The Question of the Dead Mistress

by E. J. Copperman

  “Yes.”

  “Okay. I traced the receiver you pulled out of the ground and found the compatible sending unit from the same company. As far as I can tell, since the time of the accident I worked on Route 22, there have been only three sets like that sold to customers in this state, all online.”

  I did not want to draw attention to myself but felt I should communicate to Palumbo that I had heard and comprehended what he’d told me. “Yes,” I mumbled.

  “I don’t know all the people you’ve been looking at for this murder you told me about, but I wrote down the names of the three people who bought the stuff. The paper is in my left hand. I’m going to leave it on the counter when I order. Don’t say anything and don’t look at me or signal me. Just order whatever you want and pick up the paper. Let me know later on if it helps.”

  The customer in front of Palumbo walked away and he advanced to the counter. He put both hands out palms down and leaned on the counter as he ordered a large black coffee and a bran muffin. When the employee working there walked off to collect his order Palumbo did not turn to face me but he moved his left hand. A small folded piece of white paper was left on the flat surface.

  Palumbo paid for his order, leaving me as the next customer in line, and walked out of the store. This was perplexing for me because I did not want to purchase anything available at the Dunkin’ Donuts outlet. The employee, wearing a headset to hear orders from the drive-through window, looked at me. “Yes?”

  I closed my hand around the folded paper Palumbo had left on the counter. “I … I … ” I could not think of a socially appropriate way to end the encounter.

  From my right I heard Reuben Hoenig’s voice. “He’ll have an iced decaf, light with one pink sweetener, and a glazed.” I turned to see Reuben standing directly to my side as the employee nodded and walked off to fulfill his order.

  “What are you doing here?” I asked. “We had agreed you’d wait in the car.”

  Reuben made a face to indicate he did not think much of that agreement. “I wanted an iced decaf and a glazed.”

  The Dunkin’ Donuts employee brought back Reuben’s order, took his money, and thanked him when Reuben left a dollar in the tip jar. I tried to determine the best way to clean my hand after having rested it on the counter.

  I insisted he sit at a table to eat and drink before getting back into Mother’s car. I would have been petrified with fear if he’d attempted to do either of those things while driving. “So whose name did he write down?” Reuben asked once we were seated. I put two paper napkins down under each elbow on which I was leaning.

  “You knew what Officer Palumbo said?” I asked.

  “Sure. I was standing right behind you. You just didn’t notice me.”

  I was beginning to feel like a man whose powers of observation were inferior to most. Given that Ms. Washburn had recently implied I was something of a liability during certain interviews, my self-esteem was not very high at this moment. I felt a slight tremor of frustration in my neck and concentrated on halting it.

  “So what does the paper say?” Reuben was nothing if not direct.

  I opened the tight fist on my left hand and extracted Officer Palumbo’s note, folded into the size of a credit card. First I looked in every direction around the Dunkin’ Donuts to be sure no one who might have an interest in Brett Fontaine’s death or Officer Palumbo’s work might be watching. Most people in the establishment were buying coffee and leaving immediately thereafter.

  I placed the paper on the table which was doubly useful in that it acted as a barrier. I unfolded it carefully and smoothed it out on the surface. There were, as Officer Palumbo had indicated, three names on the list, each with an address and phone number supplied.

  The first and third were names of people unfamiliar to me, although I made a note to research each one when I returned to the Questions Answered office. But I did believe immediately I would find nothing of significance to the murder of Brett Fontaine attached to either of those people.

  The second name on Officer Palumbo’s list was that of Leon Rabinski.

  “Isn’t that the guy we’re going to see next?” Reuben asked me. I nodded. “Well. That conversation just got more interesting.” He sat back and took a bite of his doughnut, looking unusually pleased with himself.

  twenty-six

  “I don’t know anything about audio equipment,” Leon Rabinski said.

  Although he’d been reluctant to have a second conversation with me—and had in fact asked if “the pretty blonde” would be a more suitable representative of my business—Rabinski had agreed when I had promised not to ask him personal questions about his marriage to Melanie Mason. He had not delineated what might constitute a personal question, however, and that was making me slightly anxious because my own definition might not match Rabinski’s.

  Reuben Hoenig had offered to accompany me as a “liaison,” but I had declined his suggestion. One does not usually bring a parent to a business meeting. Mother told me that.

  “And yet there are records of you purchasing this very specialized type of electronic component designed to send and receive audio at a remote location,” I reminded him. “If you did not buy it, how do you account for the online records?” I felt it was not personal to ask Rabinski about the sound equipment as long as I did not mention it was used at his late wife’s gravesite.

  “I don’t know.” Rabinski crossed his legs, which can sometimes be seen as a defensive gesture. “Maybe someone hacked my credit card.”

  We were sitting in the den of Rabinski’s home on a tree-lined street in East Brunswick. The large windows of the room, which might at one time have been a screened back porch, overlooked a small area of woods and, in the distance, a pond. Occasionally the quack of a rather insistent duck could be heard. It was very distracting.

