Free The Fine Art of Murder by Jessica Fletcher Page B

gun was used, but it was registered. Ballistics should be able to show if the bullet that killed him was the same caliber as his own gun, but without the weapon in hand, there’s no proof. The police did a pretty thorough search of the house and surrounding property but came up empty. Whoever did it got rid of the weapon.”
    “Or took it when they left,” I said. “If it was Wayne, he would have had plenty of opportunity to dispose of the gun between here and Cabot Cove.”
    “Are you still planning to head back there tomorrow? Maine, isn’t it?”
    “That’s right. I should catch a plane tomorrow, but I feel terrible that I haven’t had a chance to sit down with Marlise. I’d like that opportunity.”
    “Well, sounds like she might like that opportunity, too,” Corman said as we pulled up in front of the Ambassador East.
    “Can’t blame her, Mr. Corman.”
    “Please, it’s Willard.”
    “All right, Willard—and it’s Jessica.”
    “Can I buy you dinner?” he asked. “It’s the least I can do to thank you for bringing Wayne back.”
    I laughed and said, “I’m surprised you’d even offer, considering the way it turned out.”
    “Not your fault.”
    “Thank you, but I think I’ll settle in my room, order room service, and decide what to do about heading home.”
    “Whatever you do, call me before you leave. It was nice to meet you. Have a good night.”
    The clerk at the reception desk welcomed me warmly, and a bellman escorted me to my room, a lovely minisuite on a high floor. The Ambassador East is a historic hotel in the heart of the Gold Coast, not far from Marlise and Jonathon’s mansion. As charming as it is today, it’s the hotel’s history that fascinates me. Its Pump Room restaurant and the hotel itself had been home to Hollywood’s elite for many years. Sinatra reigned there when in town, and Bogart proposed to Bacall in the restaurant’s favored “Booth Number One.” I’ve never considered myself celebrity-bitten, but sensing the ghosts of show business greats who’d made the Ambassador East their home when in Chicago gave it a special ambience for me.
    My bag had been brought up and placed on a luggage rack. A vase of colorful flowers and a bottle of champagne were on a coffee table in front of a couch. I hung up my jacket, put my toiletries in the marble bathroom, sat in a flowered tufted chair by a window, and took a moment to digest everything that had occurred over the past two days.
    I must admit that I was impressed at how Marlise seemed to be holding herself together, considering that her husband had been murdered only days earlier. Maybe “surprised” would be a more accurate description of how I felt. She had always had a certain controlled way about her, which served her well when she was appearing on television in New York City. Still, the stereotypical grieving widow image was lacking from her current deportment, and the more I thought about it, the more it nagged at me, although Jonathon’s son and mother were no more expressive than his wife. I had to remind myself that everyone deals with emotion differently. Prosecutors are too quick to point the finger of guilt at someone who doesn’t grieve for a victim in a way that the prosecutor thinks is appropriate. Some people fall apart and stay that way for weeks, even months or years. Others are more philosophical about death and accept it as part of the human condition. As an old friend was fond of saying, dying is the price you pay for living. But because Marlise was now being accused of murdering her husband—the accusation coming from her stepson, no less—her composure was a little off-putting. She had come unraveled upon hearing Wayne’s accusation, but that seemed to be fueled more by anger than by grief.
    I was deep into those thoughts when the phone rang.
    “Jessica, dear, I’m so sorry I ran out on you that way. Will you forgive me?”
    “Of course, Marlise. You didn’t need to call to apologize,