(36/40) The Fine Art of Murder

by Donald Bain

  The driver was waiting when we came down from Corman’s office.

  “Your suitcase is at the hotel, ma’am,” he said.

  “Good. Thank you.”

  Although it took only twenty minutes to reach Marlise’s house, it seemed like a multi-hour drive. No one said anything, each of us deep in our own tormented thoughts. It wasn’t until we’d pulled into a circular drive that Wayne said, “I should go stay with friends.”

  The harsh, skeptical look that Corman gave Wayne said to me that he questioned the young man’s truthfulness, and although I had nothing tangible upon which to base a judgment, I questioned it, too.

  Chapter Seven

  Before we were able to get out of the SUV, Marlise came through the front door and bounded down the steps. Although many years had passed since I’d last seen her, she had the same youthful, winning smile and spark in her eyes that I remembered. Her platinum hair was pulled back into a ponytail that bounced when she moved. She wore tailored tan slacks, a white silk blouse, and sandals. As she approached, the driver lowered the windows on the passenger side.

  “Jessica?” she said as she leaned in the open window.

  “Marlise,” I said, taking her hands in mine. “I’m so sorry about Jonathon.”

  Her smile disappeared and her eyes became moist. “Oh, dear, dear Jessica. It’s the most awful thing—but we can talk about that later. I’m just so happy that you’re here.”

  She looked past me at Wayne. “Welcome home, darling,” she said. “I’ve been so worried about you. I’m relieved that you sought out Jessica. I’ve always told your father you had a good head on your shoulders. You couldn’t have picked a better person to confide in.”

  “Hello, Marlise,” Corman said.

  “Willard, thank you for bringing these two precious people to me. Come, come inside. I know we have a lot to discuss.”

  We exited the vehicle. Marlise linked her arm in mine and led us into a spacious foyer with a white marble floor and large, impressive pieces of art on the walls. At the end of the foyer was a set of stairs leading up to a landing and the second floor. To the right of the stairs was a corridor that gave access to the rear of the house. Calling it a house wasn’t quite accurate, though. I noticed as we drove in that it was huge; “mansion” would be a more apt word for it. The spaciousness of the inside rooms added to the perception of being in a very special place, as did the pieces of art that dominated every inch of wall space.

  “This is lovely, Marlise,” I commented as we passed through two rooms before reaching a parlor or den of sorts. The floor was covered with expensive Oriental carpets. The furniture was oversized and inviting. A huge flat-screen television set was set against one wall. Bookshelves took up another wall. In addition, dozens of oils and watercolors were hung around the room as well as etchings, drawings by Picasso that I recognized, and a large work that resembled in style the Bellini painting that had been stolen at gunpoint from the church in L’Aquila.

  “This has always been my favorite room in the house,” Marlise said. “Please, sit down and make yourselves comfortable. I’ll be back in a minute.”

  She returned with a woman she introduced as Consuela, their cook. “Coffee, tea, a drink?” Marlise asked. Wayne asked for a Coke. I opted for tea. Corman said he would appreciate a drink, scotch or bourbon, neat, which didn’t surprise me. He looked as though he was about to face a firing squad.

  I’d noticed that Marlise hadn’t initiated any physical contact with her stepson until now. He stood in a corner of the room looking out a window, obviously wishing he were somewhere else. She crossed the room, put her hands on his arms, and said, “I am so relieved that you are home, darling. I was worried sick. I had no idea where you’d gone, and so I gave Willard—Mr. Corman—every name I could think of. Thank God I thought of Jessica. I admit that there was also some selfishness involved. If anything had happened to you and you wouldn’t be able to tell the authorities about what happened that night I’m afraid I’d be—well, let’s just say I’d be in a difficult situation.” She looked at Corman: “Thank you for tracking him down, Willard.”

  She sat in a red leather wing chair. “It’s been horrible here since Jonathon was killed. The police took the crime scene tape only down an hour ago. I’ve kept the door to Jonathon’s office closed. The company that cleans up after such dreadful events can’t come until tomorrow. I suppose Jonathon’s isn’t the only murder to be cleaned up in Chicago.”

