The Fine Art of Murder (9 page)

His black Cadillac was parked down the street at a fire hydrant. As I got in, I noticed that a sticker from the Chicago Police Department was prominently displayed on the windshield. Joe Jankowski obviously knew his way around Chicago, and those who counted in the city knew him.

Nookies was a bustling place with an inviting array of outdoor tables strung along the sidewalk and a line of people waiting for inside space. A man suddenly appeared and pointed to one of the outside tables. “Didn’t know if you were coming, Joe,” he said. “I had to give away your table inside, but I held this one for you.”

Jankowski mumbled a thank-you and we sat. I was pleased that we were outdoors. It was a splendid day in Chicago, sunny and pleasantly warm, with low humidity and a refreshing breeze.

“I’d rather eat inside,” he grumbled, squinting at the sun. “You hungry?”

“Yes.”

“Crazy name, huh? Nookies. They named it after a breakfast nook. Nook. Nookies. Best omelets in the city.”

“So you’ve said.”

He ordered for us, cheese-and-bacon omelets, whole wheat bread, coffees, and orange juice.

“So, you write murder mysteries. Figured out this one yet?”

“‘This one’? I haven’t even tried.”

“Marlise didn’t kill her old man. You can take that to the bank.”

I didn’t get a chance to reply because two men came to the table to greet Jankowski. They engaged in playful, masculine banter and left, soon replaced by someone who’d just gotten out of a taxi. Jankowski spotted him and waved him over to the table, where he took the remaining vacant chair. He was a short, thin man with limp flaxen hair that blew in the breeze, and beneath an aquiline nose he had a pencil mustache that was darker than his hair. He wore a tan suit and a colorful striped button-down shirt open at the collar. He carried a folded newspaper.

“Hi,” the newcomer said, extending his hand to me. “Edgar Peters.”

“Jessica Fletcher,” I said, surprised at how slender his hand was, almost feminine.

“She writes horror stories,” said Jankowski.

“Murder mysteries,” I corrected, wondering when Jankowski would get it right. “I’m an old friend of Marlise Morrison Simsbury.”

“Oh,” he said. “Wait a minute. Jessica Fletcher. Sure, I’ve just been reading about you. Here.”

He unfolded the newspaper and laid it in front of me. A headline on the front page popped out at me: SIMSBURY SON POINTS FINGER AT WIFE. It was accompanied by a photograph of Jonathon and Marlise Simsbury that had obviously been taken a number of years ago. They stood on a beach with their arms around each other, their wide smiles as dazzling as the white sand. I started reading the article, but Jankowski pulled the paper in front of him.

“Shoot!” he said.

“You said you were reading about me,” I said to Peters.

“The writer mentions in the piece that you’d arrived in Chicago with Wayne Simsbury.”

I gave an abbreviated explanation of my trip to Chicago, which was cut short by the delivery of our breakfasts. Peters asked the waiter for coffee and a dry English muffin.

“Have an omelet,” Jankowski said as he continued to read, his face set in a menacing scowl. “You could use some flesh on those bones.”

Peters ignored Jankowski’s culinary suggestion and said, “We need to talk, Joe.”

“I’m listening,” Jankowski said, tucking the newspaper under his arm.

Peters glanced in my direction.

“If you’d prefer to have a private conversation, I can move to another table.”

“No, stay and eat your omelet before it gets cold,” Jankowski commanded. To Peters, he said, “Who leaked it?”

“Who knows? Who cares?” was Peters’s response. “Look, Joe, what Wayne said aside, there’s the matter of the art collection to consider.”

“Jonathon was quite a noted art collector, wasn’t he?” I said.

Jankowski, who was in the process of raising his final piece of omelet to his mouth, stopped his fork in midair and said, “Jonathon Simsbury appreciated pretty things, Mrs. Fletcher. He liked his fancy sports cars and his yacht and all the pretty pictures he surrounded himself with. That’s why he hired Susan. Now
that’s
a piece of art.” He chuckled and finished eating.

I don’t know why I felt compelled to defend Jonathon, but I said, “There’s nothing wrong with liking ‘pretty things.’”

“Yeah, well, too bad he didn’t pay more attention to his business. He was so busy liking pretty things that he let his business go down the tubes.”

Peters ignored him and said to me, “Are you an art collector, Mrs. Fletcher?”

