The Question of the Dead Mistress

by E. J. Copperman

  “The question you were trying to answer. What was it?” Monroe shifted his weight from one foot to the other. I guessed it was a sign of impatience.

  Ms. Washburn had used her extra time well. “We were being asked whether Mr. Fontaine was having an extramarital affair with his college girlfriend,” she said. I thought it wise to omit the notion that Brett Fontaine’s lover was deceased.

  Monroe’s voice had an edge to it that suggested he already knew the answer to his next question. “Who is your client?”

  Ms. Washburn looked at me, which put me in a delicate position. Clearly she was requesting my assistance with the detective, but I was bound to remain silent. I felt it was not necessary to protect our client’s identity if she might be a suspect in a murder. That could leave my business open to charges of obstruction of justice and Ms. Washburn and me subject to other legal entanglements. I nodded to her.

  “His wife,” she said. “Virginia Fontaine.”

  Predictably, Monroe did not look surprised. “The wife,” he echoed. I think he was speaking more to himself than to Ms. Washburn.

  I noticed Mike the taxicab driver paying closer attention to us than he had appeared to be doing only moments earlier. I doubted he could hear the conversation from where he was sitting, so I could only assume there was some visual information he’d be able to impart when we spoke. I had seen nothing out of the ordinary.

  Then I realized Mike had been watching the street and saw an ambulance approach. The county medical examiner’s office had sent someone to see about Brett Fontaine. I was surprised they hadn’t arrived before Mike and me.

  “So you’re not private detectives,” Monroe said to Ms. Washburn, “but you were following a husband because his wife thought he was playing around? Why didn’t she go to a detective agency instead of whatever it is you are?”

  Ms. Washburn’s lip twitched a bit on the left side but I doubt Monroe noticed. “You would have to ask her,” she said. It was a very good answer. I wondered if it was motivated by a desire to keep the supernatural element out of the conversation or because Monroe had seemed to disparage Questions Answered. Ms. Washburn is very protective of me and the firm.

  “I intend to,” the detective said. “Were you going to take pictures and show them to the wife?”

  Ms. Washburn is a former photojournalist for a local newspaper so the question was not unreasonable, although Monroe had no way of knowing about her former profession. “I might have if I’d seen him doing anything she would have wanted to know about,” Ms. Washburn said.

  “So your camera is in your car, or were you going to use your phone?”

  It was becoming clear that Ms. Washburn was not pleased with the tone Monroe was using in his questioning. She was not faced toward the street and did not react as the medical examiner left her transport and walked to Brett Fontaine’s body.

  “I don’t use my phone to take pictures,” Ms. Washburn told Monroe. “The definition isn’t as good and you can’t change lenses. I didn’t take my camera out of the glove compartment of my car, where you’ll find it if you look, because the client specifically asked not to show her anything that might get her upset.”

  “Okay.” Detective Monroe’s voice was indicating his skepticism if I was reading the tone correctly—and I have heard enough sarcasm to recognize it after years of study. “So you have a client, the victim’s wife, who asked you to follow her husband because she thought he was fooling around. But she didn’t want you to take pictures. She came to you instead of a detective agency because she wanted you to answer her question about the affair and not … follow him and find out if he was getting some on the side?”

  Ms. Washburn touched me on the arm. Normally I am not fond of physical contact but I don’t seem to mind it coming from her. I moved slightly closer to her instinctively.

  “I can’t speak to my client’s thinking,” Ms. Washburn said, the defiant edge in her voice a bit muted. “I was only doing as she asked.”

  “Did you call your client after you found her husband with his brains all over the sidewalk?” Monroe said. “Or did you walk back to your car and put your tire iron back in the trunk after you wiped it off?”

  Now Ms. Washburn gripped my arm tightly. I was fighting the urge to speak and it was becoming increasingly difficult.

  Ms. Washburn’s voice was now small and sounded more like an exhalation than speech. “You think I killed Brett Fontaine and then called 911 and stuck around waiting for you to show up and catch me?”

  “I’ve seen it happen. But I don’t think anything yet. At the moment all I know is that you seem to have been the only person on a street in New Brunswick who saw this guy on the ground. And during the Rutgers school year, that’s really unusual. Things that are unusual are a problem or a clue. I haven’t figured out which this one is yet.”

  “If you’re going to arrest me, I’m going to need a lawyer,” Ms. Washburn said. I didn’t know any criminal attorneys but I was sure I could find one. It was a question that would be simple to answer.

  “Relax,” Monroe said. “You’re not getting arrested here today. I don’t have anywhere near enough evidence to even suspect you yet.” Coming as an expression of comfort, that sounded oddly ominous. I would have to remember the exchange to better analyze it when I returned to the Questions Answered office. I thought it was mostly the word yet.

  “If you’re still asking, no, I didn’t call Virginia Fontaine after I called the police,” Ms. Washburn said, still slightly glaring at the detective despite his nominal attempt to be more civil in his discourse. “I waited for you. I didn’t want to be the one to tell her.”

