(36/40) The Fine Art of Murder

by Donald Bain

  “Jonathon’s charming mother,” Marlise said. “She’s always shouting at somebody for something.”

  Seconds later Mrs. Simsbury wheeled herself into the kitchen. She stopped just inside the door and looked at me. “You planning on taking up residence here?” she growled.

  “Good morning,” I said pleasantly.

  Wayne Simsbury appeared behind her. He was sober and looked considerably more put together than he had the previous afternoon.

  Marlise excused herself and swiftly exited the room by another door.

  “Where’s my tea?” Mrs. Simsbury demanded of the cook.

  “The water is boiling, ma’am,” Consuela replied.

  “You can’t even boil water properly,” the old woman snarled.

  “Yes, ma’am,” Consuela said, checking the kettle. “It will be ready soon.”

  “I hear you’ve been lobbying my grandson,” Mrs. Simsbury said to me.

  “We did have a nice talk yesterday.”

  “You leave him alone,” she said. “You pack up your things and leave. This is my house. We don’t need the likes of you snooping around.”

  “I’m Marlise’s guest,” I said. “She invited me to stay.”

  “I’ll be glad when she’s gone, too. A bunch of leeches and interlopers.” She muttered something else under her breath, pivoted her wheelchair, and pushed past Wayne, who stood transfixed. The door closed behind him and he stepped into the kitchen.

  It was evident to me that he wanted to say something. I waited.

  The whistle of the kettle on the stove startled us both. Consuela poured the boiling water into the teapot and carried it past Wayne to his impatient grandmother in the dining room.

  “Have you thought over what we discussed yesterday?” I asked him.

  “I don’t know what to do,” he said, almost in a whisper.

  “It’s simple,” I said. “Do the right thing. Tell the truth.”

  He started to speak, but his grandmother’s reappearance in the doorway stopped him.

  “Don’t talk to that woman,” she said.

  When he didn’t move, she added loudly, “Come with me, Wayne, and do it now! My tea is getting cold.”

  He left with her. It was now clear that if I were ever to be successful in persuading Wayne to change his testimony about Marlise, it would happen only outside the presence of his overbearing grandmother.

  After Mrs. Simsbury departed, Marlise rejoined me in the kitchen and we shared breakfast before I called for a taxi to take me to police headquarters. I had made up my mind to simply show up rather than phone ahead. It was a ploy I’d used before, knowing that it would be more difficult for the officers to put me off in person than over the phone.

  When I reached headquarters, I was informed that Detective Witmer wasn’t there but Detective Munsch would be able to accommodate my request for a few minutes of his time. He came to the main reception area shortly and greeted me, although he gave off a vibe that said he wasn’t sure why I was there. I quickly explained.

  “I’ve just returned from Italy,” I said, “and I’m staying with Marlise Simsbury at her home. I’ve been doing a great deal of thinking about Jonathon Simsbury’s murder and would appreciate the opportunity to speak with you about it.”

  “The department is doing everything we can, Mrs. Fletcher. Pressuring us won’t make a bit of difference.”

  “Of course. I wouldn’t presume to pressure you, Detective Munsch. I’m not here to criticize either. I promise I won’t take up much of your time. Surely you can spare me fifteen minutes.”

  He said through a sigh, “Sure. Come on back.”

  His office was cramped and littered with file folders. He wore a red-and-white striped shirt, red suspenders, and a burgundy tie. A handgun was nestled securely in a holster beneath his arm. “Have a seat,” he said, “if you can find one.”

  I moved a pile of papers that had been on a chair to the floor and took a seat.

  “Okay, Mrs. Fletcher, what’s on your mind about the Simsbury murder?”

  “May I first ask what progress you’ve made in the case?”

  “Sure. If we’d made any progress, I’d cut you off right now. But the truth is, we don’t have any leads aside from what the Simsbury kid claims, that he saw his stepmother shoot his father. As far as I’m concerned, that should be enough to bring her in, but the DA has a different view of it. He wants corroboration. We don’t have any at the moment, but we’re working to change that.”

