The Question of the Dead Mistress

by E. J. Copperman

  “Do you have another appointment after our lunch?” I asked him.

  “No. Why?” Reuben walked toward my desk and for reasons I cannot identify I felt the need to shut down the screen with my research on it and activate my screensaver.

  “You are wearing a suit,” I pointed out.

  “This is for us,” he said, standing more straight in a proud pose no doubt meant to accentuate the clothing. “For you.”

  It occurred to me that I was three inches taller than Reuben and approximately fifteen pounds heavier so I would not fit into the suit he was wearing. He certainly must have known that. Then I realized he meant he had worn the suit in order to somehow impress me. That seemed odd.

  “I don’t understand,” I said. It seemed the only response that could not offend Reuben.

  He waved a hand lightly. “Don’t worry about it.” I had not been worried about it but chose not to point that out.

  I stood and walked to the door, bypassing Reuben, who held his arms out as if to embrace me. That sort of contact, particularly involving someone I know as little as I know him, is not appealing to me and I avoid it whenever possible. I did not note his facial expression as I walked.

  It was a six-minute drive to the Applebee’s restaurant and during the trip I said very little. Reuben went on about his search for employment. He was adept at some aspects of chemistry and technology in which I have little expertise and was attempting to market himself both to local businesses, chiefly Johnson & Johnson, and to Rutgers University, which employs thousands of people in the area.

  I will confess that I was not paying close attention to Reuben’s tale. I was instead wondering how Ms. Washburn was progressing with the surveillance of Brett Fontaine. She had not checked in at all with me. I considered making that a requirement for work outside the Questions Answered office in the future. But as Ms. Washburn’s employer, I felt it best to allow her freedom on her first independent work. As the man who kissed Ms. Washburn on a regular basis, the emotion was somewhat more complicated.

  Once seated at the Applebee’s we scanned the menus offered to us by Nelson, the young man who was assigned to our table. I knew the offerings on the menu by heart but Reuben requested extra time to consider them so Nelson smiled, nodded, and walked away. The added wait would no doubt make me later in returning to my office than I would have wanted, but the fact was I would have preferred to have lunch at the house with my mother as I usually did.

  After some consideration and another visit from Nelson we had ordered our meals and received beverages, which in my case was a glass of water and in Reuben’s a beer. I wondered if drinking during the day was a standard routine for him. I would have to ask my mother when I saw her.

  “You’re probably wondering why I insisted on having this lunch,” Reuben said once we were alone again.

  I assumed he was having the lunch he ordered because that was the food he most desired from the available choices at the moment. “It had not occurred to me to ask,” I said.

  “I wanted to talk to you because I think you resent me,” Reuben said. So his point had been about making the appointment for today’s lunch and not the selection of meal itself. But I did not have time to respond before he continued talking. “I don’t blame you. I know you were a little boy when I left and you grew up without a father. You’re a full-grown man now and you have a business and a girlfriend, and I think that’s great. But I wanted to see if there was a way we could maybe get beyond what happened in the past and start fresh. So I decided to talk to you alone.” He took a long drink from his beer as if to fortify himself and then looked expectantly—I thought—into my face.

  “I am not sure what sort of response you are expecting,” I said. This kind of conversation was something I usually had with Dr. Mancuso, and it was always about people who were not in the room. If I ever had issues with Dr. Mancuso, I’m not certain who might be the right person to share them with. Luckily I had no issues with Dr. Mancuso. But I was somewhat irritated by Reuben’s characterization of Ms. Washburn as my “girlfriend.”

  “An honest one,” Reuben answered. “You don’t have to hold back with me. No matter how long I was away, I am your father.”

  “I have no difficulty being honest,” I assured him. “I don’t know what question is being asked.”

  “I’m asking you if we can turn the page and start dealing with each other as father and son,” Reuben said. “I need to know what it is you expect of me so I can try to give it to you.”

  The issues he raised were so vague and general that I had no idea how to answer. “I expect nothing of you,” I told him. “I have never been in a position to expect anything of you and I don’t know you well enough to predict your behavior.”

  Reuben took a moment to absorb that while a young woman, not Nelson, brought our orders. Mine was exactly as I’d expected and so required no further communication with the waitstaff. Reuben did not really look at his lunch at all because he seemed to be trying to decipher something I had said and was looking very carefully at me. That prompted me to look very closely at my six-ounce USDA sirloin steak, medium well.

  Once the young woman, who wore no nametag, had left our table, Reuben coughed in a somewhat theatrical fashion, presumably as a way of restarting the conversation. I did not take my gaze off the steak, which was prepared as I’d requested.

  “You’re angry with me,” Reuben said. “I get that.”

  “I am not angry with you,” I answered. “I have no emotions at all regarding you. Until very recently you were not a presence in my life at all. What I am concerned about is your treatment of my mother.”

  Reuben drew in a breath. I was not looking at him but I did not hear his cutlery making an impact on his plate at all. He wasn’t eating what he’d ordered. That was not a normal response.