  “All right,” Monroe said. But he did not put down his tablet computer. “I’m just trying to figure it. It seems pretty clear that the wife would have a motive to kill a husband she thought was cheating on her. But why not wait until she had the proof she asked for? Why kill him now, knowing someone was following him around?”

  Ms. Washburn put her hands up palms out and spread them in a gesture of uncertainty. “No idea. Maybe it means that Virginia isn’t the one who killed him.”

  “And I imagine you’ll say it wasn’t you.” I believe Detective Monroe was trying to exhibit a sense of humor at that moment but it was difficult to determine definitely.

  “It wasn’t me.” Ms. Washburn did not sound amused either.

  Monroe cocked his left eyebrow. “The girlfriend?” he asked.

  Ms. Washburn looked at me. I was careful not to gesture or change my expression because I did not have a response to the question her face was asking. This was Ms. Washburn’s job to do and I did not wish to influence her in any way.

  “It seems unlikely,” she said finally.

  But Monroe would not accept that as a definitive answer. “Why?”

  Ms. Washburn let out a breath, no doubt knowing how what she was going to say would sound to the detective. “Because she’s dead.”

  Monroe’s eyes widened. I could only speculate that he was now seeing a possible career advancement opportunity in this case. “They both got killed? On the same day?” he asked.

  “No. Brett Fontaine’s supposed lover has been dead for three years.” Ms. Washburn, in an attempt to avoid the incredulous gaze Monroe was about to aim at her, turned toward the street just in time to see the medical examiner walking toward us wearing latex gloves and carrying a small evidence bag.

  She approached Detective Monroe before he could express his disbelief or confusion at what Ms. Washburn had just told him. “Detective?” the woman said.

  Monroe pivoted to see the woman, who I’d say was in her early thirties and fairly small, standing next to him. They made an interesting tableau as Monroe was unusually tall. “What?” he said. He was still obviously trying to understand Ms. Washburn’s claim.

  “I wanted to let you know I’m releasing the scene,” the medic
al examiner said. “But there’s something I found on preliminary examination that you ought to know. According to the body temperature I took just now, this man was not killed here on the street.”

  Monroe, already reeling, was not prepared for another assault on what he believed he already knew. “What do you mean?” he said. “There he is on the sidewalk with his head beaten in. Where do you think he got killed?”

  “I don’t know, but it wasn’t here. This man’s been dead at least four hours.”

  Monroe turned to face Ms. Washburn. “She’d been dead three years?” he said.

  eight

  “This is a lot to unpack.” Mike the taxicab driver knows I am uncomfortable with conversation when he is driving, but at the moment we were stopped at a red traffic light and at those times I am less anxious about the distraction. However I did not understand his reference, as I had certainly not brought any luggage with me to High Street in New Brunswick. We were on our way back to the Questions Answered office. Ms. Washburn had been clear that she’d prefer to spend a little time alone to think so she was driving back independently.

  “Unpack?” I asked. People like Mike who know me fairly well will understand my difficulty with what they consider to be typical conversation.

  “Sorry, Samuel. What I mean is that there is a lot of information for us to figure out here.” Mike, particularly since he had been integral in the trip to Los Angeles to find Reuben, had taken to speaking of himself as part of the Questions Answered team. I did not see any utility in dissuading him from doing so.

  The traffic light switched from red to green at that moment so we did not speak again for three minutes until we found ourselves stopped at a similar intersection. “We do indeed have a great deal to discuss,” I said. “I thought you noticed something while Ms. Washburn was being questioned. Was there a detail I missed that you think is relevant?”

  “It was the coroner who came to look at the body,” he said. He was misusing the word. Coroners are often appointed officials who are funeral directors or involved in some related service. Medical examiners are doctors who are trained in the specialty of forensic science. But I did not correct Mike at the time because I was more interested in hearing what he had to say. He can be a very helpful person to have around.

  “What about her?” I asked.

  The timing on this traffic light appeared to be especially leisurely. “She was really attractive,” Mike said.

  We did not speak until he pulled the taxicab into the parking lot of the Questions Answered office in the Stelton Road strip mall.

  That gave me time to think about the things Mike might miss because he was busy looking at an attractive woman. It seemed an unusually inefficient trait of his. I understood the impulse because I have had it myself, but did not see how it would interfere in the observation of a crime scene when that was necessary. Sometimes I think having Asperger’s Syndrome is an advantage that others see as a disability. It is odd.

  “I think it is more significant that Mr. Fontaine’s body was cold and that the medical examiner believed that meant he had not been beaten to death on the spot where he was found,” I said when the taxicab was safely parked. “It would seem to contradict Ms. Washburn’s account of following Brett Fontaine to that spot only seconds before she discovered his body. And since we know Ms. Washburn was telling the truth, there is a fairly large discrepancy between what happened and what she saw.”

  “Maybe she was following his ghost all day,” Mike said. I believe he was attempting to be humorous. “There’s already one ghost involved in this business.”

  “Clearly that is impossible,” I reminded him. “Another explanation will have to be found.”

