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

came about. What son wouldn’t mourn the loss of a parent, even if the relationship hadn’t always been ideal? Yet I wondered how much his pensive pose was a true expression of his thoughts and how much it was a screen to avoid having to deal with simple issues of humanity. A scowl discourages others from approaching you. But I noticed that when he wanted something, Wayne was capable of using a different strategy. When he did smile on occasion, his face lit up, and I was convinced that those around him wished he would do it more often.
    Wayne said little during the trip and dozed for much of the flight to Chicago. But when we deplaned, he suddenly became animated and looked around the vast terminal as though searching for something that might pose a threat.
    “We have to find the driver that Mr. Corman is sending for us,” I said.
    He said nothing.
    “Are you all right?” I asked.
    “I dread this,” was his response.
    I spotted a man wearing a black suit, white shirt, and black tie and holding a sign with my name on it. Minutes later, Wayne and I were in the backseat of a large black SUV and on our way to the attorney’s office.

Chapter Five
    W illard Corman’s law offices were in a high-rise building on Michigan Avenue. Wayne and I got out of the SUV and I did a three-sixty turn to take in the city. I’ve always found Chicago to be beautiful, cosmopolitan yet down-to-earth, its architecture inspiring, its people unfailingly friendly. It’s particularly lovely at night, when its lighting rivals that of Paris. On this day, with the sky a cobalt blue with tiny white, puffy clouds coming and going behind the skyscrapers, I felt very much alive and happy to be there despite the seriousness of my visit.
    The final call I’d made before going to bed the night before was to book a room in a hotel that’s always been a particular favorite of mine when visiting Chicago, the fabled Ambassador East, now part of the Omni chain. It’s conveniently located in a neighborhood of multimillion-dollar homes, just a short walk from Lake Michigan and Lakeshore Drive, and in the other direction is Chicago’s “Miracle Mile” of upscale stores and restaurants. If nothing else, I would have a little one-day vacation before returning to Cabot Cove and the work that awaited my attention.
    The driver had been instructed to wait for us; he was at our disposal for the rest of the day and evening. I asked him to deliver my small wheeled suitcase to the hotel while we met with Corman, and he readily agreed, assuring me that he would be back in plenty of time to pick us up. Obviously, Wayne would stay at his family’s home.
    We stepped out of the elevator, told the receptionist we were there to meet with Mr. Corman, and took seats in the reception area. Wayne was visibly nervous. He fidgeted with his hands, and his legs were in constant motion, doing a seated tap dance on the carpet. It wasn’t long before Corman arrived to gather us. He was younger than I’d expected—I’d say no older than forty or forty-five—with just enough gray at his temples to add gravitas, and a ready smile. We shook hands and he led us into a conference room with floor-to-ceiling shelves containing the firm’s law library.
    “Thank you for coming, Mrs. Fletcher. Please, have a seat,” he said, holding out a chair for me at the long conference table and indicating that Wayne was to sit next to me.
    “Will Marlise be here?” I asked.
    “No. I thought it best that I get a formal statement from Wayne without her present. She’s at home waiting for you to arrive after we finish up. She’s delighted that you’ve come back, Wayne, and was absolutely ecstatic when I told her that you would be here, too, Mrs. Fletcher.”
    “I’m eager to see her,” I said. “It’s been a long time.”
    A young woman entered the room carrying a court stenographer’s apparatus. “This is Ms. Robertson, one of our paralegals,” Corman said. “She’ll be recording