  Corman cleared his throat before saying, “There’s something we have to discuss, Marlise.”

  “Oh, yes, I’m sure there is. How do we go about this? Does Wayne have to give some sort of formal statement?”

  “He already has,” Corman said.

  She looked at Wayne and smiled. “Thank goodness you were here that dreadful night, Wayne.”

  Wayne looked at me as though I might be able to provide him with an out. When it was obvious I couldn’t, he said to Marlise, “Look, Marlise, there’s something you should know.”

  She waited for him to continue.

  “I know,” he said, his eyes lowered.

  “You know what, darling?”

  “I know that you—” He turned his back to her.

  Marlise looked at Corman. “What’s going on?” she asked.

  “Wayne has given a statement at my office, Marlise,” the attorney said. “In it he claims to have witnessed you shooting Jonathon.”

  Marlise’s face went blank, as though she’d suddenly been drained of all emotion, all feeling. I could almost hear her mind racing, trying to fathom what had just been said and the meaning behind it. After a few moments of sitting ramrod straight, she looked to Wayne, who now stood in a corner of the parlor, his hands splayed against a bookcase.

  “Wayne,” she said.

  He slowly turned and faced her.

  “Is what Mr. Corman just said true?”

  He nodded.

  “My God!” she exclaimed. “Why would you say such a horrible thing? You know that it isn’t true.”

  “It is true,” he said, his voice gaining strength. “I saw it, Marlise. I was there when you killed my father.”

  Marlise had remained calm, even stoic during this initial exchange. Now she seemed to collapse within herself. Her body sagged as the meaning of what she’d just been told finally sank in. She extended her hands to us in a gesture of pleading.

  “I know this comes as a blow, Marlise,” Corman said, “and I was as surprised as you are.”

  “Jessica,” she said, “did you hear what Wayne has said about me?”

  “Yes, I heard,” I said. “I was there when he gave his statement.” I got up, knelt in front of her, and took her hands. “I’m sure this can be worked through,” I said. “I think that—”

  She wrenched free of my hands, got to her feet, and approached Wayne, her fists clenched. “How could you tell such lies?” she demanded. “Are you out of your mind? Kill your father? I loved your father. Tell them that you’re lying, Wayne. Tell them that—”

  “I told them the truth,” he yelled, and stormed out of the room. Marlise took a few steps after him, but Corman intercepted her. “Let him go, Marlise,” he said. “He’s confused. Let’s sit down and go over the events of that night—from your perspective.”

  She sat on a love seat and I joined her.

  “Surely there’s got to be an explanation for Wayne’s behavior,” I said.

  “Oh, yes,” she replied bitterly. “There’s a good explanation for his vile lies. He’s resented me ever since I married his precious father. He was a spoiled brat then and he still is. He’s hated me all these years and is trying to get rid of me so he can collect all the money.”

  “I’m not sure I understand,” I said.

  “That miserable, pathetic excuse for a man.” She got up and crossed to the door. “Excuse me. I’m sorry that you’ve come all this way, Jessica, to be privy to this sordid mess.”

  Corman and I looked at each other
as she left the room, slamming the door behind her.

  “I can’t believe this has happened,” I said. “I thought that convincing Wayne to come here would be beneficial to Marlise.”

  “He had me fooled, too,” said Corman. “Not that I spoke with him. He’d flown the coop before I became involved.”

  “You’re the family’s attorney?”

  “No. I’m a criminal defense attorney. I was retained by Jonathon Simsbury’s lawyer, Joe Jankowski. The minute he got wind that Marlise was being looked at by the police as a suspect, he called me. I met with Marlise immediately, and she told me that Wayne could verify her actions the night of the murder.”

  “I wonder . . .”

  “You wonder what, Mrs. Fletcher?”