  “Let me be frank with you, Detective. I don’t believe Wayne Simsbury’s allegation.”

  “Neither does Mrs. Simsbury’s attorney. But unless the kid recants, his accusation is still hanging out there.”

  “The last time we talked, you or your colleague Detective Witmer indicated that the murder weapon was never found. I assume that your search for it was extensive.”

  He looked at me as though I’d accused him of corruption. “You bet it was,” he said. “What makes you think otherwise?”

  “Please don’t misunderstand,” I said. “It just seems strange to me that whoever killed Jonathon Simsbury was able to get rid of the weapon—unless the killer was someone from outside the household and took it with him or her. Did you interview his business associates?”

  “Like who?”

  “His partner in his art collection, Edgar Peters.”

  “Peters? Yeah, we talked to him.”

  “Can he account for his whereabouts that night?”

  “As a matter of fact, he did; it’s not an airtight alibi, but enough to satisfy us. We weren’t looking at him as a suspect anyway, but he did give us a rundown of his activities during the time of the murder.”

  “With someone to confirm it?”

  “Look, Mrs. Fletcher, I’ve got a busy day ahead of me. What else is on your mind?”

  “The weapon,” I said. “If the shooter was someone from the Simsbury household, getting rid of the weapon wouldn’t be easy unless—”

  “Unless that ‘someone’ took it with him when he left the house, like the son. He flew the coop right after we questioned him.”

  “Correct. Or unless the weapon is still somewhere in the house.”

  “Unlikely.”

  “But possible.”

  “Forget it. If the weapon was in the house the night of the murder, and somehow my guys missed it—and I doubt that very much—it’d be long gone by now.”

  “Would you consider conducting another search?”

  He shrugged. “I wouldn’t, but I’ll run it past Detective Witmer. He’s the lead investigator.”

  “I can’t ask for more than that,” I said. “You’re aware that the housekeeper, Mrs. Tetley, has left.”

  “Uh-huh. We ruled her out as a suspect.”

  “I’m sure you were right in doing so. The victim was having an affair with his administrative assistant, Susan Hurley. How closely did you question her?”

  His bored demeanor changed. He leaned forward in his chair and said, “Are you a PI in your spare time, Mrs. Fletcher?”

  “I’m not a private investigator, but I do notice things and remember what I hear.”

  “Well, suppose you tell me what you’ve heard about Mr. Simsbury’s adultery.”

  I explained how Marlise Simsbury had confided in me about the affair, ending with, “A jealous or betrayed woman has been known to kill before.”

  He took his first note since we’d started talking.

  “That could be applied to Marlise Simsbury, you know.”

  “But also to Ms. Hurley.”

  He grunted and jotted another note on his pad.

  “And surely you know about the new will that Jonathon never got to sign, leaving ninety percent of everything to his wife.”

  He made another note without commenting.

  “That gives Wayne Simsbury a strong motive to kill his father before Jonathon was able to execute it.”

  He looked up from his notepad. “And gets the wife off t
he hook. Did she know about the new will?”

  “She did. She was eager for her husband to sign the new one, which would have cut Wayne’s share down to ten percent. There’s simply no motive for her to have killed him in advance of the new will being signed.”

  He held up his hand. “Wait a minute,” he said. “You were talking about jealous women killing people. Maybe she was upset about the affair and shot her husband to get even.”

  “Good point,” I agreed, “but knowing Marlise Simsbury the way I do, I’m certain that money would have trumped jealousy.”

  “Maybe he changed his mind about the will, and she got furious and popped him off.”

  “If Jonathon had had second thoughts, Marlise would have been far more likely to redouble her efforts to convince him to sign—in a loving manner.”

  He conspicuously looked at his watch.

  “I know,” I said, “my time is almost up. Give me a few more minutes to tell you about an experience I just had in Italy.” I gave him a shorthand account of what had happened to me while in Rome, along with the story about the artist Vittorio and Tony Curso’s involvement with him.

