The Fine Art of Murder by Jessica Fletcher Page A

till late. I decided to hang in my room, play some video games and watch TV. I went into the kitchen, and Consuela—she’s really a terrific baker—gave me a slice of coconut custard pie that she’d just made. I was eating it when Dad got home. He came into the kitchen and told Consuela that he’d already had dinner and would be working late in his office.”
    “His office is in this house?” Corman asked.
    “Yeah. Just down the hall.”
    “Okay. Go on.”
    “Anyway, we talked for a couple of minutes. He got on my case about what I was going to do with the rest of my life, which I didn’t feel like hearing. I know he meant well and wanted me to make something of myself, get a college degree and go into business with him. That didn’t interest me. I didn’t make a big deal out of it. I just finished the pie and went to my room.
    “I stayed there until maybe nine thirty, ten o’clock. I’m not sure. I remember dozing off and being bored when I woke up. I decided to come downstairs for another piece of that pie.” He rubbed his chin and a small smile played on his lips. “It was really good pie. Consuela had left the rest of it on a platter with a clear cover over it. I cut a piece, sat at the table, and started to eat. Then I heard Marlise’s voice coming from Dad’s office. I couldn’t make out what she was saying, but she sure sounded angry. Then I heard my father, and he sounded mad, too.”
    There was an instant tension in the room, a heavy silence as Corman leaned forward in his chair, his face creased. Obviously he hadn’t been aware that Marlise had left her bedroom and confronted her husband.
    “I’m not sure I understand, Wayne,” the attorney said. “Marlise told me that once she’d retired for the night she stayed in her room until she heard a loud noise and came downstairs.”
    Wayne took in those of us at the table, then avoided our eyes as he said, “I left the kitchen and went down the hall to his office. The door was half open and I saw my dad and Marlise standing face-to-face. They were arguing. I figured it wasn’t right to be eavesdropping on them like that, and I started to walk away.”
    “And?” Corman said.
    Wayne drew a deep, audible breath, looked at me, and said, “Before I turned, I saw Marlise pull a gun from the robe she was wearing.”
    We all tensed.
    “And she pointed it at my father and pulled the trigger.”

Chapter Six
    C orman slumped in his chair and rubbed his eyes as though to massage away what he’d just heard. The paralegal looked to him for guidance but received a blank stare in return. As for me, I wasn’t sure if it was appropriate to say anything, so I waited.
    Finally Corman spoke. “I know that my hearing is good, Wayne,” he said, “so I don’t doubt that I heard right. You say that you saw—actually saw —Marlise kill your father?”
    For a moment I thought that Wayne might correct what he’d said, rescind it, modify it. He didn’t. He simply nodded.
    “That’s why I left Chicago,” he said. “I didn’t want to have to tell the police what I saw, didn’t want to be the one to hurt Marlise. I wish I wasn’t the one to see it. I’d give anything if it didn’t happen. I will never forget that night as long as I live, the sound of the gun going off, my father groaning, then seeing him fall to the floor.”
    “Did you run in and try to save him?” I asked, still unsure whether it was my place to be asking questions, but plunging ahead anyway. Corman didn’t object.
    “I was so scared, Mrs. Fletcher. I didn’t know what to do. I was sort of paralyzed, I guess. I didn’t know whether Marlise might turn the gun on me, so I ran back to my room and locked the door.”
    I’m sure that Corman was pondering the same question that was going through my mind:
    Was Wayne telling the truth?
    He’d admitted to me that he hadn’t made Marlise’s entry into the family easy. Yet here he’d indicated he enjoyed spending time with her. Had