your seat,” Witmer said, and I saw Marlise tense up again. “A positive result would be confirmatory, but a negative one is not. If the gun was new, never fired before, it might not leak nitrates. Without the weapon, we can’t be sure. I’m sorry, Mrs. Simsbury, but that still leaves you as a person of interest.”

Marlise dropped her head, and I thought she might cry, but instead she took a deep breath and faced the detective.

Detective Witmer looked at Corman, who nodded.

“What we’d like you to do,” Witmer said, “is to give us a play-by-play of your movements the night of the homicide.”

“I already have,” she said. “I told you when you answered my 911 call that I’d gone to bed early—I wasn’t feeling well—and that I came downstairs to ask Jonathon to come to bed. He’d been working late night after night and I wanted him to get some rest.”

“How did you know he was home?”

“Well, I thought I’d heard some noise downstairs.”

“See? Those are the kinds of details we need,” Witmer said. “Our conversation with you that night was necessarily brief. You were distraught. Possibly not thinking clearly. Maybe you can be more precise in a relaxed atmosphere.”

As they talked, I took in the senior detective. I judged him to be in his late forties, maybe early fifties. He was a tall, reed-thin man with a pleasant, long face and clear, inquisitive blue eyes. He spoke in well-modulated tones; I didn’t detect any trace of a Midwestern accent. Because he was low-key and likable, I assumed that he was an effective interviewer, one who quickly gained the trust of those on the receiving end of his questions. His younger partner’s expression was one of youthful enthusiasm, quick to smile and to indicate agreement with whatever Witmer said.

Corman told Marlise, “Go through your movements that night, Marlise, but only if you want to.” He turned to the detectives and said, “Since you’re now looking at Mrs. Simsbury as ‘a person of interest,’ citing her Miranda rights might be in order.”

Witmer smiled. “I was just about to do that, Counselor, but thanks for reminding me.”

He gave the classic Miranda rights speech without referring to notes—“You have the right to remain silent and—”

“I understand,” Marlise said.

Marlise and the detective spoke for the next fifteen minutes. He interrupted her only occasionally to clarify something she’d said. The younger officer continued taking copious notes. When they’d finished, Corman said, “I suggest that we end this, unless you intend to charge her with something.”

Given what Corman had told me earlier, I doubted the detective would place her under arrest solely on the strength of Wayne’s accusation. I was right. Witmer stood and said, “We’ll arrange for you to come to headquarters in the next day or two. You’re not to leave the city, ma’am.”

Marlise asked Corman, “Do they have the right to demand that?”

“I’m sure Mrs. Simsbury has no intention of leaving,” Corman told Witmer, then aimed a stern glance at Marlise.

Witmer thanked Marlise for her time and cooperation, and he and Detective Munsch followed Corman out of the room. Marlise excused herself, leaving Jankowski and me alone.

“What do you know about this statement that the kid gave?” Jankowski asked me.

“I’m afraid you’ll have to ask Mr. Corman about the particulars. I was there when Wayne gave the statement, but I don’t remember all the specifics. He tended to ramble a bit. The bottom line was that he claims to have seen Marlise shoot Jonathon.”

“They believe him?” Jankowski growled. “The kid is an inveterate liar.”

I certainly hadn’t expected such a vehement condemnation of Wayne Simsbury. I was, after all, a complete stranger to Jankowski. As though suddenly realizing that he was talking to someone he didn’t know, he asked, “What’s your connection with this?”

“I’m a friend of Marlise.”

“From here in Chicago?”

“No. I live in Maine. Marlise and I knew each other in New York years ago.”

He grunted and lowered a leg that had been crossed. “You live in Maine, but you’re here. How come?”

I recounted for him how Wayne had arrived on my doorstep and how I had persuaded him to return to Chicago. “He said he’d only come if I came with him, so I did. I’m glad that I did. Marlise needs as much moral support as she can get.”

“What do you think of the kid’s claim that he saw her shoot Jonathon?”

“I prefer to not believe it, but I don’t know whether it’s true or not.”

“That’s refreshingly candid,” he said. “You know a lot about her marriage to Jonathon?”

“Not very much. I was with her when she accepted Jonathon’s proposal back in New York. I wasn’t able to attend the wedding, and I hadn’t seen Marlise until I came here yesterday with Wayne.”

“But you have Marlise’s ear.”

I shrugged. “I wouldn’t know about that,” I said.

“You retired?” he asked.

“Hardly. I’m still writing.”

“Writing what?”

I felt as though I was on the witness stand.

“Murder mysteries.”

He exhibited his first smile of the morning. “Is that so? You planning on writing about this murder mystery?”

“Of course not. I’m here as Marlise’s friend, that’s all.”

He got up out of his chair with some difficulty, yawned, and stretched. “Come on,” he said, “I’ll buy you breakfast.”

“Breakfast?”

“You don’t have breakfast back in—where did you say you live?”

“Maine. Cabot Cove, Maine. And yes, we do have breakfast, very good ones, I might add.”

“Don’t get huffy, Mrs.—what was your name?”

“Fletcher. Jessica Fletcher.”

“I’ll tell them we’re leaving,” he said as he lumbered out of the room.

He returned with Corman.

“What do the cops say?” Jankowski asked Corman.

“They’ll be back to reinterview everyone else who was in the house that night.”

We were joined by someone I hadn’t seen before, a strikingly beautiful woman in her early to mid-thirties. She had a mane of copper-colored hair, filled out her form-fitting cream-colored suit in all the appropriate places, and had a face that rivaled those of many models I’d seen in cosmetics ads and commercials. She wore a pair of very high heels, and I marveled that she managed to walk in them.

“How are you, kid?” Jankowski said to her.

“Hello, Joe,” she said.

“Meet Jessica Fletcher. She writes horror stories,” he said.

I extended my hand. “Actually,” I said through a smile, “I write murder mysteries.”

“I’ve read some of them,” she said. “Marlise has mentioned you. I’m Susan Hurley, Jonathon Simsbury’s executive assistant.”

“Pleased to meet you.”

“We’re just heading out for breakfast,” Jankowski said. “Join us. You look like you could use a good meal.”

She ignored the large attorney and said to Corman, “Marlise is lying down, Willard. She’s upset about what happened this morning.”

“I need to talk to her later,” said Jankowski.

“The detectives will be back at eleven,” Corman told her. “They want to interview everyone who was here that night.”

“I can’t tell them anything,” Hurley said. “I left early.”

“Still, they want to talk with you,” Corman said. “Stay around until they come. Don’t make life difficult for them by making them have to chase you. It’s a lot more comfortable talking to them here instead of in an interrogation room.”

Ms. Hurley said to Jankowski, “Edgar called. He wants to meet with you as soon as possible.”

“Call him back and tell him to meet me for breakfast. We’ll be at Nookies, the one in Old Town.” He turned to me and said, “Best bloody omelets in the city, if you get my drift. You, Willard? Up for a good omelet?”

“No, thanks,” Corman replied. “I’ve got to get back to my office.”

Jankowski led the way out of the room, saying over his shoulder to Susan Hurley, “Tell Marlise I need to talk to her when she’s up and around. She has my cell number.”

“Nice meeting you,” I said to her.

She nodded.

Jankowski stopped suddenly, causing me to almost run into him. “Where’s Wayne?” he asked Hurley.

“Sleeping.”

“Figures,” Jankowski growled and continued toward the front door.

I followed. I hadn’t eaten before leaving the hotel and was suffering hunger pangs. But more than that, falling in line behind the hulking attorney seemed natural, almost expected. I wouldn’t say that he had a “Pied Piper” personality. It was more a matter of it being a lot easier to say yes to him than no.