  “Were there any other suspect charges made on a credit card of yours during that period?” I asked. “According to the documents I have, it would have been during the month of September three years ago.” A quick check of the information Officer Palumbo had supplied on my iPhone during the ride to Rabinski’s house had supplied most of the records available on the purchase in question.

  “I don’t remember.” Rabinski was looking through the window, probably trying to locate the verbose duck. “It was a few years ago.”

  “Do you remember having to report any fraudulent charges to your credit card company any time in the past?” I asked. Rabinski’s denials and the sound of the duck were raising my level of irritation, which is always a concern for someone like me.

  “Look, Mr. Hoenig. I don’t know what you’re talking about and I don’t really want to go on talking about Melanie and her death if I don’t have to. And I don’t have to. So why don’t you just go home and I’ll get back to what I was doing?” Rabinski nodded toward a desk in the opposite corner where his computer was open and running, although at the moment the screensaver function had been activated. It was randomly displaying photographs, clearly from Rabinski’s own collection, as many of the images included his face.

  “Mr. Rabinski, I agreed not to ask you about your marriage because I have no desire to make you uncomfortable.” That was true in principle; in fact I did not especially care if Rabinski felt awkward or not. It was simply going to be less productive a conversation if he decided to stop speaking at all. “So please, if I have crossed a boundary, let me know and I will not do so again.”

  I was well aware my line of inquiry had done no such thing. This was a tactic, sometimes successful, meant to make the person being questioned feel more at ease to facilitate more revealing responses. I did not know if it would work in Rabinski’s case, but since he was attempting to ask me to leave it seemed unlikely to do any harm.

  “It’s not that I’m annoyed. I just don’t have anything that can help you and this feels a lot like a waste or your time and mine.�
��

  There are certain indicators when a person is lying. I am not especially expert in this study but I have done some research on the subject and Dr. Mancuso has pointed out a few during our weekly sessions. Still, there are some that are particularly obvious.

  Rabinski was scratching his nose.

  While it is possible to do so for reasons other than to cover up an untruth, with no noticeable insect bite or other skin abrasion on the bridge of the nose, scratching that area repeatedly is one of the more recognizable signs of lying.

  This led to unspoken questions: If Rabinski was not being truthful about the audio equipment at Melanie Mason’s grave, why was he doing so and what was he concealing? The other thing to consider was how to best coerce him into giving up this strategy and telling the truth. I will confess to wishing for a moment that Ms. Washburn was there to consult.

  There didn’t seem to be many options and people become uncomfortable with long gaps in a conversation. Rabinski looked at me and asked, “So are we done here?”

  “I don’t believe so,” I answered. “I think you are lying. Leaving before I get a satisfactory answer would be unproductive and frustrating. So please. If you would simply explain the purchase of the electronics I’ve mentioned, I believe I can leave you to return to your daily activities.”

  As I spoke the word lying I saw Rabinski’s eyes widen. He sputtered, something that is not usually heard in conversation. It took him six seconds to compose himself after I had finished speaking.

  “I think we’ve finished our talk,” he said. He stood up.

  I sat where I was.

  “Mr. Hoenig, I hate to be rude but I will have to insist that you leave,” Rabinski said. He folded his arms and looked toward the door. But I did not move. “Please. Now.”

  “I think it would be a key strategic mistake for me to leave without an explanation. May I see records of your credit cards for the past two years? That would show any activity that might have some relevance to this question.” I had realized that sitting as still as possible and letting Rabinski be the more agitated party in the situation was having an effect. Whether it would prove fruitful was not yet clear.

  It became more understandable a moment later when Rabinski exhaled with some drama and dropped his arms to his side. “Okay, I bought the speakers and the transmitter,” he said. “But I was just buying it for a friend and didn’t use it myself. I don’t even know how to use it, to tell you the truth.”

  At that moment I believed he was indeed being honest. But he was not being totally forthcoming. “Who is the friend?” I asked.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “You said you bought the equipment on behalf of a friend. Who is the friend who asked you to do so?”

  Rabinski pursed his lips. “Mr. Hoenig, in the interest of absolute honesty, this is what I will tell you: There is no chance at all you’ll be getting that information from me. If a crime was committed by purchasing that stuff, I’m guilty. Call the cops. If not, it’s time for you to go. Believe me, I’m not going to tell you more than that.”

  “Did you receive a substantial insurance payment after your wife’s death?” I asked.

  Rabinski spoke very slowly and through clenched teeth. “I said I’m not going to tell you anything more.”

  “Your percentage in the ownership of Fontaine and Fontaine clearly increased after Brett Fontaine’s death, and there are reports that the company is about to be purchased for a very large sum of money,” I pointed out. “You seem to have benefitted financially from Brett Fontaine’s death.”

  “That’s a fortunate result of an unfortunate event,” Rabinski said. “Are you accusing me of something?”

  “I am not. Were you having an affair with Virginia Fontaine?”

  “I’m not going to speak to you anymore.”

  I believed him so I left.