  “I wonder why Marlise would have put so much stock in what Wayne might say. After all, his being in the house that night didn’t mean that he had an eye on her at every moment, knew what she did at every step. He said he’d spent time in his room and fell asleep there. Obviously Marlise was free to move about as she wished without being observed.”

  “As was he, for that matter. I didn’t know the details of what he’d done and where he’d been that night until his statement today,” Corman said. “There are others who were in the house that night, like household staff. There are staff quarters, I’m told. We’ve met Consuela, the cook. I’ve also met the live-in housekeeper, a Mrs. Tetley. And there’s Jonathon Simsbury’s mother.”

  “She lives here?”

  “Yes. Marlise told me that the mother is well into her eighties, and a bit cranky.”

  “She’s entitled at that age.”

  “I suppose you’re right. The tone in which Marlise describes her tells me that she isn’t especially fond of her.”

  “What’s going on in here?” said a gravelly voice as the door swung open.

  Sitting in the entry was an old woman in a wheelchair. Her steel gray hair was piled atop her head. She wore a red-and-black plaid caftan many sizes too big for her, and bulky gold chains adorned her neck. Her wrinkled face was heavily made up; she looked like a character from a play or motion picture.

  She wheeled into the room, stopped in the middle, and stared at me. “Who are you?” she asked in a surprisingly strong voice.

  “I’m Jessica Fletcher. You must be Mrs. Simsbury.”

  “How would you know that?”

  “A guess.”

  She pivoted to face Corman. “You the attorney she retained?”

  “I am. Willard Corman, ma’am. Nice to meet you,” he said, going to her and extending his hand, which she ignored.

  Her attention returned to me. “Fletcher,” she said. “The mystery writer. She told me about you.”

  “I brought your grandson home,” I said.

  She scowled. “He told me that. Poor baby, having to watch his father gunned down in cold blood. Not that it would bother her.”

  I noticed that Mrs. Simsbury didn’t use Marlise’s name. It was “she” or “her,” which confirmed that she was not a fan of her daughter-in-law.

  I gathered that she knew about the claim that Wayne had made about witnessing the murder, and I wondered when she’d learned that bit of information. I was debating whether to ask when Corman said, “Since you’re here, Mrs. Simsbury, this might be a good time for you to answer some questions.”

  She sneered at him. “Questions? About what?”

  “Your son’s murder.”

  “What do you expect me to say about that? Wayne told me what he saw. Doesn’t surprise me. She’s a cold one if I ever knew one. No sense in you wasting time trying to defend her. As far as I’m concerned, they should lock her up and toss away the key.” She wagged a bony finger at him. “Oh, I know, you’re one of those slick lawyers who’ll use tricks to get her off. I’ve got no use for lawyers. Can’t believe a word they say.”

  During their exchange, I pondered why Mrs. Simsbury wasn’t exhibiting any fear of Marlise. Her grandson had told her that he’d seen Marlise shoot Jonathon. It seemed to me that if I were in that situation, I’d be concerned about being in the house with a cold-blooded murderess. But the old woman seemed more interested in berating lawyers than worrying about sharing close quarters with Marlise—assuming, of course, that she believed Wayne’s story.

  “You were here the night your son died?” Corman asked.

  “Of course I was. I don’t get out very often.”

  “And did you hear anything?”

  “Hear him get shot? No. I was watching TV, had it on loud like always.”

  “Wayne said that he heard Marlise and Jonathon argue before the shooting. You never heard that?”

  “You hard of hearing?” she shot back. “I told you I had the TV on loud. She’s always complaining about it.”

  “I have a question, if you don’t mind,” I said.

  “Everybody’s got questions. The police had lots of them. Might as well hear yours.”

  “What was the tenor of the relationship between Wayne and Marlise?”

  She looked at me as though I’d asked for a definition of quantum physics.

  “Did they get along?”

  “She couldn’t stand him, treated him like some foreigner, not her husband’s son. That’s how they got along. Made nice in public, in front of Jonathon, but I knew the truth.”

  “I only asked because Wayne told me how much he liked Marlise.”

