The Fine Art of Murder by Jessica Fletcher Page B

their relationship never really improved? If so, was he claiming to have seen her murder his father as a way to get revenge? Why hadn’t he told me this before we set out for Chicago? He’d allowed me to believe that he would be helping Marlise by returning home. Was this some sort of sordid grandstand play on his part, some perverted attempt at becoming important?
    I also couldn’t help but speculate that he might be lying to cover up his own involvement in his father’s death.
    These were unsettling thoughts, but they did represent realistic possibilities.
    “I suppose what I said really shocked you, huh?” he said.
    “A classic understatement,” Corman replied. He followed up with, “Let’s backtrack a little, Wayne. What happened after you saw your stepmother shoot your father? You obviously didn’t confront her. She’s operating under the impression that you would verify that she’d gone to bed early and hadn’t awakened until after the shooting.”
    “I stayed in my room until almost midnight,” Wayne said.
    “You never went into your father’s office to see whether you could help, to see whether he was still alive?” I asked.
    “I should have, I know, but I was too scared.”
    “Did you call the police?” I asked.
    “No. Marlise did. The police arrived and all hell broke loose. When I came downstairs she was talking to the cops. I heard her tell them that she had gone to Dad’s office to suggest that he come to bed. That’s when she said she found him dead on the floor.”
    “She didn’t mention hearing a loud noise and coming downstairs to investigate?” Corman asked.
    “No.”
    “Did the police question you?” I asked.
    He shook his head no. “I mean, they did ask me some questions, but I never told them what I’d seen. Marlise said that she had gone to bed early because she wasn’t feeling well, and I backed her up.”
    “But that was true,” Corman said.
    “Mostly,” Wayne said. “I mean, she wasn’t feeling well and she did go to bed early. But she got up and—”
    “Now you’re changing your story.”
    “Now—now I’m telling the truth.”
    “Did you ever find a moment alone with Marlise when you could tell her what the truth was, that you had witnessed her killing your father?” the attorney asked.
    “No, I never did. I guess I was afraid of how she’d react.”
    “And so you just picked up and left,” I said.
    Wayne turned to me. “I guess you don’t think much of me, Mrs. Fletcher.”
    “It’s not my place to judge you, Wayne,” I responded.
    Corman said, “That’s your statement, Wayne?”
    The young man nodded.
    “Nothing else to add?”
    A shake of the head.
    “Well,” said the attorney, “I suppose we might as well gear up to tell Marlise about this.” He instructed Ms. Robertson to have the statement printed for Wayne’s signature.
    “You can do that so quickly?” I asked.
    “We work with a voice recognition program,” he said. “She feeds what she’s dictated into the computer. It comes up on the screen. She cleans it up and prints it. Takes only minutes.”
    Corman left Wayne and me in the conference room, saying he’d be back shortly with the statement.
    “I can’t go see Marlise,” Wayne said.
    “What other choice do you have?” I said.
    “She’ll go nuts.”
    “It doesn’t matter how she reacts.” I leaned closer to him. “Wayne, are you certain that the statement you’ve made here today is the absolute truth?”
    His face hardened. “Are you saying that I’m lying?”
    “I’m not saying anything of the kind, but this is not the story you told me in Cabot Cove. I just want to be sure that—”
    Corman’s return interrupted us. He slid the printed pages in front of Wayne and handed him a pen. “Read it over,” he said. “If it’s an accurate transcript of what you’ve told us, sign where indicated.”
    Wayne didn’t bother reading, just scribbled his signature and dropped the pen on the desk. Corman