“Not at all, although I do enjoy good art.” That comment led me to tell the tale of when I’d visited Italy and was witness to art theft and murder.

“Lucky you’re alive,” Peters said.

“Yes, I am,” I agreed. “I’d like to read what this reporter said about me.”

Jankowski handed over the newspaper. Whoever gave the story to the paper had given the reporter a lot of detail about Wayne’s statement to Willard Corman. Had Corman, or someone from his office, been behind the leak? Or had it come from the district attorney’s office or from someone in the Chicago PD? I suppose it didn’t matter at that juncture. I was pleased that the mention of me was fleeting, just a line indicating that Wayne had returned to Chicago with “noted mystery writer Jessica Fletcher, a longtime friend of the victim’s wife, Marlise Morrison Simsbury.”

“How did you end up with Wayne?” Peters asked.

This time I gave a more complete explanation of how Wayne had arrived unannounced at my door and the phone call I’d received from Marlise and her attorney.

“Must have come as a shock when the kid came up with the story that he saw Marlise shoot Jonathon.”

“It was certainly a surprise,” I said.

“Enjoy your omelet?” Jankowski asked.

I looked down at it. I’d barely started it. “It was fine,” I said.

Jankowski reached with his fork and speared an untouched portion of it, popping it into his mouth. “Excuse me,” he said as he pushed himself out of his chair and disappeared inside Nookies.

“Tony Curso would love your story about almost being killed in Italy,” Peters said to me when we were alone at the table.

“Who’s that?” I asked.

“An art historian here in Chicago. I’ve asked him to evaluate our collection.”

It wasn’t lost on me that he’d said “our collection.” I suppose my quizzical expression prompted him to explain.

“Jonathon and I jointly own the art collection, Mrs. Fletcher. Maybe it’s more accurate to say that we are—were—partners in a corporation that owns the art. Anthony Curso is a world-renowned appraiser. A real character. He’s also an expert on mixing drinks. And he loves murder mysteries. I know he’d be thrilled to meet you.”

“Sounds like a fascinating gentleman.”

“Like to meet him?”

“Well, perhaps another time. I wasn’t planning on staying in Chicago, but I do want to spend some time with Marlise before I leave.”

“Tony and I are having dinner tonight. Please join us.”

I thought a moment.

“You have to eat, Mrs. Fletcher,” he pressed. “And we provide great dinner table conversation.”

I laughed. “All right. I’d like that very much. But if we’re to dine together, you have to call me Jessica.”

“My pleasure. I’m Edgar.”

Jankowski emerged from Nookies holding a cell phone to his ear. “Come on,” he said to me as he headed for his car. I hurriedly made arrangements with Edgar Peters to meet that night for dinner, tagged along with Jankowski, held my breath as he sped through city streets, and heaved a sigh of relief when he pulled up in front of the Simsbury home.

Marlise had gotten up from her nap and looked refreshed, with newly applied makeup and a different outfit. Before Jankowski whisked her away for a private conversation, she asked if I was free for lunch.

“As long as it means spending time with you, Marlise.”

“Great. Let’s go to your hotel. The police are due here to interview everyone in the household except me, thank God. I’ve already told them twice what I know, which isn’t much. Sit tight until Joe and I have our little confab. Carl will drive us unless they’ve arrested him. Tea or coffee?”

“Tea would be fine.”

“Be back soon.”

By now the room in which I waited had become familiar. Mrs. Tetley brought me tea (I thought how apt her name was), and I sipped it while more closely examining the art on the walls. What Marlise had said about the works in the house being copies of the originals cast a different light on them. Jonathon had attached a small brass plate to the bottom frame of each painting, giving the artist’s name and the title of the work. There was a “Sargent” and a “Pollock,” and two small pieces by “Van Eyck” were grouped together. Of course, according to Marlise, the art I perused was actually painted by a skilled forger from Los Angeles.

The detectives arrived at eleven and disappeared into the recesses of the house. I kept wondering where Wayne was. I hadn’t seen him since Corman and I delivered him to the house, and I wondered whether he’d rethought his allegation about Marlise. It would be wonderful if he did, of course, but I doubted he would change his story. As long as his charge hung in the air, Marlise was under the harsh scrutiny of the investigating officers and would continue to be. I thought I heard his voice a few times but couldn’t be sure.

