The Fine Art of Murder by Jessica Fletcher

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