  “So you see, the art collection may not hold the value people expect it to, and if it’s made up primarily of forgeries, that might have played a role in Jonathon Simsbury’s murder. That’s why I was interested in Edgar Peters’s whereabouts the night of the shooting. He was Jonathon’s partner in ownership of the collection.”

  “Interesting story, Mrs. Fletcher, but we interviewed Peters and he is not a suspect at this time.”

  “Fair enough. I just wanted to be certain you had all the facts to consider. Jonathon led a complicated life and had dealings with many people who may have had reason to kill him.”

  I thanked Detective Munsch for his time and left. When I returned to the house, I spotted Tony Curso’s blue Austin Healey parked in front. It brought a smile to my lips. Despite the harrowing experiences he’d led me into, it would be good to see him again.

  Curso was in the parlor with Marlise when I came in. He jumped to his feet, crossed the room, and gave me a hug, followed by a peck on the cheek. “Lovely seeing you again,” he said. He was dressed in a black-and-white checked sports coat over a crimson button-down shirt open at the collar, jeans, and loafers sans socks.

  “Tony was just telling me about your adventures in Rome,” Marlise said. “You held out on me. God, you ended up in the hospital after being pushed down some steps, and you and Tony were together when you discovered the body of this Italian artist. What was his name?”

  “Vittorio,” Curso provided. He said to me, “You’re just in time, Jessica. I was about to reveal to Marlise the true value of her late husband’s art collection.”

  I took a chair and listened. Marlise took the news calmly, which didn’t surprise me. After all, she didn’t have a stake in the collection. When Curso paused, she laughed. “You’ll have to excuse me for finding this funny,” she said, “but it’s just another example of Jonathon’s blindness. He laid out millions of dollars for art that he was sure would appreciate, but it turns out to be worthless, like everything else he was involved with.” She laughed even louder and longer. “And Peters. I want to be a fly on the wall when you tell him what the collection is worth, Tony. I wouldn’t want to miss seeing his face when he gets the news.” She slapped her thigh. “What a hoot.”

  I couldn’t share Marlise’s mirth at learning that her husband’s paintings were forgeries. Her reaction seemed inappropriate, even given the fact that the diminished assessment of the collection would have no impact on her. I didn’t say anything, but silently I pitied Jonathon, a man who’d been handed a lucrative family business and who’d run it into the ground through impetuous, ill-informed choices, including buying expensive European art based upon the false assurances of others. I also felt a modicum of sympathy for Edgar Peters, although that feeling was tempered by the man’s greedy self-interest in his transactions with his partner.

  Marlise’s laughing jag passed and she asked Curso, “When will you tell Peters?”

  “The next time I see him. I promised to have a final appraisal of the art in the warehouse by tomorrow. There are some originals in the mix, but none of those are of high value.”

  A question struck me at that moment. Had Jonathon been as naïve as Marlise made him out to be? Had he become aware that most of his art collection consisted of forgeries, and had he knowingly suckered Peters into buying a half share? In some regards, that possibility was more satisfying than Jonathon’s reputation as a hopeless romantic and bungler.

  We were interrupted by the arrival of Joe Jankowski. He lumbered into the room, muttered a hello to everyone, and took the largest chair.

  “What brings you here, Joe?” Marlise asked.

  “I need to talk to you, Marlise.”

  “Here I am, Joe.”

  Jankowski glanced at Curso and me.

  “We’ll leave you two alone,” I said, motioning for Curso to follow me. We walked down the hall toward the kitchen, and Curso stopped to peruse the art on the walls. “These are probably worth more than the whole damn warehouse,” he said, “provided they aren’t forgeries, too.”

  “Funny,” I said, “but I hadn’t even looked at them. You’re back in Chicago to work on the documentary?”

  “Right. I also have a few classes to teach at the university. Look, Jessica, we’ve been through a lot together the past week.”

  “No argument from me.”

  “I really want you to work with me on the documentary and a book.”

  “Tony,” I said, “this is not the time to discuss it. I will say that the documentary is out of the question. As for a book, I can’t even consider the possibility at the moment.”