The hands of an antique clock on the wall were approaching noon when Marlise reappeared, accompanied by Jankowski. She looked less composed than an hour earlier, and I assumed that what he’d said to her hadn’t gone down well.

“Ready for lunch?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“I’d join you, but I have another lunch to go to,” the hulking attorney said, though he hadn’t been invited. “Remember what I said, Marlise,” were his final words as he left the room.

“Sometimes I could strangle that man,” Marlise said

I raised my brows. “Maybe that’s not the best way to put it,” I said.

She managed a smile. “I suppose you’re right,” she concurred. “Let’s go eat. I’m famished.”

Chapter Ten

W
hen Marlise had suggested that we have lunch at my hotel, I’d assumed she meant the Ambassador East’s famed Pump Room. But she had something else in mind. “They don’t serve lunch in the Pump Room,” she said as Carl Grundig, the family’s chauffeur, a taciturn middle-aged man with shaggy gray hair that covered the collar of his black suit and white shirt, drove us to the hotel. “I don’t feel like being around people,” she explained. “We can order up lunch to your room.”

I was pleased that my suite had already been serviced by the chambermaids, and glad that I’d tidied up before leaving that morning. Marlise said she wanted only a shrimp cocktail and a double shot of single-malt scotch; I ordered a club sandwich and tea. We fell into an easy conversation while waiting for the food to be delivered, sitting across from each other at a small table next to the window.

“I really like Chicago,” I commented.

“I used to,” she said, “when Jonathon and I were first married. I hate it now.”

I wasn’t sure that the tragedy that had befallen her was reason to condemn an entire city, but I also understood how external things could be tainted for her.

“I remember when you and Jonathon first met in New York,” I said lightly. “It was like something out of a romantic Hollywood movie.”

She’d kicked off her shoes and now tucked her feet beneath her. “Those were happy days, Jessica. I never dreamed that the happiness would fade.”

At first I thought that she was referring to how things had changed because of his tragic and sudden death, but then she added, “It started going sour a few years after we married.”

I was surprised that she was sharing this with me. I felt as though we were back in New York trading confidences over dinner and glasses of wine. Marlise had never been reticent in voicing her feelings. She’d always been frank, which held her in good stead while she was working as a TV reporter. Being trusted enough to be on the receiving end of another person’s innermost thoughts is always flattering. I would never have pried into the state of her marriage with Jonathon, but I was willing to be a sympathetic, nonjudgmental listener.

“I wasn’t aware that you were having marital problems,” I said.

Marlise guffawed. “Is there any marriage that doesn’t have problems?”

“Of course not,” I replied. “Those looking in from the outside only see the good.”

“Don’t get me wrong, Jessica,” she said. “There were many wonderful things about being married to Jonathon Simsbury. He was always so alive and eager to try new things. But in many ways, he was like a little boy not satisfied with one piece of fudge. He had to have the whole box.”

“I remember so clearly, Marlise, that it was his little-boy quality that you found so appealing.”

“You’re right, Jessica. His youthful enthusiasm was infectious. But I have to admit that it eventually wore thin. I suppose you could say that Jonathon never grew up.”

“That isn’t necessarily a bad thing,” I offered, “remaining youthful as we age.”

“As long as you’re a grown-up when you need to be, before your childishness negatively impacts the way you run a business.”

I remembered what Joe Jankowski had said about Jonathon enjoying “pretty things,” as he put it, at the expense of his role as a businessman. I debated whether asking the questions that I’d formulated would constitute prying but decided it wouldn’t. Marlise had brought up the topic without any prodding. Besides, if I went too far she could always change the subject. As long as she was leading the conversation, I was willing to follow.

“You’ve said that Jonathon’s business wasn’t doing very well.”

“That’s putting it mildly, Jessica. Despite advice from knowledgeable people like Joe Jankowski, Jonathon just kept playing Lord Bountiful while the business went to hell. Oh, don’t get me wrong. I was happy to go along for the ride. What girl wouldn’t be? It was all very heady—a private plane available at a moment’s notice, the expensive vacations in exotic places, the unlimited expense accounts at the best stores, the yacht, the servants, all of it. As far as I knew, the business was doing fine. At least he never indicated to me that it wasn’t. But there were hints, subtle ones, and even when they became more obvious, I chose not to recognize them, until the last few years when they were impossible to ignore. I started to pick up pieces here and there that Jonathon was in financial trouble. I didn’t want to believe it at first, but then again I’ve always been somewhat naïve. I’m sure you’ll agree with that.”

