The Fine Art of Murder
talked.”
    “I read about—”
    “That’s why I’m calling, Jessica. I’m trying to find Wayne, Jonathon’s son.”
    “I—”
    “I know it’s a shot in the dark, but I’m frantic. He’s disappeared, vanished, not a word to anyone. I’m calling everyone I know in case he’s tried to contact them. You have so many connections to the police. I thought perhaps you could help me get the word out. He’s not being accused of anything, of course, but his leaving at this point in the investigation is very inconvenient. His father’s murder was a terrible shock for him. I’m afraid he might do something stupid, or even harm himself.”
    What had been a two-month period of relative calm and productivity had suddenly deteriorated into a series of unwelcome shocks.
    First, I read about Jonathon Simsbury’s murder and that his wife, my old friend Marlise Morrison Simsbury, was home at the time of his death.
    Then, her stepson, Wayne, whom I’d never met, shows up unannounced at my door.
    And now Marlise calls out of the blue.
    “Marlise,” I said, “Wayne is here.”
    “He is ?”
    “Yes. He arrived earlier today.”
    “Let me speak with him.”
    “He’s sleeping at the moment, Marlise. He was exhausted when he arrived. And hungry, too.”
    “I don’t care, Jessica. I must speak with him. He’s got to come back to Chicago immediately. We’ve had a terrible tragedy here and—”
    “I know, Marlise. I’ll—”
    A man came on the line. “Mrs. Fletcher?”
    “Yes.”
    “My name is Willard Corman. I’m an attorney representing Mrs. Simsbury. I’m with her now. She just told me that her stepson, Wayne, is with you.”
    “That’s right. I’ve already spoken with him about the importance of his returning home, but he threatened to run away. So you see—”
    “You’re aware of the tragedy that’s happened here. Mr. Simsbury has been murdered.”
    “Yes, I read about it,” I said. “A terrible tragedy.”
    “Mrs. Simsbury is under great pressure from the authorities, and Wayne’s statement to the police is urgently needed.”
    “I’m sure it is, Mr. Corman. And I understand she’s upset that anyone suspects she could have been involved.”
    “I’m convinced that she wasn’t,” he said, “and it’s my responsibility as her attorney to prove that to the authorities. That’s why it’s vitally important that I reach Wayne and see that he returns to Chicago. He can provide an alibi for her.”
    “Oh?”
    “She was in the house when the killing occurred, but she wasn’t feeling well and had gone to bed early, much earlier than when the crime occurred. Wayne’s testimony to that is crucial.”
    I went through a quick series of mental calculations.
    Obviously Wayne had to return to Chicago as soon as possible to corroborate Marlise’s claim. My initial instinct was to rouse the young man and put him on the phone with the attorney. But I hesitated. On the basis of what Wayne had said to me, there was every possibility that instead of cooperating, he would bolt. He’d left Chicago in a troubled mental state, and I doubted that this lawyer would be successful in ordering him to return. If Wayne balked at going back to Chicago, I wondered, could the attorney arrange for some arm of law enforcement to force his return? I had a feeling that if it came to that, Wayne would be out the door and on his way to another temporary sanctuary.
    I made a decision.
    “Mr. Corman,” I said, “give me some time with Wayne. I don’t know whether I’ll have an influence on him, but I’ll try to persuade him to come home on the next plane to Chicago. I’ll let you know later today whether I’m successful.”
    “Thanks for your cooperation, Mrs. Fletcher.”
    “You’re welcome. Could I speak to Marlise again?”
    I heard him tell Marlise what I’d suggested before she took the phone. “Jessica, dear, please do everything you can to get him to do what’s right.” She forced a small laugh. “I’m

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