Everyone I knew—with the exception of Mike the taxicab driver—was behaving in some fashion I did not recognize or comprehend. My mother was being unusually harsh in her assessments, Ms. Washburn was acting distant and somehow disturbed by elements I did not notice, and now Reuben was asking me ridiculous questions.
“Of course you are not the reason I am not eating dinner now,” I told him, although it should have been obvious enough that the question would never have been asked. “I need to work and have no appetite at the moment. I can’t begin to imagine why that might be somehow your doing.” Having answered his question, I walked to the stairs and up to my attic apartment.
Work had until now been my driving force, the thing that occupied my mind almost constantly. Now it was becoming my refuge, where I could forget the strange emotional actions of the neurotypicals and immerse myself in the logic and physical reality of answering a question that dealt strictly with facts.
I began by delving deeper into the reports of Melanie Mason’s death, the only one of three I was currently researching which had no suggestion of foul play. It was the second of the three deaths, but the one that seemed to have set much of the subsequent activity in motion.
According to the one newspaper account that had been written by a reporter doing something more than regurgitating the police report, Melanie Mason had been traveling east on Route 22 in Union when another vehicle, much larger than the one she was driving, miscalculated the flow of traffic on an onramp from the westbound side of the road. Unique to highways in New Jersey, Route 22 incorporates onramps into the left lane of traffic which lead to a higher rate of collisions than on virtually any other such road in the state.
When the larger vehicle—a 2009 GMC Sierra truck—hit Melanie’s 2013 Subaru BRZ, it was traveling at approximately 17 miles per hour. Melanie’s car, however, was going considerably faster, at 62 miles per hour. Her car spun away from the truck and into the center lane, where it was hit again on the passenger’s side by a 2011 BMW 335i, traveling at a rate of approximately 54 miles per hour. That car pushed Melanie’s Subaru for 22 yards before it came to a stop.
Unlike vehicles in accidents on television or in motion pictures, real cars do not explode in flames whenever they are struck. In fact, anytime a vehicle does catch fire it is because the fuel line is ruptured and something ignites the gasoline underneath the damaged car. Unfortunately for Melanie Mason, that was the case in this accident.
Her body had been so badly burned, according to the written account in the Courier-News, that identification could not be made even with dental records. Instead shreds of clothing and a partially melted wedding band were used.
There had been a funeral, as Virginia Fontaine had told Ms. Washburn and me, but all that had been buried was a small urn with some of Melanie’s ashes and her engagement ring, which she had not been wearing at the time of the accident. The melted wedding band was kept by Leon Rabinski.
I decided to seek out a photograph of Melanie Mason. Because the picture Virginia Fontaine had shown us was of her husband getting into an automobile with an open passenger door and no visible person on that side of the car. I had never seen her face. A quick Google search—the simplest kind of internet research—would provide that view, although I knew facial features were not something especially enlightening to me.
Unfortunately, it quickly became obvious that Melanie Mason was not an uncommon name. Even when I added the middle name I’d found in the obituaries (Samantha), the field of photographs was not narrowed by much. I would have to ask Peter Belson or Anthony Deane if either of them had a photograph, vintage or otherwise.
In the meantime I decided to sift through the few hard copy documents I had on my desk. I had brought any paper articles I had in the Questions Answered office home because I knew I would be working on this question tonight, and I had printed out a few at home in previous evening sessions.
There was precious little of note in the small stack to my right hand side. A copy of the incorporation form for Fontaine and Fontaine showed nothing I did not already know. The medical examiner’s report on William Klein’s death reported a finding of considerable blunt trauma consistent with a fall from the height of the fire escape and did not suggest foul play. Anthony Deane’s birth certificate proved only that he had been born twenty-nine years earlier and that his parents were Estella Llewellyn Deane and Peter Deane of Denville, New Jersey. That information seemed to have no relevance to the question at hand.
When I lifted that sheet, however, I found something I had not expected. A single sheet of paper, smaller than the standard copy size I use in my printer, folded in half vertically and a light green shade, had been inserted into the pile. I did not recognize it and had no idea how it had been included in my work stack. Before touching it I put on a pair of latex gloves from a box I keep in my closet to avoid contaminating the paper if it turned out to be evidence in a criminal matter like the death of William Klein or Brett Fontaine.
Using a pair of tweezers from my desk drawer I carefully examined the paper. Because it was folded with nothing written on what was now its “front,” there was little information. There was no watermark or random ink blots on the outside of the sheet. The only data, if there were any at all, would be found by unfolding the prepared message. I hoped there would be some writing inside.
The tweezers might make an indentation if I closed them firmly enough to open the sheet so I relied on my fingers in the gloves to do so. And I was rewarded with a handwritten note on the inside of the green paper.
It read: Meet me at the Hillsdale Cemetery in Scotch Plains at nine thirty tonight. MM.
MM? Out loud I whispered, “Melanie Mason?”
nineteen
“Where in the cemetery?” Mike the taxicab driver asked. “The place is over a hundred acres. That’s a lot of ground to cover.”
