(36/40) The Fine Art of Murder

by Donald Bain

  “Does anyone speak English?” I asked.

  “Me,” a young man said. “I speak the English, a little.”

  “You know the artist Vittorio?”

  He looked at the old man before answering. “Si. Yes.”

  “Did you see him today?”

  Again a glance at the old man. “No. I don’t see him.”

  “His paintings. Many of them.” What was the Italian word for ten? “Dieci, si? Maybe two times dieci. They are missing. Vittorio is—he is, ah, dead. Morto.” I remembered the Italian word for “dead,” having used it in a book. “Did you see any men take his paintings away?”

  The old man in the wheelchair had observed our exchange without reacting or responding, with just that cold, hard stare. Now he waved a gnarled hand to end the conversation.

  I ignored him and said, “Surely you saw what was going on. Vittorio is dead, shot to death. Didn’t you hear anything? Any of—”

  The old man’s action cut off my words and caused me to gasp. He’d withdrawn his other hand from beneath the blanket. It held a handgun, which he pointed directly at me. “Se ne vada!” he rasped, waving the weapon at me. “Go! Go!”

  Curso, who had witnessed the conversation, grabbed my arm and pulled me away. “Come, Jessica,” he said. “Leave them alone.”

  “But why would he—?”

  “He’s Mafia,” Curso said. “They are everywhere, even in a town like Calcata. We have to get out of here. Now.”

  “But the police will be coming.”

  “They know where to look. We’ll talk to them back in Rome. Please, let’s leave. It’s dangerous to stay here with them.”

  We drove back to Rome and went directly to police headquarters, where Detective Lippi was in his office. He’d been informed of the murder in Calcata and wanted a statement from us. Curso provided most of it, although it wasn’t necessary to go into detail about the documentary and Vittorio’s part in it. Curso had been working closely with the police from the first day, and I learned that Lippi had already been interviewed on camera.

  Back at my hotel, Curso ushered me into the d’Italia bar, where he was warmly welcomed by the bartender. We settled at a table and he ordered his usual martini while I chose club soda with lemon.

  “I’m so sorry, Jessica,” Curso said.

  “About Vittorio? I’m sorry, too.”

  “That, and about how your trip has turned out. Too many bad things have happened.”

  “I certainly never expected to have another gun pointed at me, or to have the Mafia boss personally deliver a threat on my life, but it isn’t your fault, Tony.”

  “You’ll leave tomorrow?”

  “Yes. If I can.”

  “To your home in Maine?”

  “To Boston. I’ll have to arrange for transportation home. What about you? Are you staying extra days in Rome?”

  “No. I think I’d better get back to Chicago and figure out how to proceed with the documentary now that Vittorio is dead.” He took a sip of his drink and looked at me with sad eyes. “Thank you for not being angry with me.”

  “Why should I be angry with you?”

  He shrugged. “Bringing you to Vittorio. Trying to push you into my documentary. And then it ends up like this. I thought if I could get him out of Italy, I could make sure he was safe, but instead they got to him first, and I put you in danger at the same time. You’re a brave lady, Jessica Fletcher, a real trouper.”

  “I appreciate the compliment, Tony, but I don’t deserve it. However, if you’ll excuse me, I think I’ll go upstairs and make arrangements for my flight.”

  “May we have a last dinner together tonight?”

  “If we make it early and light.”

  “Then that’s what it will be. Six? That’s early for dinner here in Italy.”

  “Six will be fine.”

  We ate in an intimate brasserie a block from the hotel. Naturally, the conversation revolved around the events since I’d arrived in Rome and our reactions to them. It was after Curso had paid the check that he asked, “Did you succeed in getting a flight tomorrow to Boston?”

  “No.”

  “The flights are full?”

  “No, there was available space, but I’ve changed my mind. I’m flying directly to Chicago.”

  Chapter Twenty-one

  “Marlise?”

  “Jessica, dear, where are you calling from?”

  “O’Hare. I just got back from Italy.” I’d called her house the minute I got off the plane and was pleased that she’d personally answered.

  “Good trip?”

