by Donald Bain
In the meantime, I looked forward to the next day’s tour of the Simsbury-Peters art collection. If nothing else, admiring fine art would be a welcome reprieve from thinking about the less pleasant topic of murder.
Chapter Twelve
Judging from the car Anthony Curso drove, his career as an art historian and professor paid well. The vehicle was, he explained after picking me up in front of the hotel—and eliciting numerous “oohs” and “aahs” from admiring passersby—a gleaming 1964 Austin Healey 3000. “The color is Healey Blue,” he said with obvious pride. “It’s the best big Healey ever made.”
“It’s beautiful,” I said as I ran my hand over the burl wood dashboard.
“My baby,” he said. “Mind the top down?”
“No, not at all,” I replied, untying the scarf I’d fortunately worn around my neck and retying it over my hair. I enjoy a ride in a convertible, but not the rat’s nest the wind makes of my hairstyle.
The expression on his face was sheer joy as he smoothly shifted gears while navigating city traffic. He wore a red tam, a pale blue safari jacket over a red button-down shirt, and jeans that were a cut above Levi’s or Wranglers.
We eventually left the city and drove into an industrial park that appeared to have recently been built. At the rear of the complex was a one-story concrete and steel building. Curso parked in front, hopped out to open my door, and led me to the side of the building. He punched a code into a keypad, and I heard the door unlatch. He pushed it open, flipped on overhead lights, and entered another series of numbers into the alarm system’s keypad. Despite the building’s double alarm system, I couldn’t help but wonder whether the storehouse was secure enough to be the repository of millions of dollars’ worth of fine art. I asked.
“I had the same question,” Curso said. “When I mentioned it to Ed Peters, he said that Jonathon was content with the building’s security, although Ed didn’t seem convinced. An amateur thief could break in here in a couple of minutes. Of course, if no one knows what’s in the building, that’s unlikely to happen. It goes without saying, I am relying on your discretion.”
“And it goes without saying that I would never disclose this location,” I said.
“At least it’s climate controlled,” he said, looking around. “Amazing how some collectors don’t have a clue about how to preserve and secure their paintings. But that isn’t my problem, Jessica. Come see the latest piece I’ve been appraising.”
Curso had established a work area in a corner of the spacious room. A table contained a large microscope, two magnifying glasses, and various small dishes that held liquids. Dozens of books were piled on one corner of the table, along with a thick notebook. The table and its contents were illuminated by a pair of powerful gooseneck lamps. An easel held a painting covered with a crimson piece of cloth. He removed the cloth and directed one of the lamps on the painting. It wasn’t very large, maybe two feet tall by less than a foot wide. The subject was a nude female whose bronze body had been elongated by the artist.
“A Modigliani,” I said.
“Yes, probably painted in 1908. Typical of his approach to painting nudes.”
“His style is easily recognizable,” I said.
“Yes, it is, and apparently easy to replicate. Even so, his works are eagerly sought by collectors around the world, and an expert can usually spot a fake. Modigliani was born in Italy but spent his final years in Paris living the bohemian Montmartre life to the fullest. He was sickly; a typhoid epidemic had almost killed him. As it was, he lived only thirty-six years.”
“Another great artist who died young.”
“Unfortunately for him, but the consequent limited number of his paintings lifts their value.”
“What is a painting like this worth?” I asked.
Curso shrugged as he held a magnifying glass to the canvas, focusing on the lower left-hand quadrant. He was totally engrossed in his examination of the painting. After spending a number of minutes at his task, he lowered the glass, made notations in the notebook, and said, “This particular piece isn’t listed in the catalogue raisonné.”
“What is that?”
“It’s a list of all works known to be executed by an artist. This particular piece isn’t in it.”
“Which means it might not be a Modigliani?”
“It raises that suspicion, Jessica, although the catalogue isn’t infallible.”
“Marlise Simsbury told me that Jonathon had copies made of works he’d bought, and that those copies are the ones hanging in their home.”
“Not unusual,” Curso said.
I laughed. “Somehow I find it strange that someone would buy expensive artworks and have them copied. I think that I’d prefer to enjoy the beauty of the originals every day in my own home.”
“Which is why people should buy art that pleases them, not as an investment. Of course, think of wealthy women who own expensive jewelry and have copies made to wear in public while the originals gather dust in a safe-deposit box.”
I laughed again. “I know a few of those women,” I said.
“The artist who copied many of Jonathon Simsbury’s originals is in Los Angeles. A very talented chap who decided there was more money in copying the works of the masters than in creating his own art. He has not only made a decent living copying originals for their owners, like Simsbury, but he receives commissions from people who pass off his work as original art by the masters and proudly display his copies on their walls. Very much like those scoundrels who pour inferior whiskey into empty bottles containing the labels of top-shelf liquor to impress their guests.”
“People do that?” I said, demonstrating my naïveté.
“More than you realize,” said a voice behind me. Edgar Peters, hands tucked in the pockets of his yellow sports jacket, strolled across the warehouse to where we stood.
“So, you came to check out your investment today?” Curso said to him.
“I knew you both would be here, and decided to see what you’re up to.”