“When you were young, Marlise. We’re all naïve when we’re young.”

This time her laugh was mellow and self-effacing. “Yes, I was young once. Funny how you keep thinking you’re young until suddenly one day you’re not. The selling of our yacht was the turning point for me, the moment when Jonathon’s money woes became real. He loved that yacht. So did I. He named it
Marlise
; I was thrilled to have my name on such a beautiful boat—maybe ‘ship’ would be more accurate. It was big enough to cross the Atlantic, and we took it to Europe a few times, and down to South America, too. We had a crew that waited on us hand and foot. I felt like Cleopatra or the Queen of Sheba or some glamorous Hollywood star. It was all make-believe, of course, and I shouldn’t have expected it to last forever. When Jonathon announced he was selling it, I knew that something was very wrong.”

“Did he tell you why he was selling it?” I asked.

“Oh, sure. He said he had a feeling that the economy was headed in the wrong direction and that as a smart businessman he was taking difficult but prudent steps to be ahead of the curve. Yes, that’s what he said. He wanted to be ahead of the curve, whatever that meant. But he wasn’t fooling me. I knew that selling the yacht meant that his business was in financial trouble. I didn’t press him about it, at least not then. But in the past year I’d become more bold in questioning him about our finances. He just kept saying how good things were and that I wasn’t to be concerned, always with that big, boyish grin and enthusiastic voice. But I knew better, and Joe Jankowski sat me down one day and told me the grim facts. I am no fan of Joe’s, but he does give it to you straight.”

Our conversation stopped when a young uniformed man arrived with our lunch, taking great pains to set it up neatly on the table between us. I signed the bill, including a tip, and he left the room.

“I thought you said you were famished,” I said, eyeing the four cold shrimp in front of Marlise.

“I am, but it doesn’t take much to satisfy my hunger. Besides, I’d better get used to doing with less.”

As we ate, the subject shifted to Jonathon’s involvement in Chicago’s art scene.

“He loved being a patron of the arts,” Marlise said, “and kept pledging funds even when it became increasingly obvious that he didn’t have the money to back them up. I heard from Joe that Jonathon had been borrowing to keep the company afloat, to meet the payroll and other expenses. As far as I know, he never laid anybody off. In fact, he even did some hiring, including his so-called administrative assistant.”

“Ms. Hurley?”

“You’ve met her, I take it.”

“Only briefly. She’s very attractive.”

“I suppose she can type, too,” Marlise commented sarcastically. “Jonathon’s boyish enthusiasm wasn’t restricted to his toys like the yacht and the plane. He appreciated a pretty face and a shapely bottom, too.”

I fell silent. Was she about to tell me that Jonathon was having an affair with Susan Hurley? I hoped not. The police would see jealousy as a powerful motive for murder, and Marlise had enough going against her already.

“Jonathon spent more time at home than he did at the office, especially lately. He had a few other administrative aides, but they were male. He told me he hired Susan because he needed someone with a good head for numbers and an understanding of the accounting process.” She closed her eyes and slowly shook her head. When she opened them, she said, “I knew early on that something was going on. I raised my suspicions with him a few times, but he told me I was being paranoid. But I could tell from the way they interacted, the way she looked at him and him at her. Women have a good sense of that, don’t we, Jessica?”

“So I’ve been told. Marlise, when you learned about Wayne’s statement, you said he’d been trying to get rid of you for years, something about him being after the money. If I’m off base in asking this, please stop me, but I assume that Jonathon had a will?”

“Of course he did. Joe Jankowski drafted the original and the new one.”

“ ‘
New
one’?”

Marlise finished the last of her shrimp and nodded. “I haven’t been entirely honest with you, Jessica. It wasn’t just my womanly intuition that led me to believe that Jonathon and Susan Hurley were having an affair. I caught them together, twice.”

I winced. How hurtful that must have been.