  “Well, I accomplished what I went there for. Marlise, I’d like to see you.”

  “I’m here.”

  “Has anything new developed?”

  “Plenty. My wayward stepson has disappeared again.”

  “When did that happen?”

  “Yesterday. I haven’t bothered to try to locate him, although Willard is making calls. Frankly, I don’t care if they never find him.”

  How peculiar, I thought. By running again, Wayne had focused the spotlight on himself as a suspect in his father’s murder. Was he regretting his accusation against Marlise?

  “Where are you staying?” she asked.

  “I haven’t made a hotel reservation. I’m about to make some calls.”

  “Stay here. We have oodles of guest rooms, and I could use the company.”

  “Sure it won’t be an inconvenience?”

  “Not at all. Grab a cab. See you soon.”

  It was raining hard by the time my taxi driver navigated city traffic and arrived at Marlise’s house. Jet lag had caught up with me and I’d dozed during the last half of the trip, until I was awakened by the driver’s “Hey, lady, we’re here.”

  Marlise answered the door. “Mrs. Tetley has taken off for parts unknown,” she said as she led me to the parlor. “It’s good to see you,” she said. “I want to hear all about your trip. How’s Tony Curso? Flamboyant fellow, isn’t he?”

  “He certainly has extravagant taste in cars,” I replied. “He’s fine. Flying in later today, I believe.”

  Marlise looked older and more haggard than the last time I’d seen her, even though it had been only a few days. Serious lines had developed beneath her eyes and at the corners of her mouth. Before I’d left for Italy, she’d taken pains to look her best, makeup deftly applied, hair shiny and carefully coiffed, clothes out of the pages of a fashion magazine. Now her hair had been haphazardly pulled back into an untidy ponytail. Her face was bare of paint, and her tan slacks were in need of pressing. I couldn’t help but notice that her usually pristine nail polish was chipped in two places. Stress will do that to you, especially the sort of pressure she’d been under lately. But I wasn’t looking my best either. She noticed the bruise and the stitch line on my forehead and asked about them.

  “An accident in Rome. A couple of young men were horsing around on the Spanish Steps and knocked me down. I’m fine. But you said on the phone that Wayne had taken off again. What happened?”

  “Just vanished.”

  “Was there an incident that prompted him to leave?”

  “Yes, I suppose there was. We’ve been avoiding each other since Jonathon was killed—the advantage of a large house. And I’ve been spending time at the corporate suite at the hotel. Being in this house is like taking steady doses of poison. But Wayne and I had a run-in just before he left. He’d been drinking or was on drugs. I couldn’t tell which. He didn’t smell of alcohol, but he certainly behaved as if he was inebriated. He swore at me and kept calling me a murderer, used every four-letter word in the book. It was horrible.”

  “It must have been.”

  “I challenged him about taking a lie detector test, told him I had passed, suggested he might not. Maybe that’s what sent him running.”

  “You say that the housekeeper left. Now that Wayne is gone, who’s still here?”

  “I’ve persuaded Consuela to stay, or we’d all starve. I
haven’t been near a kitchen in more years than I care to count. Carl, the chauffeur, is here, but he’s talking about leaving, too. I actually wish he would. The financial situation is looking worse than I was led to believe. And, of course, the charming Ms. Hurley shows up, although I have no idea who’s paying her. She probably knows where the money is stashed, if there was any left to stash. Who else? Oh, I almost forgot—there’s Jonathon’s mother, that old witch. How could I possibly forget her?”

  I stifled a yawn. It wasn’t that I wasn’t interested in the conversation, but the long flight had taken its toll and I was desperate for a nap. Even twenty minutes with my eyes closed would be a boon. Marlise sensed my fatigue, or perhaps my stifled yawn was not as subtle as I hoped. She suggested that I get settled, and I readily agreed.

  “You have a choice of rooms,” she said. “You can stay in Mrs. Tetley’s suite on this floor. She demanded that she have quarters in the house; she was always demanding something, that one.” Marlise snorted. “Or you can stay in one of the guest rooms upstairs, but I give you fair warning, my mother-in-law is up there.” She gave a mock shiver. “What’s your pleasure?”