“One hundred and twenty-five acres,” I said, having done some research on the facility before calling Mike to ask if he could drive me to the spot. “And I believe I know where to look. Melanie Mason’s grave is on the eastern side of the cemetery.”
There was no explanation of the initials MM on the green note I had discovered in my stack. Of course I did not believe Melanie Mason herself had left the note, but clearly someone wanted me to believe she had done so, possibly to deflect suspicion. It would be interesting to find out who, if anyone, would meet me at the designated spot.
Mike had initially been reluctant to make the thirty-minute drive to Scotch Plains after a full day of driving the taxicab and I was about to call Ms. Washburn to ask her to fill in. But when he heard I was intending to have a rendezvous with a mysterious figure claiming to be a dead woman, he said I should ask no one but him for transportation. The bulge in his jacket indicated he had thought to bring his handgun with him. I knew there was a shotgun well concealed in the cargo area of the Prius he had converted into a taxicab.
I was especially glad he had decided to accompany me because the cemetery officially closed to public visitation at four thirty p.m. This led me to wonder why the person who had left the mysterious note in my packet would have chosen a much later hour for our meeting. Mike, luckily, knew of a back entrance he said was used for delivery of equipment and supplies that would be open at night. Funerals tend to take place in the morning, so many such deliveries are made during off-hours to prepare for the next day’s events. Mike had turned off the headlights on his taxicab and we had driven through the open gate without incident. Then he had maneuvered us, according to an interior map I had downloaded, toward the area of Melanie Mason’s grave.
“I’ll head in that direction, but do you have a more specific area in mind?” Mike asked.
“Yes. I have the plot number. I can guide you once we are in the area.”
It had taken us approximately six minutes to find the correct area. Once there we looked at the plot but the car path was to
o far from the graves to make out any names carved into the headstones. Mike turned off the engine but switched on the headlights to illuminate the immediate area. There were no lights on in the cemetery itself.
I wondered why Ms. Washburn and her friends had thought such a place was an appropriate spot to enjoy themselves as teenagers but no obvious advantages came to mind.
“What do you think?” he asked me.
“I don’t see anyone standing at any of the graves,” I answered. “I suppose we should get closer.”
Mike followed me as I approached the designated area where Melanie Mason’s grave was located. He turned off the headlights on his taxicab before we made our approach saying he wanted to preserve the energy in the battery. We had brought flashlights with us that were more powerful and reliable than those contained in our smartphones.
“What’s the map say?” Mike asked. I had learned to accept the use of the word say when discussing printed material despite its inaccuracy. It was probably less practical to expect the common usage to change due to logic than to turn one’s attention to more consequential issues.
“I am following it to the site,” I told him. “If you follow me it should take only another minute or two.”
Indeed, within forty-eight seconds we were standing in front of a nondescript tombstone marked Melanie Samantha Mason. It offered the years of her birth and death and included a quote suggesting that those who die reach a more satisfactory level of existence afterward. It was not terribly enlightening.
“This must be the spot the person referred to in the green note,” I said. I did not want to reach for my iPhone, although I did pat my front pocket to reassure myself of its presence. I worry about losing important objects I have obtained and resisted purchasing a cellular telephone for years until Ms. Washburn had convinced me I could be counted on to retain it. So far she had been correct. “What time does your phone indicate?” I asked Mike.
He knew I expected accuracy and not an estimate. “Nine twenty-eight,” he said.
“Well, whatever is supposed to happen will happen in two minutes.”
Mike, behind me, sounded more tense than usual. “How do you think they snuck the note into your take-home pile?” he asked.
“The sheaf of papers is kept on my desk during office hours and then comes home with me in a folder every night,” I said. I had given the matter some thought but had not reached a definitive conclusion. “It had to have been someone who was in the Questions Answered office today or in Ms. Washburn’s car on the way home tonight.”
“Well, you’d have seen anyone in the car,” Mike said. “Who besides you and Janet was in the office today?”
That was the puzzling part. “No one.”
Mike remained silent. I saw the beam from his flashlight sweep the area.
“Perhaps there are further instructions on the gravestone itself,” I said, musing aloud but also to explain to Mike, who thinks of himself as my protector in dangerous situations, why I was approaching the grave to examine it more closely.
I was only a few feet from the stone when a voice, from an indeterminate direction, became audible in the area. It was a woman’s voice and not one I had heard before.
“Samuel Hoenig.” The tone, if I was interpreting it correctly, was conversational. Whoever this woman might be, she was attempting to attract my attention and not to threaten me. Nonetheless I heard Mike’s feet rustling as he turned in a full circle with his flashlight trying to locate the speaker.
“I am Samuel Hoenig,” I said, feeling it was not necessary to introduce myself and choosing instead merely to identify myself so she would not mistake Mike for the person she was addressing. “Who is speaking?”
“I am Melanie Mason,” the voice said.
I saw no reason to pretend I believed that. “You are not,” I answered. “Melanie Mason is dead.”