“I know I claim to be naïve, but I was a reporter for too long not to know how to get to the bottom of a story. I confronted Jonathon and threatened to sue him for divorce and take every penny he had left. He was really upset, swore he loved me, and said if I stayed, he would change his will. The original left half of his estate to me and half to Wayne. I told Jonathon I thought I deserved more. I was surprised when he didn’t argue. He said that he couldn’t cut his own son completely out of the will and that he felt compelled to leave Wayne something. I certainly understood that. Even though Jonathon was always terribly disappointed in Wayne and the direction his life was taking, I knew that he loved him. Jonathon said that he would have Jankowski draw up a new will leaving ninety percent of his estate to me and ten percent to Wayne. It was a lot more than I had expected. He said he hoped the new will would force Wayne to take control of his life and plan for the future. I suppose that Jonathon was making that point with Wayne by cutting back on what he would inherit.”

“Was Wayne aware that this was happening?” I asked.

“Oh, yes, as recently as a week before Jonathon was killed. They had quite a shouting match. I overheard much of it. Jonathon’s death was tragic in many ways, including the fact that he never got to execute that new will. As Joe just informed me, the new will was ready to be executed and Jonathon was scheduled to sign it the week following his death. I didn’t realize that he hadn’t already signed it.”

I didn’t voice what was becoming obvious—Wayne Simsbury had a strong motive for killing his father. However, Marlise read my thoughts.

“I know what you’re thinking. That Wayne had a good reason for killing Jonathon. I’m well aware of that.”

“And a reason for pointing the finger at you,” I added. “Sure.”

“He was in the house the night that Jonathon was killed,” I said. “And the way he left Chicago could be considered, as the lawyers call it, consciousness of guilt. Marlise, do you have any idea who might have killed Jonathon?”

“From what you’ve just said, the finger of guilt,
Wayne’s
finger, should be pointed at him.”

“Are there others?” I asked.

“Who might have wanted to kill Jonathon?”

“Yes.”

“Susan Hurley may not have been happy to learn of Jonathon’s recommitment to me. And you know as well as I do that anyone who has a lot of money makes enemies. Are you going to help me defend myself here?”

“I can’t promise anything, Marlise, but I’ll see what I can do.”

She’d finished her drink and looked sleepy. She placed a hand on my arm and squeezed. “You find out who your friends really are when you’re faced with something like this. I know so many people here in Chicago through Jonathon, but there isn’t anyone I would call a close friend.”

She appeared to be on the verge of tears but held them back. What she’d said touched me, but I resisted allowing myself to become maudlin.

“Marlise, about this new will that Jonathon never got to sign. From what you’ve said, I gather that Jonathon’s estate has been considerably diminished. How much is it worth—
really
worth?”

“I can understand why you’d ask that, Jessica. Yes, his business is in terrible financial shape. I know that he’d borrowed to keep it afloat, but that doesn’t take into account his investments outside the business. Although Jonathon didn’t share much information with me about his personal worth, Jankowski says it’s sizable, most of it tied up in his art collection. That lovely creature you met this morning, Ms. Hurley, has access to all of Jonathon’s personal accounts.”

“Really? That seems unusual.”

Her sardonic laugh said volumes.

I thought for a moment before saying, “I had breakfast this morning with Edgar Peters. He claims that he and Jonathon were partners in the collection and that it’s owned by a separate corporation.”

“How did you end up with Edgar?” she asked.

“He came to meet Mr. Jankowski where we were eating. I’m having dinner tonight with him and an art appraiser named Curso.”

She sat up straighter. “You haven’t wasted any time getting to know the players in this sordid little drama, have you?”

“That wasn’t my intention. But now that I’m involved, I might come across something that will help clear you. I’m willing to give that a go if you want me to.”

“Do I? Oh, Jessica. You’re the only one on my side, the only one,” she said before erupting in tears.

I put a hand on her heaving shoulder and said, “You’ll get through this, Marlise, and I’ll be with you all the way.”

After Marlise left my suite, I sat by the window and pondered what she’d revealed to me during our lunch, what my commitment to her would mean. There was a lot to digest besides the food, and I made some notes to ensure that I would remember the most salient things that she’d said. I’d meant it, of course, when I said I would do the best I could to help her. But I was equally aware that my efforts to help identify Jonathon’s killer could easily prove futile. There was also the possibility—I hated to admit—that were I successful in helping solve Jonathon’s murder, it could end up that Wayne’s accusation that Marlise was the killer had been truthful.

No matter how it turned out, I was now, as the saying goes, in for a penny, in for a pound.