  “Whatever is closest,” I said with a weary smile.

  “Mrs. Tetley’s it is, then.” She led me to the room, which was at the rear of the house. “Actually, it’s quite a nice suite,” she said as she opened the door to what would be my room during my stay, as long or as short as it might be. “I changed the sheets and did some dusting after she left,” Marlise added. “Judging from what Joe Jankowski tells me, I’d better get used to making my own bed.” She plopped down in a small rocking chair by the room’s only window, shook her head, and sniffled into a balled-up tissue.

  “It’s that bad?” I asked.

  “It sure is. Every time I talk to him, it gets worse.”

  The front doorbell chimed.

  “Expecting someone?” I asked, as I lifted my travel bag onto a suitcase rack.

  “No. And I look a mess.” She dabbed at her eyes, checked herself in a mirror, and walked out of the room, leaving the door open. I had started to survey my new surroundings when I heard Marlise say, “Hello, Edgar. I wasn’t expecting you.”

  Peters sounded agitated. “What the hell is going on with Curso?” he demanded.

  “What do you mean?” Marlise asked.

  “Curso. He’s making a documentary about art forgery.”

  “A documentary? I know nothing about that.”

  “Yeah, well, Marlise, the guy is obviously a loose cannon. He’s supposed to be appraising my art collection and—”

  “Your art collection?” Marlise snapped. “You mean the one you cheated Jonathon out of.”

  “A contract’s a contract. He needed money and I ponied up. Now Jonathon’s dead, which makes it my collection. I paid plenty to become Jonathon’s partner.”

  “He was desperate and you—”

  Peters’s voice became even louder. “So I made a good deal for myself. That’s just business, Marlise. Now you listen to me. If Curso is double dealing, claiming that the works aren’t originals because it helps his damned documentary, I’m out big money.”

  “Edgar, calm down,” Marlise said. “I assure you I know nothing about Tony Curso’s intentions with this documentary, but maybe Jessica Fletcher does.”

  “Her? Why would she know anything about it?”

  “Because she just came back from Italy. She was there with Tony.”

  “She was? Yeah, maybe I ought to be talking to her.”

  “Maybe you should.” Marlise raised her voice. “Jessica, dear,” she called out. “Sorry to interrupt your nap. Would you please join us?”

  When I entered the parlor, Edgar Peters stood in the center of the room, his face red, his posture combative.

  “I didn’t know you were here,” he said.

  “I just arrived.”

  “You went to Italy with Tony Curso? How come?”

  “I didn’t go with him. We both had business there.”

  “What was his business?”

  “You probably should discuss that with him. I went at the behest of the Italian police to identify a murderer who shot a man the last time I was there. I told you about that incident.”

  “Yeah, you did. So, what was Curso doing there?”

  “Again, Mr. Peters, I think you should ask him. He’s due to arrive back in Chicago later tonight.”

  “What’s going on?” he asked.

  “Concerning what?” I asked.

  “You and Curso.”

  “I haven’t the slightest idea what you’re talking about, Mr. Peters.”

  “What the hell is this documentary all about? I just found out about it. What’s Curso doing, using my collection as proof of some kind of nonsense about art forgery?”

  I thought for a moment before saying, “He told me about the documentary, but he never mentioned using the collection as proof of anything. I’m sure that whatever appraisal he comes up with will be an honest one. How did you hear of the documentary?”

  “I know people, including one of Curso’s backers. He tells me that Curso has been filming in my warehouse—without my permission, I might add. If that scoundrel claims that a lot of the art in the collection is forged, I’ll sue his socks off. I should have known better than to have him appraise it. As far as I’m concerned, he’s a fraud.” He guffawed. “He’s the forgery.”

  “What do you know about this, Jessica?” Marlise asked.

  I’d been going through a mental debate with myself about whether to recount the events in Italy, particularly in Calcata, and decided that it wasn’t my place to reveal anything more than people already knew. Marlise probably wouldn’t benefit from the art collection. It now belonged to Edgar Peters by virtue of the contract he’d put together with Jonathon, having bought in as a partner. But no matter who ultimately benefited, if Curso was convinced that most of the collection consisted of forgeries, it wouldn’t be worth much of anything—to anyone.