“Yes. I am.”
The woman was not speaking in long enough sentences for me to accurately locate the source of the sound. Had remote speakers been set up in this area? Was some technological device projecting the voice from a higher elevation nearby? I scanned the area above our heads for 360 degrees with my flashlight and saw no such point that made sense as an origination spot.
“You are asking us to believe that you are speaking from literally beyond your grave?” I asked.
“I don’t care what you believe,” the voice said. “I am who I am.”
Mike moved closer to me. “Do you see anything?” he asked.
Clearly, he was asking whether I had managed to find anything relevant to our situation. He knew I was capable of sight. “Nothing that helps,” I answered.
“Who’s your friend?” the woman’s voice said.
I ignored the question because I felt it was best not to give the person or people behind this dramatic event any more information than was necessary. “I assume you are the person who placed the note in my folder today,” I said. “What was your purpose in doing so?”
“He’s cute,” she continued. Was the voice prerecorded and therefore incapable of dealing with unexpected responses?
“Why did you set up this meeting?” I insisted.
“You’re investigating Brett’s murder,” the voice said. I could not determine if that was an answer to my question or another predetermined recording. The pattern of speech was not personal. Still, the question about Mike made me think it was more probable the voice was operating from a remote location with a view, however dim, of the gravesite.
“That is the reason?” I asked. I noted that Mike had not spoken except in a hushed tone since the person claiming to be Melanie Mason had made herself known. He is a keen observer but does not care to participate until needed. “Why is my research into Mr. Fontaine’s death important to you?”
“Because I killed him.”
That seemed unlikely. “You purport to be a woman who died in a vehicular incident three years ago, and you then say you murdered Brett Fontaine this week,” I said. “How is that physically possible?”
“I’m a ghost,” the voice said.
“There is no such thing as a ghost,” I said. “That is not a physical possibility. Tell me where you murdered Brett Fontaine, if you are going to insist that is something you did.”
There was a pause of eight seconds. “I don’t need to tell you anything,” was the eventual reply.
“You don’t know where he died because you didn’t kill him,” I suggested. “Why don’t you reveal yourself so we can discuss this face-to-face?” Actually, the last thing I would have wanted was to look Melanie Mason—or whoever was playing her in this fiction—in the face. But the expression was valid and appropriate for use under these circumstances. If the person did arrive, I would have had to quell my unease and look at her directly simply to store the image in my mind.
But that was not about to happen. “I can make myself visible when I desire it,” the voice said. “But I do not desire it now. I killed Brett so he could be with me forever.”
This conversation was becoming increasingly absurd. “You can make yourself visible merely by leaving your current hiding space and walking to this spot,” I told the voice. “I have no desire to play a role in your Gothic melodrama. Come and speak to me and we will settle whatever differences you believe we have.”
“We have differences.” That was certainly vague.
I saw Mike the taxicab driver, eyes still wary of the surroundings, drop to his knees to examine an area of grass approximately six inches to the right of Melanie Mason’s headstone.
“Then come out and discuss them,” I said. It seemed the best strategy, or at least the one that would result in irritating the woman pretending to be Melanie Mason to the point that she might make a rash decision and reveal herself.
“I will not play your game,” the voice said. “You are warned. Stop investigat
ing Brett’s murder.”
“Why should I?” I said in an attempt to prod her further.
“Because if you don’t, I will kill someone close to you.”
Mike looked up quickly and got to his feet, an expression that implies one has left his feet behind, which was certainly not the case. He stood. His flashlight beam resumed its slow 360-degree sweep of the area. With his free hand he gestured that I should continue to engage the woman we heard in conversation.
“I don’t understand why the research into Mr. Fontaine’s murder would upset you,” I said as Mike walked to a position six feet from Melanie Mason’s grave and continued his flashlight sweep. “If you are the ghost of Melanie Mason and you did indeed kill him, there is no authority that can possibly threaten you. Why does it worry you that we will find the truth?”
I believe it is important to reiterate that I did not believe this woman to be a ghost because there is no evidence that such beings exist. I was using her own statement against her in this argument.
“It doesn’t worry me,” the voice said. “It makes me angry. You don’t want to see me when I’m angry.”
“I can’t see you now,” I pointed out. “If you are a ghost and you wanted to threaten me, why was it necessary for me to come here? Why didn’t you come to my home?”
Mike looked at me and shook his head violently. I realized then I might have planted an idea in the woman’s mind that I would prefer not be there.
“I don’t need to come to you. I can kill your girlfriend without coming to you.”
That suggestion did not immediately frighten me. It was possible the woman playing the role of Melanie Mason was, as the expression goes, bluffing.
“I have no girlfriend,” I said.
“Oh yes, you do,” she answered. “She shows up everywhere you go. I was expecting her tonight instead of the cute guy. What’s his name, again?”
“What is your favorite Beatles song?” Changing the subject seemed a worthwhile pursuit at this moment.
The Question of the Dead Mistress Page 14