  Mike chuckled. “I know, Samuel. Now go to your office. I need to find a paying customer before I go home tonight.” Mike refuses to let me compensate him for the rides he gives me. I have learned not to argue the point with him because I always end up on the losing end of the conflict.

  I got out of the taxicab, thanked Mike for his help, and got out the key to open the front door to my business as Mike pulled the cab out of the parking space and drove away. Once inside I turned on the lights and went to the vending machine for a bottle of water. I had not done the requisite exercise to earn the water but the day had taken an unexpected turn. I would do my walking the perimeter again in fifteen minutes to do my best about staying on schedule.

  The telephone answering machine’s button was flashing red to indicate someone had left a message. I walked over and pushed the playback button, but the message was from a company asking to place solar panels on the roof of my business. I do not own the property but such telephone solicitors never seem to care about such things.

  I heard the bells over the front door ring and turned to face it. I expected to see Ms. Washburn walk in but instead saw my mother. Her knee surgery has slowed her gait a bit but made it smoother and she walked from the door to my desk without showing any sign of discomfort, which I found reassuring.

  “Samuel,” she said before I could ask the reason for her visit. “What did you say to your father?”

  Although Reuben had been absent for most of my life, I had said many things to him in the short time he’d been back. Before he left when I was four years old I had no doubt conversed with him a large number of times. Mother was going to have to be more specific. “What did I say to Reuben on what subject?” I asked as Mother settled into the chair I have reserved for her in front of my desk.

  “You told him that he didn’t matter to you,” she said. Mother’s voice was unusually strained, almost harsh. I could not think of any concern that would make her feel that way.

  “I did not,” I said. “I never used those words. If he had asked me, I might have said that he is not a very high priority in my life, but he did not ask.”

  “You told him you have no feelings at all toward him.” Clearly Reuben had gone home and related our conversation to Mother, which I thought was odd considering he had wanted it to be held without her to begin with. Once again I could conclude only that neurotypical people act strangely and one must make allowances.

  “That is true. Should I have told him otherwise?” I was beginning to type in a search for the recorded reliability of estimated times of departure for trains out of Nepal, but I felt it would be rude to do so without looking at Mother so I turned my gaze toward her.

  She looked shocked. I have not often seen my mother with that expression since I was a young boy. It surprised me and I stopped what I was doing. “How can you have no feelings at all about your father?” she said after a long pause.

  “I barely know the man,” I said, stating what I considered to be obvious. “I have had almost no contact with him since I was four years old. Why would I have strong emotions about him when he was not a factor in my existence for twenty-seven years? What information would I have on which to base an emotional foundation?”

  Mother’s eyes seemed to age as I spoke. She looked very tired and I was concerned there might be a problem with her health as there had been some years earlier. “Are you all right?” I asked.

  “No. I’m not all right. I am hurt and I am stunned and I am very disappointed. Samuel. Emotions are not based on gathered data. They’re something you feel. Like it or not, that man you brought back from Los Angeles is your father. I don’t understand, even given the way you are, how you can not care about that at all.”

  “Mother, you of all people know that I am not a computer. I am not devoid of emotions. You taught me that and you have been teaching people we’ve met that very point for as long as I can remember.” I put my hands on my desk to better show I was no longer working while we spoke. I did give a very quick glance to the screen, which was making a differentiation among various railroads flying out of Nepal. “But I need something on which to base a feeling other than a biological relationship. You have a cousin by blood in Il
linois and I would wager you have very little invested emotionally in her.”

  Mother’s head dropped forward a little. I had a brief moment of concern and then realized she was simply showing some disappointment. “My cousin Sheila is not what we’re talking about,” she said softly. “We’re talking about your father.”

  “We are talking about a man who, for all intents and purposes, I met a very short time ago. Whatever will develop between us must do so naturally. I need more information.” I thought that was fair.

  Apparently Mother disagreed. “Do you need more information to know how you feel about Janet?” she asked.

  I did not see how Ms. Washburn was relevant to this discussion. “What do you mean?” I asked.

  But Mother did not have time to answer before the bells over the front door rang again and Ms. Washburn walked in, looking slightly distracted but determined not to show it. She looked toward my desk. “Vivian,” she said. “It’s nice to see you.”

  Ms. Washburn reached over and gave my mother a kiss on the cheek. Mother had not attempted to rise out of the chair. The new knee was helping but it wasn’t going to make her leg perfect again, she had told me. “Always a pleasure, Janet,” she said. But she was looking in my direction, not Ms. Washburn’s, as she spoke.

  “Was Samuel telling you what happened?” Ms. Washburn asked.

  Mother looked at me, then at my associate. “No. Is something wrong?”

  Ms. Washburn sat behind her desk as she told Mother about Brett Fontaine’s murder and how Detective Monroe had questioned her on the matter. I had not been interrogated, as it was quite clear I was not in the area when Mr. Fontaine was found in the street.

  As I would have expected, Mother looked very surprised when Ms. Washburn told her the story and then she looked at me. “Why didn’t you tell me any of this, Samuel?” she asked.