  “Okay, but having you on the documentary would add immediacy to the story. You’ve lived it, first when you were in that church when the theft and murder took place, and now where Vittorio’s involved. Horrible what happened to him. I met with Maresca and Lippi after you left. No question that it was a Mafia hit.”

  “Will they ever find who shot him?”

  “Doubtful, but maybe they’ll be able to track down the paintings the thieves took from his cave. Come to dinner with me tonight and I’ll tell you what I’ve learned.”

  “Thank you, no,” I answered, but something prompted me to reconsider. “On second thought, dinner would be fine, but we must include Marlise in the invitation.”

  “Of course. I’d be delighted.”

  “I wouldn’t have looked forward to having dinner here, and it’s even more uncomfortable for Marlise. Have you met the senior Mrs. Simsbury?”

  “No, haven’t had the pleasure.”

  “She’s not happy that I’m here. She’s accused me of ‘snooping.’ I don’t know, Tony, maybe she’s right. Originally, I came here to get Wayne Simsbury to return to Chicago, thinking that he wanted to help Marlise. It turned out to be quite the opposite. I shouldn’t have come back to Chicago after the last episode in Rome. I’ve been thinking a great deal about it. I belong at home in Cabot Cove with my friends, sitting at my computer writing my next novel. My dear friend Seth Hazlitt—he’s a physician and a very good one—is always critical of me when I end up involved in real-life murder, which has happened with too much regularity.”

  “Sounds like you lead a dangerous life,” he said.

  “I never considered it dangerous. The problem is that it’s brought me into contact—too close contact—with too many bad people, people whose greed and outsized ambition and arrogance have led them to do terrible things. Back in Cabot Cove, we treasure peace and the respect we have for each other. At least most of us do.”

  “Sounds like an idyllic community. Is there a man in your life there?”

  “Many.”

  “Oh,” he said with a chuckle.

  “But not in the sense you’re talking about. I had a wonderful marriage to a man named Frank, a gentle, bright, caring person. He died. Since then, I’v
e busied myself writing and nurturing the many friendships I’m blessed with. There is one man who looms large. He’s a Scotland Yard senior inspector, lives in London. His name is George Sutherland. He would like to carry our relationship to another level, and I have to admit that it is an appealing idea. But I’m not ready for a serious commitment, and not sure I ever will be.”

  “You never know what life will bring.”

  “That’s true. What about you, Tony? Have you ever been married?”

  He chuckled. “No. I’ve come close but never found the perfect woman.”

  “Is there such a thing?”

  “I suppose not. I have to admit that I’m selfish. I kind of enjoy being footloose and fancy-free, able to pick up and go someplace on a whim, indulge myself without having to be concerned about someone else.”

  “It’s good that you recognize that about yourself, Tony. It’ll save grief for you and that ‘perfect’ woman, should she ever materialize.”

  I walked him to the front door.

  “Pick you up at seven?” he asked.

  “That’ll be fine. I look forward to it.”

  Marlise was still closeted with Joe Jankowski after Tony Curso left, so I decided to walk off some of the extra pounds I’d accumulated while in Italy. I headed in the direction of Lake Michigan, which wasn’t far away. Once there, I strolled along the lakeside, enjoying the brisk breeze off the water and the sun on my face. The change in my mood here on the lake was dramatic. I felt closed in back at the house, almost suffocated by the ill will that existed there. I was witnessing the deterioration of a family that from the outside appeared to have been blessed with riches and the good life that money can buy. But inside that impressive house were bitterness, jealousies, greed, and accusations that had torn the family apart.

  I could have stayed at the lake for the rest of the day but thought I’d better get back to the house to tender our dinner invitation to Marlise. The door was open, but she wasn’t in the parlor. Rather than hunt through the house for her, I went directly to my room. At five thirty, Marlise knocked on my door. “Up for dinner out?” she asked.

  “I was going to ask you the same thing,” I said. “I’ve made arrangements to go out with Tony Curso.”