“I wish I could say we were up to no good,” Curso said, winking at me, “but Mrs. Fletcher—Jessica—is, sad to say, able to resist my charms. Perhaps you’ll have better luck, Ed.” He didn’t wait for Peters to reply, but turned to me. “You asked what this particular painting is worth,” he said, referring to the Modigliani. “If it was listed in the catalogue, and certified by a Modigliani expert, it would go at auction for, say, two million, possibly more.”
“But without the catalogue listing, or certification?”
Another shrug from the art expert.
“Are you saying this is a fake?” Peters said, frowning.
“If it isn’t a Modigliani, it’s an excellent forgery,” Curso replied. “There are collectors who buy such bogus works. But of course its value would be much less. A hundred thousand, perhaps.”
I was momentarily confused. “I thought all the paintings and sculptures here in the warehouse were originals. Are you saying, Tony, that some of the works here might be forgeries?”
“He better not be,” Peters growled.
“Oh, no, Jessica. You were asking what it might bring on the open market and I gave you two hypothetical scenarios. Don’t misconstrue what I said.”
I leaned against the table and shook my head. “Frankly,” I said, “I never gave much thought to forged paintings. I take it that buying art, especially expensive art, is a risky business.”
“Extremely risky. Forgeries are sold to unsuspecting buyers every day.”
“But not to people who have experts vet the work before the money changes hands,” Peters said.
The three of us spent the next hour looking at the paintings in the warehouse, with Curso providing a running commentary about each piece. His knowledge was encyclopedic; I felt as though I was taking a college course in art history. When we were finished, I suggested that he had work to do and that I was getting in his way.
“Not at all,” he said, “but I do have to leave f
or a luncheon appointment.”
“I can drop you off, Jessica,” Peters put in. “Would you like me to take you to your hotel?”
“Do you mind driving me to the Simsbury house? I want to see Marlise again. I’ll call to make sure she’s there.”
Marlise was at home, and Peters, Curso, and I left the warehouse. As Peters double-checked that the alarm was functioning properly, I thanked Curso for the tour.
“My pleasure.” He lowered his voice. “Free for dinner tonight?”
I glanced over at Peters, who was punching numbers into the keypad. I turned back to Curso. “At the moment, yes,” I said, “but I’d like to keep it open, if you don’t mind.”
“I don’t mind at all. Here.” He handed me his card with his cell phone number listed on it. “Call if you’re free, Jessica. There’s something I’d like to discuss with you.”
“Oh?”
“I think you may find the subject interesting. Don’t mention it to Peters, if you don’t mind.”
“All right.”
“Give my best to Mrs. Simsbury,” he said in a loud voice and went to his car.
I watched him drive away and wondered what it was that he wanted to discuss. He certainly had captured my attention.
The housekeeper answered the door when Edgar Peters dropped me off at the Simsbury mansion.
“Hello, Mrs. Tetley. I’m Jessica Fletcher,” I said, not sure whether she’d remember me. “I’m here to see Mrs. Simsbury.”
“Follow me,” she said. “I’ll tell her that you’re here.”
She led me to the same room where I’d been before. As she turned to leave, I said, “Mrs. Tetley, would you have a few minutes for me?”
She looked at me quizzically, hands on her broad hips, narrowed eyes exaggerating the lines around them.
“I’m working with some people to find out what happened the night of Mr. Simsbury’s murder. Not officially, of course, but—”
“Working to get her off, you mean.”
“Pardon?”
“Get her off. Mrs. Simsbury. The wife.”
“No, you’re wrong about that,” I said. “I don’t have any preconceived notion about who might have killed Mr. Simsbury. All I want is to find out the truth. I’m sure you want that, too.”
Her expression softened.
“Did Mrs. Simsbury and Mr. Simsbury’s son, Wayne, get along?”
“If you mean were they lovey-dovey like she makes it sound, the answer is no.”
“What about Wayne and his father? I’m led to believe that there might have been bad feelings between them.”
Her deeply furrowed brow said that she was pondering how to answer the question.
“Was Mr. Simsbury disappointed in his son?”
She looked toward the door to ensure that no one was about to walk in, and then she said, “You seem like a nice and proper lady, Mrs. Fletcher, and I know that you’re a famous writer. I’ll be leaving here soon, so I don’t mind telling you what I told the police when they sat me down and asked me their questions. As much as I’ve never been partial, shall we say, toward Mrs. Simsbury, her hubby, Mr. Jonathon Simsbury, was no saint either, him and his fancy clothes and toys and chasin’ after Ms. Hurley.” She cast another look at the door before adding, “Now there’s somebody you should be gettin’ to know, if you get my drift. She and him were disgraceful the way they carried on, and I saw plenty of their grabbin’ each other and talkin’ sexy and the like.”
“Was Mrs. Simsbury aware of what was going on between her husband and Ms. Hurley?” I asked, knowing that Marlise was, indeed, aware of the affair.
“Probably so,” was the housekeeper’s reply, “only it wouldn’t have mattered none to her, not as long as the money kept comin’. ”
Voices in the hallway caused Mrs. Tetley to place her hand over her mouth and to turn and leave the room as Marlise and the cook, Consuela, came in.
