by Donald Bain
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.
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.”
