The Fine Art of Murder by Jessica Fletcher Page B

killed in Italy,” Peters said to me when we were alone at the table.
    “Who’s that?” I asked.
    “An art historian here in Chicago. I’ve asked him to evaluate our collection.”
    It wasn’t lost on me that he’d said “our collection.” I suppose my quizzical expression prompted him to explain.
    “Jonathon and I jointly own the art collection, Mrs. Fletcher. Maybe it’s more accurate to say that we are—were—partners in a corporation that owns the art. Anthony Curso is a world-renowned appraiser. A real character. He’s also an expert on mixing drinks. And he loves murder mysteries. I know he’d be thrilled to meet you.”
    “Sounds like a fascinating gentleman.”
    “Like to meet him?”
    “Well, perhaps another time. I wasn’t planning on staying in Chicago, but I do want to spend some time with Marlise before I leave.”
    “Tony and I are having dinner tonight. Please join us.”
    I thought a moment.
    “You have to eat, Mrs. Fletcher,” he pressed. “And we provide great dinner table conversation.”
    I laughed. “All right. I’d like that very much. But if we’re to dine together, you have to call me Jessica.”
    “My pleasure. I’m Edgar.”
    Jankowski emerged from Nookies holding a cell phone to his ear. “Come on,” he said to me as he headed for his car. I hurriedly made arrangements with Edgar Peters to meet that night for dinner, tagged along with Jankowski, held my breath as he sped through city streets, and heaved a sigh of relief when he pulled up in front of the Simsbury home.
    Marlise had gotten up from her nap and looked refreshed, with newly applied makeup and a different outfit. Before Jankowski whisked her away for a private conversation, she asked if I was free for lunch.
    “As long as it means spending time with you, Marlise.”
    “Great. Let’s go to your hotel. The police are due here to interview everyone in the household except me, thank God. I’ve already told them twice what I know, which isn’t much. Sit tight until Joe and I have our little confab. Carl will drive us unless they’ve arrested him. Tea or coffee?”
    “Tea would be fine.”
    “Be back soon.”
    By now the room in which I waited had become familiar. Mrs. Tetley brought me tea (I thought how apt her name was), and I sipped it while more closely examining the art on the walls. What Marlise had said about the works in the house being copies of the originals cast a different light on them. Jonathon had attached a small brass plate to the bottom frame of each painting, giving the artist’s name and the title of the work. There was a “Sargent” and a “Pollock,” and two small pieces by “Van Eyck” were grouped together. Of course, according to Marlise, the art I perused was actually painted by a skilled forger from Los Angeles.
    The detectives arrived at eleven and disappeared into the recesses of the house. I kept wondering where Wayne was. I hadn’t seen him since Corman and I delivered him to the house, and I wondered whether he’d rethought his allegation about Marlise. It would be wonderful if he did, of course, but I doubted he would change his story. As long as his charge hung in the air, Marlise was under the harsh scrutiny of the investigating officers and would continue to be. I thought I heard his voice a few times but couldn’t be sure.
    The hands of an antique clock on the wall were approaching noon when Marlise reappeared, accompanied by Jankowski. She looked less composed than an hour earlier, and I assumed that what he’d said to her hadn’t gone down well.
    “Ready for lunch?” she asked.
    “Yes.”
    “I’d join you, but I have another lunch to go to,” the hulking attorney said, though he hadn’t been invited. “Remember what I said, Marlise,” were his final words as he left the room.
    “Sometimes I could strangle that man,” Marlise said
    I raised my brows. “Maybe that’s not the best way to put it,” I said.
    She managed a smile. “I suppose