  Peters had gotten his anger under control and now spoke in a calmer voice. “Look, Mrs. Fletcher—Jessica—I don’t have a quarrel with you. But it seems that since you arrived, you’ve gotten yourself involved with everybody. What do you know about Tony Curso?”

  “You introduced us,” I said, “and told me what a wonderful person he was. We had dinner together, remember?”

  “Sure, and I meant what I said. As far as I knew, he was a straight arrow, with all sorts of credentials as an art expert. But I’m beginning to think he’s more of an operator than an impartial appraiser. A documentary? That’s a conflict of interest as far as I’m concerned. From what I hear, Curso has to find examples of art fraud if the documentary is to work. He’d better not use my collection to make his point. I’ll take him to court so fast his head will spin.”

  I didn’t see the validity of his claim of a conflict of interest but didn’t argue. His disenchantment with Curso was something to bring up with the appraiser himself, not with me. It also occurred to me during our exchange that this man who’d bought into Jonathon Simsbury’s art collection had a solid motive for wanting his partner dead. As far as he’d known, the collection contained only legitimate paintings by great artists that would be worth millions at auction.

  But what if he’d come to learn that the warehouse might contain forgeries, worthless works? That, too, might have angered him to the point that he would have killed Jonathon for having sold him a half interest in bogus art, albeit skillfully executed by an oversized drunken Italian artist named Vittorio, who’d sold out his talent for money. I thought of the big man lying there in his cave, a bullet hole in the back of his head, his beloved grappa bottle nestled against his cheek. It was a dark, upsetting vision that I knew would haunt me for a very long time.

  I changed the topic. “How did you and Jonathon get along?” I asked.

  My question seemed to jar him. He looked at me quizzically before answering, “Why would you ask that?”

  “Ju
st curious,” I said. “While all this talk of Anthony Curso and forged art is taking place, there’s still the matter of Jonathon’s murder. That should be more important to you.”

  “Oh, I get it,” he said. “I forgot that you write murder mysteries for a living. What are you suggesting, Mrs. Fletcher? That I shot Jonathon?”

  “I’m not suggesting anything, Mr. Peters, only that his murder is still to be solved.”

  “I’m not ignoring Jonathon’s murder. What can I do about it, anyway? I just want to know that he was straight with me. I paid a fortune for that collection. It had better be legit.”

  I sighed and stretched my neck. The notion of catching a nap became appealing again, so I said, “I suggest that you bring all this up with Tony Curso once he’s back in Chicago. If you’ll excuse me, I’ve just come off a long flight and I need to rest.”

  He said nothing as I walked away and returned to my room at the rear of the house. I heard the front door close, and then Marlise joined me.

  “What a fool,” she muttered, perching on the edge of the bed.

  “I’m not sure I’d say that about him,” I said as I began unpacking.

  “I’m talking about Jonathon. He sold a half interest in the art collection for a pittance.”

  I was tempted to tell her what Curso had hinted at in Italy, that most of the pieces in the collection were forgeries, but I held back. It was Curso’s responsibility to break that news to her and to Peters, not mine.

  It isn’t easy keeping such things from a friend. The temptation is to share what you know. But discretion was certainly the better part of valor in this case.

  “I know you’re tired, Jessica, dear, so I’ll leave you alone. Before I go, though, I have to ask about this documentary Peters is talking about. Curso must have told you all about it.”

  “He gave me a brief description,” I said.

  “And it’s about art fraud?”

  I nodded and continued my task of hanging clothes in the small closet.

  “Does it involve Jonathon’s collection?”

  Here’s where it becomes difficult to withhold what you know from a friend. Once a direct question is asked, you’re faced with lying, fudging, or telling what you know despite your promise not to. I dislike the two former options, so I answered truthfully. “I don’t know to what extent Jonathon’s collection is involved in Tony Curso’s documentary, Marlise. I do know that Tony was involved with an Italian painter who made his living painting forgeries of works by the masters. His name was Vittorio.”