  “I realize I caused Vivian a lot of pain when I left and stayed away, but she understood,” he said slowly. “After a while I just didn’t know how to come back and have a life with her and with you. But she never complained and we stayed in touch all those years. Now I’m happy to be back and she seems happy to have me. I’ll never make up the time I was away and the way that made her feel, but I’m glad we’ve managed to get to where we are now.”

  My steak was not large and it was half gone already. I stopped for a moment and reached into my jacket pocket for the bottle of spring water I’d brought with me. Nelson had brought me a glass of water but it was undoubtedly from the tap in the kitchen and therefore not predictable. I took a sip and put the bottle on the table.

  At that moment, thinking about Ms. Washburn and the question she was researching, I looked at Reuben. “Did you cheat on my mother?” I asked him.

  His eyes widened in surprise or offense; I could not be certain which. “I’m sorry?” he said.

  “While you were away for twenty-seven years but still married to my mother,” I explained. “During that time, were you involved with other women?” If he had cheated on Mother, it would be useful to ask him how that felt and what his motivation was, perhaps to better understand Brett Fontaine. I could give the information to Ms. Washburn when I saw her again, which might not be until the next day. I hoped she would accept my phone call tonight.

  “Why are you asking me this?” Reuben said. I glanced at his plate. His food was untouched. He had ordered a turkey club sandwich, something that has far too many foods together for my taste. But he had asked for it and was now ignoring it.

  “It is a simple question,” I told him. “Did you cheat on my mother in the years you were living away from us?”

  Reuben bit his lower lip lightly and for the first time averted his gaze. “Yes,” he said.

  I was not expecting my immediate response. It is very rare that I say something I have not thought carefully about ahead of time. “Mother did not,” I said.

  Reuben closed his eyes briefl
y and nodded. My question appeared to be causing him some sort of emotional distress. “I know.”

  “Why did you?” I asked. “You had made a promise to my mother when you chose to marry her. Why did you break it?” I paid careful attention so I could report my findings to Ms. Washburn.

  “It was twenty-seven years, Samuel,” Reuben said. “You can’t expect a man to be perfect for that long a time.”

  The fact that he seemed to be making a gender distinction was important, I thought. I chewed the piece of steak I’d cut and waited until my mouth was clear. One doesn’t speak with food in one’s mouth. “So it is acceptable to expect a woman to remain chaste for a period of time that long but not a man?” Was there that difference between the genders? I’d seen no research indicating so.

  “You’re not making this easy on me, Samuel.”

  It had not been my intention to make things simple or difficult for Reuben, so his comment seemed random. “This lunch was not my idea,” I pointed out. “You said I should be honest.” He still had not answered my question about women and whether the expectations should be the same for both sexes.

  “I guess I wasn’t as ready to start being a father as I had thought,” Reuben said. He looked at my plate. “Your steak is just about gone. Should I get the check? I imagine you want to be back in your office.”

  We were at the door of Questions Answered fourteen minutes later. Reuben did not come inside; he merely dropped me off at the door and drove away. I was not sure if he’d gotten what he wanted from the conversation he’d initiated. I had never heard the answer to my question and was now thinking about how to research it to provide an empirical answer.

  I unlocked the door and walked to my desk. There is a light that flashes on the office landline to indicate a message has been left, and it was operating. I was about to press the button when my cellular telephone rang. I reached into my pocket and retrieved it. I was pleased to see the call was coming from Ms. Washburn.

  “I am very glad to hear from you,” I said as soon as I had accepted the call. “I was anxious to find out about your progress.” I did not mention my failure to add to her available information. I knew she had not expected the assistance and had been somewhat reluctant to appear to be looking over her shoulder, an expression I can actually understand.

  Ms. Washburn’s voice sounded slightly hoarse, as if she had been shouting at length. She was not shouting now. “Samuel,” she said. “You have to come here as fast as you can. Call Mike.” That would be difficult as I did not know where Ms. Washburn was at the moment. But her tone indicated the matter was of paramount importance.

  “What is wrong, Ms. Washburn?” I felt I knew her well enough to infer that there was a problem.

  “Brett Fontaine is dead,” Ms. Washburn answered. “Someone hit him over the head at least eight times with a tire iron. I need you to come and help me.”

  “Tell me where you are and I will be on my way.”

  seven

  “Somebody really didn’t like that guy.” Mike the taxicab driver was standing to my left on the sidewalk of High Street in New Brunswick, New Jersey. It had been necessary to explain to the officer guarding the scene that Ms. Washburn, who was standing inside the police line, had requested we come to this place. He had checked with the detective on the scene and been told it was acceptable for the two of us to enter the perimeter.

  He was understating the obvious: Brett Fontaine’s body had not yet been removed from the scene, but it had been covered with a tarpaulin despite there being no evident threat of rain. There was a good deal of blood on the sidewalk and on the tarpaulin.

  “I would say that is fairly clear,” I told Mike.

  Ms. Washburn, whom I knew had seen a dead body before, stood to my right. She had embraced me when we’d arrived and held the clench for eleven seconds, which is a very long time for such a thing. She was obviously upset although there were no signs of tears on her face. But she was not speaking very much and held my right arm as we watched.

