The Fine Art of Murder by Jessica Fletcher

Wayne’s statement. You and she can act as witnesses, Mrs. Fletcher, if you don’t mind.”
    “Not at all. Happy to do anything I can to help.”
    “All right,” Corman said, “let’s get started.” He nodded at the paralegal. “First of all, Wayne, I want to compliment you on behaving in an adult and responsible manner. You are a key witness in your father’s unfortunate killing, as are all the people who were in the house at the time. We will take your statement today, but the police will also want to question you again. It’s imperative that you be clear and consistent in your communications with both of us, that you think through exactly what you heard and what you saw carefully, so that the police can pursue the case with all the facts on their side. Are you ready?”
    Wayne nodded but said nothing.
    The attorney swore the younger man in, asking whether what he was about to say would be the whole truth and nothing but the truth. Wayne hesitated, then affirmed that he would be truthful and lowered his hand. Ms. Robertson had already begun speaking into a stenomask that covered her mouth, repeating what was said into her recording machine.
    “Your stepmother has already given us her statement,” Corman said. “Please tell us in your own words what occurred that night.”
    All eyes went to Wayne, whose nervousness hadn’t abated. He looked back and forth among the three of us. We sat quietly, waiting for him to begin providing the details that the attorney was seeking. Finally he said, “I was home that night because the date I had fell through. She called me late in the afternoon to tell me she wasn’t feeling well, which was a bummer. I really liked this girl. We have a lot in common, including our taste in music. Anyway, I ended up at home with nothing to do, so I hung out with Marlise. I kind of enjoy spending time with her. She can be really cool. She used to be a TV news reporter, and she’s always yelling at the TV, criticizing the reporters, for their lame questions.” He laughed. “Anyway, she’s a trip.
    “What I mean is that she really keeps up on the news,” he continued. “I couldn’t care less what’s going on in the world, all the wars and killing, all the political BS. They’re all crooks and liars, the politicians. You can’t believe anything they say.”
    I cast a quick glance at Corman, who kept his frustration in check. I was sure that he wasn’t interested in Wayne’s view of the world and politics, or in a recounting of his love life. I waited for Corman to redirect Wayne’s focus, but he allowed the young man to continue without a prompt.
    “She’s always watching the news shows on TV, all the talking heads, stuff like that. She really keeps up with what’s going on. Anyway, it was late afternoon. I watched a couple of shows with her. I had nothing else to do. My date for the night had canceled on me, so I didn’t mind sitting around. My father was away at some meeting—he was always at some meeting—so Marlise suggested we have dinner together. She’d been complaining about an upset stomach and told the cook she just wanted soup and salad. Oh, yeah, and some bread, too. I was in the mood for fried chicken, and Consuela—that’s our cook—made it for me. We had a nice time together at dinner, some good conversation. Marlise was never without something to say, always had an opinion about things. Anyway, after dinner she said she still wasn’t feeling right and was going to her room. She and my father had three bedrooms, one for her, one for him, and one for when they wanted to get together. I thought it was weird, but I kept my mouth shut about it. She said she was going to read and get to bed early.”
    Corman interrupted. “About what time was that?” he asked.
    Wayne shrugged. “Seven. Seven thirty, maybe. I wasn’t sure what to do for the rest of the night. I thought about hooking up with some buddies, maybe hitting a few clubs, but they don’t open