  She ignored my comment and addressed Corman. “Well,” she said, “what are you going to do?”

  He cocked his head.

  “Get her locked up. You think I want me and Wayne to be sleeping in the same house with a killer?”

  “She hasn’t been proven guilty of anything,” Corman replied.

  “You heard what Wayne said, didn’t you?”

  “Yes, I did, Mrs. Simsbury, but you don’t lock people up based upon an unsubstantiated accusation. Would you be more comfortable staying someplace else tonight?”

  “Leave this house?” she fairly snarled. “This is my house. I own it. She’s the one who should leave, spend the night in a jail cell.” With that she spun her chair around and left. “I’d better barricade my door.”

  Corman exhaled and raised his eyebrows.

  “What will you do?” I asked.

  “Deliver a copy of Wayne’s statement to the DA’s office. They’ll want to—”

  Marlise reappeared. She’d changed clothes and pulled a small rolling suitcase behind her.

  “Jessica, dear, I am so sorry that you had to walk into this mess. Please forgive me.”

  “There’s nothing to forgive, Marlise. I feel terrible for you. Are you leaving?”

  “I couldn’t possibly stay the night in this house filled with hate, that nasty old woman and now Wayne turning against me.”

  “I need to know how to contact you,” Corman said. “The district attorney and the police will want to question you based on Wayne’s statement.”

  “The Four Seasons on East Delaware,” she said. “Jonathon kept a suite there that he used for business visitors.” She turned to me. “Jessica, dear, this awful situation has made me lose my manners. You’re welcome to stay with me, of course. There’s plenty of room.”

  “Thank you, Marlise, but I’ve already booked a hotel.”

  “Well, I hope I can count on you to stick around a little while. I can see I’m going to need all the support I can get, with everyone I thought I had on my side turning against me. Willard, surely there’s a way to make the district attorney see that Wayne is lying.”

  “I’ll do everything I can. Mrs. Fletcher and I were just leaving. Can we drop you at the hotel?”

  “That isn’t necessary. Carl, our driver, is taking me. He should be out front by now. Again, Jessica, I can only apologize for the scene you’ve been forced to witness.”

  “Don’t give it a second thought, Marlise. I just want to see you exonerated.”

  Which was true, assuming that her stepson was lying.

  But if
he wasn’t . . .

  Chapter Eight

  No one else came to the room after Marlise left, so Corman and I let ourselves out. His driver was waiting and we climbed into the backseat. “The Ambassador East,” Corman instructed.

  “Quite a day,” I commented.

  “I’ve been thrown curves before by witnesses, but this takes the cake. A stepson charging his stepmother with the murder of his father. He didn’t give you any inkling that he intended to make the charge?”

  “No, he didn’t. He spoke highly of Marlise, quite a different perspective than the one given by Mrs. Simsbury.”

  “And it’s not what he told the police when they questioned him the night of the murder.” He paused before saying, “I’m not saying this because she’s my client, but I don’t believe him.”

  “Based on?”

  He shrugged. “Just an instinct. You question enough witnesses and you develop a sense of who’s telling the truth and who’s lying.”

  “Pretty serious lie,” I offered. “I assume that his statement will be enough for them to charge her with the murder.”

  “Not necessarily. He’ll have to recant his initial statement to the police. I can make a case that his testimony is tainted. He’s already lied to the authorities once, and there’s the strained relationship between them. His allegation is the only evidence against her. And frankly I wouldn’t put it past him to have done the deed himself.”

  “What about the weapon?” I asked.

  “It wasn’t found at the scene. And Jonathon’s pistol is missing. There’s no way to know if his own gun was used, but it was registered. Ballistics should be able to show if the bullet that killed him was the same caliber as his own gun, but without the weapon in hand, there’s no proof. The police did a pretty thorough search of the house and surrounding property but came up empty. Whoever did it got rid of the weapon.”

  “Or took it when they left,” I said. “If it was Wayne, he would have had plenty of opportunity to dispose of the gun between here and Cabot Cove.”