“Jessica, I’m sorry. I know I told you I was free, but I’m huddled with my attorney and will probably be with him for another half hour. Consuela will make you some lunch while you’re waiting.”
“No need for that,” I said.
“Nonsense,” Marlise said. “Tell her what you’d like. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
“All right,” I said as Marlise left the room. “Anything simple will be fine, Consuela.”
The attractive Hispanic woman, who I judged to be in her early thirties, stared at me as though she needed something besides my food order.
“Are you all right?” I asked.
She nodded, but the tears that welled up in her large dark eyes said otherwise.
“Please, sit down,” I said, indicating a chair.
“No,” she said, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand. “I will make you lunch.”
“Would you stay for a minute?” I asked. “I’d like to ask you something.”
“No, señora,” she said. “Excuse me.”
Knowing that something was bothering her only prompted further curiosity on my part. Was her upset the natural result of working in a household where a brutal murder had recently taken place? Or was there something she was afraid to share?
I got up from my chair and went to the hallway. I didn’t know where the kitchen was but assumed that it would be toward the rear of the house, close to the large dining room and its table set for sixteen. I walked in that direction and passed a room with closed doors behind which I could hear voices, a woman and a man who I assumed were Marlise and Corman. Eventually I reached the kitchen, which was the size of many a kitchen found in restaurants, with a huge stainless-steel refrigerator, a professional-grade eight-burner gas stove, and a large center island above which gleaming copper pots hung. Consuela was busy at the double sink and didn’t hear me come in. I coughed. She turned.
“I hope you don’t mind me coming here,” I said pleasantly. “I know this is your domain and I don’t want to intrude on it.”
She leaned back against the sink, her hands clasped in front of the blue-and-white checked apron she wore over a white uniform. Her eyes left me and went to a far corner of the kitchen in which a small round café table and two chairs were wedged. Seated there was Wayne Simsbury, whom I hadn’t seen since that fateful afternoon in Willard Corman’s law office.
“Hello, Wayne,” I said.
He stood. He was dressed in purple pajamas and a matching silk robe. “Hi, Mrs. Fletcher,” he said.
“Am I interrupting your lunch?” I asked, even though I could see that the plate on the table in front of him was empty.
“Not really. I’m just leaving anyway.” He walked past me, stopping only to cast a menacing look at the cook, who hadn’t moved from the sink.
“I will bring the lunch to you, Mrs. Fletcher,” she said. “It will only be a moment.”
“I’m not looking for lunch, Consuela,” I said. “You were here in the house the night Mr. Simsbury was killed. I believe you made dinner for Wayne and Mrs. Simsbury.”
She looked to the door, causing me to follow her gaze. Wayne lingered there, obviously interested in hearing our conversation. He smiled and walked away. I looked at Consuela, who had turned her back to me and busied herself at a counter next to the refrigerator. Clearly she didn’t want to talk. I decided to pursue a conversation with Wayne instead of trying to break through the wall the cook had erected. He was on his way up a set of stairs at the rear of the house. “Wayne,” I called. “May I talk with you?”
He stopped, turned, and looked down at me with what I can only describe as a sneer. “No,” he said. “I’m busy.”
“It will take only a moment. I wanted to know if—”
My question was cut short by his bounding up the stairs two at a time, disappearing into a room off the landing, and slamming the door.
I was taken aback. What a change in his personality! He didn’t have any problem coming to my house and enlisting me as both a listening post and a traveling companion, and now he had no compunction
about being rude. I tried to rationalize his behavior. Maybe he was feeling a modicum of guilt about using me as he had, but didn’t want to admit it.
I’d come to grips with the fact that he hadn’t been upfront with me about what he would say upon returning to Chicago. Of course, he didn’t know that even if he had told me in Cabot Cove that he’d seen Marlise shoot his father, I would still have encouraged him to go home and share his accusation with the authorities. In fact, I would have been even more willing to accompany him, if only to hold out a lone hand of friendship to Marlise.
He had no reason to avoid me, although I could understand his wanting to stay clear of Marlise. I’d wondered since coming to Chicago how they could continue to occupy the same house after he’d accused her of being a murderess. True, she stayed in a hotel at night. But she spent each day in the Simsbury mansion. They’d evidently found a way to avoid each other in this large home with its many rooms in which to seek and find seclusion.
The parlor in which I’d questioned Mrs. Tetley now contained a tray on which rested a plate with an egg salad sandwich and potato chips, a small bowl of fresh fruit, and iced tea. I’d just taken a bite of the sandwich when Marlise entered, followed by Willard Corman.
“Hello,” the attorney said. “How is your stay in Chicago going?”
Marlise answered for me. “Jessica has already befriended everyone in Jonathon’s life.”
Well, not exactly, I wanted to say.
Corman smiled. “Hopefully you’ll come up with a bit of information from them to help Marlise.”
“That would be wonderful,” I said. “What’s the status of the investigation?”
“The DA has nothing except Wayne’s claim that he saw Marlise shoot Jonathon. Without some additional evidence, they’re reluctant to bring formal charges. But that can change at any time.”
“I had a tour this morning of Jonathon’s art collection,” I said.