  A very tall African-American man wearing a gray suit showing creases in the knees and elbows, which indicated he spent a considerable percentage of his day in a car, approached and spoke to Ms. Washburn. He showed her a police badge—they call it a shield—indicating he was a detective in the New Brunswick Police Department.

  “Jack Monroe,” he said. It took me a moment to realize he was telling us his name and not simply reciting one for an as-yet-undetermined reason. “I need to ask you a few questions.” Monroe looked toward me. “If you’ll excuse us, gentlemen.”

  “I want Samuel to stay,” Ms. Washburn said, more rapidly than she usually spoke. “I promise he won’t do anything to keep me from answering. Right, Samuel?”

  I could not begin to imagine a situation in which I would impede a police investigation, so I simply said, “Yes.”

  “That’s against policy. Is he your lawyer?” Monroe looked me up and down. Clearly he saw that I was not dressed in clothing an attorney would be likely to wear.

  “I am not,” I said. “I am Ms. Washburn’s employer and the proprietor of Questions Answered.” I considered giving him one of my business cards but chose not to make any gesture that Monroe could see as intrusive or inappropriate.

  Monroe did not ask what Questions Answered might be, which was unusual in my experience. Most people, even those who are not police detectives, are curious about the nature of my business when hearing the name. I had thought the name Questions Answered would speak for itself but apparently most people believed otherwise.

  “If he’s not your lawyer, I really shouldn’t let him be present when I’m questioning you,” Monroe told Ms. Washburn.

  “It’s only for emotional support,” she answered. “If you like, he won’t say a word at all. I’m sure you can do that, can’t you, Samuel?”

  I preferred to watch and listen under these circumstances. “If necessary,” I said.

  Mike the taxicab driver, who had military experience he preferred not to discuss in detail, had already sat back on the front stairs of the home in front of which we were standing. He is a master observer and would be very helpful to the police if they had asked and to me later. He misses nothing.

  Detective Monroe let out a long breath and pointed a finger at me. “You’re going to agree to that, then,” he said. “Not a word out of you, all right?”

  I had already said I would adhere to his rule and wanted to prove I understood his instructions so I nodded rather than responding verbally.

  “Don’t be a wise guy,” Monroe said. I hadn’t thought that was what I was doing so I looked at Ms. Washburn, who shook her head slightly. I said nothing and walked with Monroe and Ms. Washburn to a less-populated area about ten yards to the left.

  “Tell me what you saw,” he said to Ms. Washburn.

  “I had just turned the corner and I was looking for a parking space,” she answered. “That’s my car over there.” She pointed toward her blue Kia Spectra, which was parked on an angle next to a fire hydrant on the other side of the street. “I put it there when I saw him lying on the sidewalk. That’s his car next to him. He must have gotten here right ahead of me.”

  “And what was he doing when you first saw him?” Monroe asked.

  “You’re looking at it. He was already down by the time I got here. I called 911 as soon as I saw him.”

  Monroe nodded, but I did not believe it was a gesture of acceptance. He looked at a small tablet computer he had brought with him on which he was clearly taking notes. “Did you see anyone else?” he asked.

  Ms. Washburn shook her head. “Nobody. The street was empty, or at least the part I was looking at. I focused on Brett initially because I was looking for him and then because I saw him on the ground bleeding.”

  Detective Monroe’s head jerked up when Ms. Washburn spoke. “Brett?” he said. “You knew the victim’s name?�
�

  I wanted to answer but had promised not to speak a word and I would hold to that vow. Ms. Washburn said, “Yes. I was following him.”

  Monroe blinked twice. “Why?”

  “It’s my job. I work with Samuel at Questions Answered and we had a question from a client about Mr. Fontaine. I was following him from his office in Somerset when he turned here onto High Street and as soon as I got here I found him like this.”

  “Questions Answered?” Monroe asked.

  Now that the issue had become relevant Monroe was asking about my business. I understood that; it had not been important to him until it directly affected his work. I wondered if Detective Monroe might be classified as having an autism spectrum disorder of some type but decided he probably did not.

  “It’s our business,” Ms. Washburn said, despite the fact that she did not own any percentage of Questions Answered. She is an integral part of the firm and I was not supposed to speak, so I ignored the slight inaccuracy. “When people have a question they can’t answer themselves they come to us and we find the right answer for them.”

  Monroe, to his credit, did not respond with the kind of skepticism I often encounter; he simply nodded his head. But his eyes were indicating he had not completely accepted Ms. Washburn’s explanation.

  “It’s not a detective agency,” Ms. Washburn added as a way to clarify. “We don’t solve problems. We answer questions of any kind.” In fact, we answer questions only when I find them interesting, but again there was no need to add to Ms. Washburn’s account.

  “What was the question?” Monroe asked.

  This is always a difficult area when Questions Answered has taken on a client. We have no legal standing as a physician or an attorney might in such cases, but we do like to maintain our clients’ privacy when we can. Ms. Washburn looked at Monroe as a stalling tactic, I believe, and said, “Excuse me?”

  That was a way to find more time during which to formulate a response. I had seen the tactic used more than once and had probably done so myself at some point, although I prefer to answer truthfully when possible. Mother always says it is easier to tell the truth because then you don’t have to remember the lie.