The Fine Art of Murder by Jessica Fletcher Read Free Book Online Page A

mentioning her, Jessica.”
    “We go back a long way, to when I was living in New York. She was a TV reporter then and—”
    “Simsbury? Seems I just read about a wealthy fellow in Chicago named Simsbury.”
    “You did?”
    “Ayuh. There was a piece in this morning’s paper. Fellow was murdered, as I recall. He wouldn’t happen to be any relation to your old friend?”
    “Well, as a matter of fact, Marlise was married to him. Her stepson, Wayne, dropped in to see me unexpectedly today and I’m accompanying him back home.”
    There was a long, meaningful silence on Seth’s end before he said, “Why do I have the feeling, Jessica, that this little jaunt of yours to Chicago isn’t as innocent as you make it sound?”
    “I suppose there is more to it, Seth, but nothing I can’t handle. My friend, Marlise, needs her stepson’s support and I’m just making sure that he returns home to provide it.”
    “Seems to me, Jessica, that it was only a few months ago that you took a pleasant little trip to Italy and ended up not only witnessing a murder but almost getting killed yourself.”
    “That was just a matter of me being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Going to Chicago with my friend’s stepson is—well, it’s just something that I feel I must do. Not to worry, Seth. I’ll be back in a day or two. I just wanted you to know that I’d be away in case you tried to reach me.”
    “As you wish, Jessica, but my advice is to deliver your friend’s stepson, turn directly around, go back to the airport, and take the first available flight back home.”
    “Which is exactly what I intend to do. Talk to you in a few days.”
    I weighed whether to take Wayne out to dinner that evening, but decided to stay home. Chances were that we would run into friends, who would naturally have questions, and I wasn’t eager to put myself or Wayne in the position of having to answer them. Instead, I ordered Chinese food from a new restaurant outside town that had delivery service, and we had a pleasant dinner together. When I raised the topic of his family, Wayne resisted talking about his father and stepmother, but opened up when I asked about his band and the music they played. Clearly, it was a passion of his, although not an interest he’d been able to share with his father.
    Before retiring for the night to my guest room, he put on an old bathrobe of mine and used my washing machine and dryer. I admit to being somewhat on edge as I tried to fall asleep knowing that he was in the next room, but I reminded myself that such fears were unfounded and eventually fell into a deep, albeit fitful, sleep.
    The next morning I was up early and had to make several attempts to wake Wayne. He finally arrived in the kitchen wearing his freshly laundered clothing, eagerly consumed the breakfast I put out for him, and was ready to leave the moment the taxi arrived. The driver took us to Jed Richardson’s hangar at the airport, and fifteen minutes later we were airborne and on our way to Hartford, Connecticut, where we would connect for our flight to Chicago. I love flying in a small plane—you feel the experience of flight so much more powerfully than you do in a jetliner. Wayne didn’t seem impressed that we were flying on a private aircraft, although I suppose years of having flown on his father’s private plane left him blasé to such experiences. He insisted on paying for his share of the flight, including half of Jed’s fee, using a platinum American Express card. This was a young man with access to anything he wanted, no matter the cost, and I wondered to what extent his exposure to easy money and luxury had spoiled him. He was far more self-assured than he’d initially led me to believe when it came to spending. Yet he also seemed to be brooding much of the time, his brow and mouth set as though he were pondering heavy thoughts. I attributed his somber demeanor to the death of his father and the violent circumstances in which it