Read Online The Fine Art of Murder by Jessica Fletcher - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Jessica Fletcher
Tags: Fiction, General, Media Tie-In, Mystery & Detective, Women Sleuths, Crime, Travel, Mystery Fiction, Murder, Italy, Jessica (Fictitious Character), Women Novelists, Radio and Television Novels, Fletcher, Women Novelists - Travel, Art Thefts - Italy, Murder - Italy, Murder - Illinois - Chicago, Art Thefts
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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
“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
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