Free The Fine Art of Murder by Jessica Fletcher

live-in housekeeper, a Mrs. Tetley. And there’s Jonathon Simsbury’s mother.”
    “She lives here?”
    “Yes. Marlise told me that the mother is well into her eighties, and a bit cranky.”
    “She’s entitled at that age.”
    “I suppose you’re right. The tone in which Marlise describes her tells me that she isn’t especially fond of her.”
    “What’s going on in here?” said a gravelly voice as the door swung open.
    Sitting in the entry was an old woman in a wheelchair. Her steel gray hair was piled atop her head. She wore a red-and-black plaid caftan many sizes too big for her, and bulky gold chains adorned her neck. Her wrinkled face was heavily made up; she looked like a character from a play or motion picture.
    She wheeled into the room, stopped in the middle, and stared at me. “Who are you?” she asked in a surprisingly strong voice.
    “I’m Jessica Fletcher. You must be Mrs. Simsbury.”
    “How would you know that?”
    “A guess.”
    She pivoted to face Corman. “You the attorney she retained?”
    “I am. Willard Corman, ma’am. Nice to meet you,” he said, going to her and extending his hand, which she ignored.
    Her attention returned to me. “Fletcher,” she said. “The mystery writer. She told me about you.”
    “I brought your grandson home,” I said.
    She scowled. “He told me that. Poor baby, having to watch his father gunned down in cold blood. Not that it would bother her .”
    I noticed that Mrs. Simsbury didn’t use Marlise’s name. It was “she” or “her,” which confirmed that she was not a fan of her daughter-in-law.
    I gathered that she knew about the claim that Wayne had made about witnessing the murder, and I wondered when she’d learned that bit of information. I was debating whether to ask when Corman said, “Since you’re here, Mrs. Simsbury, this might be a good time for you to answer some questions.”
    She sneered at him. “Questions? About what?”
    “Your son’s murder.”
    “What do you expect me to say about that? Wayne told me what he saw. Doesn’t surprise me. She’s a cold one if I ever knew one. No sense in you wasting time trying to defend her. As far as I’m concerned, they should lock her up and toss away the key.” She wagged a bony finger at him. “Oh, I know, you’re one of those slick lawyers who’ll use tricks to get her off. I’ve got no use for lawyers. Can’t believe a word they say.”
    During their exchange, I pondered why Mrs. Simsbury wasn’t exhibiting any fear of Marlise. Her grandson had told her that he’d seen Marlise shoot Jonathon. It seemed to me that if I were in that situation, I’d be concerned about being in the house with a cold-blooded murderess. But the old woman seemed more interested in berating lawyers than worrying about sharing close quarters with Marlise—assuming, of course, that she believed Wayne’s story.
    “You were here the night your son died?” Corman asked.
    “Of course I was. I don’t get out very often.”
    “And did you hear anything?”
    “Hear him get shot? No. I was watching TV, had it on loud like always.”
    “Wayne said that he heard Marlise and Jonathon argue before the shooting. You never heard that?”
    “You hard of hearing?” she shot back. “I told you I had the TV on loud. She’s always complaining about it.”
    “I have a question, if you don’t mind,” I said.
    “Everybody’s got questions. The police had lots of them. Might as well hear yours.”
    “What was the tenor of the relationship between Wayne and Marlise?”
    She looked at me as though I’d asked for a definition of quantum physics.
    “Did they get along?”
    “She couldn’t stand him, treated him like some foreigner, not her husband’s son. That’s how they got along. Made nice in public, in front of Jonathon, but I knew the truth.”
    “I only asked because Wayne told me how much he liked Marlise.”
    She ignored my comment and addressed Corman. “Well,” she said, “what are you