  When I settled into the passenger seat of my mother’s car, Reuben looked at me with an expectant expression. “So?”

  That was an unspecific question. “I don’t understand,” I said.

  “What did he tell you?” Reuben asked.

  “Mr. Rabinski admitted to purchasing the audio equipment but he would not reveal the person who asked him to do so.” I could not pinpoint the catalyst for the emotion but I found myself feeling somehow embarrassed over my failure to name Rabinski’s friend. Saying that to Reuben had been difficult and I was not able to understand why.

  “Who do you think it was?” Reuben asked.

  “My best speculation would be that it is a woman and someone with whom Mr. Rabinski might be having a romantic relationship, but that is only speculation,” I told him. “I do not have enough facts yet.”

  “That seems to be the problem, for sure.” Reuben sat back and looked through the windshield in thought. “Do you want me to go in there and squeeze him?”

  How Reuben giving Rabinski a hug would produce any information was a mystery to my sensibility. “No,” I answered. “Please just drive me to the Questions Answered office.”

  “Sure? I can be really good at persuading people.” Reuben had worked for some unsavory people during the years he’d been away. I chose not to consider what he might have meant by his remark.

  “Please. Just drive.”

  twenty-seven

  Reuben had suggested stopping for lunch but I was anxious to get back to my office, to confer with Ms. Washburn and especially to avoid having lunch alone with Reuben again. Once in the office (to which Ms. Washburn had not yet returned), I dedicated myself to a search for Anthony Deane. I’d found a slight glimmer of hope by the time the bells over the entrance to the office rang and Ms. Washburn walked in.

  “Virginia Fontaine is a tough cookie,” she said immediately. I understood her statement was a metaphor but I was not clear on its current relevance.

  “She is our client,” I reminded Ms. Washburn. “If she is withholding information from us, we can exercise the clause in our contract that allows us to sever the relationship.”

  “It’s not that bad,” she said as she hung her jacket on the back of her chair and sat at her desk. “But I don’t understand why she doesn’t want to tell me about her ownership of the business. Why would it go to Leon Rabinski and not Virginia?”

  “Usually when someone tries very hard not to answer a question it is because that person believes the answer will be somehow damaging,” I said. I was calling a web page up on my screen and found what I had hoped would be there.

  “Yeah, but if she’s hiding something, why did she come to us in the first place?” Ms. Washburn asked. “She could easily keep things quiet by not asking for help at all.”

  I took a screenshot of the page. “You assume she’s hiding something that might implicate her in Brett Fontaine’s murder,” I said. “She might have things to hide in other areas that are equally dangerous or embarrassing.”

  Ms. Washburn shook her head. “It doesn’t make sense.”

  “Look here.” I pointed at the screen. “I might have found a way to locate Anthony Deane.”

  Ms. Washburn stood and walked to my right side to see my computer display, which I angled to better accommodate her viewpoint. This was one of the random moments that occurred more frequently now when I felt the urge to kiss Ms. Washburn. But we had agreed that would no longer happen in the Questions Answered office so I redirected my thoughts toward the screen.

  “What is this?” she asked. “It looks like they’re trying to sell me tires.”

  “You are not wrong,” I assured her. “This is the website for a company devoted to that pursuit. It is based, as you can see, in Darby Township, Pennsylvania. That is roughly a ninety-minute drive from here.”

  “Close enough to come for Brett Fontaine’s memorial service,” Ms. Washburn said. She was following the same line of thought as I had to reach this web page.


  “If one clicks on the About Us link for Darby Tire, a list of the company’s top personnel is presented. See here.” I moved the cursor on my screen to a particular spot.

  “Tony Deane,” Ms. Washburn read.

  “Precisely. By focusing on businesses within easy driving distance and using various nicknames for Anthony, I was able to find two Tony Deanes. The other was a woman living in Morris County and a photograph of her confirmed she is not the person for whom we are searching.”

  Ms. Washburn read the description aloud. “Tony Deane started as a mechanic at Darby Tire ten years ago and is now the marketing manager for the company. Tony has helped us grow the business from one location to four in a very short time.” She looked at me. “There’s a phone number for his direct line.”

  “I think this might be better handled face-to-face,” I said. The Skype interview with Peter Belson had left me feeling that I had missed something and I did not want to repeat that error. “Is it possible for you to drive to Darby tomorrow?”

  Ms. Washburn said she could do so and we agreed to start out as early as possible. With Ms. Washburn staying in my home it was possible to save up to seventeen minutes in the morning that would normally be consumed in our separate commutes to the Questions Answered office. I avoided pointing that out because Ms. Washburn had seemed less than enthusiastic about spending another night in the house. For reasons I couldn’t pinpoint, I was much more secure having her under the same roof.

  “Have you had any luck finding other high school classmates of Debbie Sampras and Brett Fontaine?” I asked.

  Ms. Washburn, who had bent over slightly to observe my monitor, stood up. “Yes,” she said. “There were two intersections in the friends area of Debbie and Brett’s Facebook pages. One is a woman who lives in Seattle, Marlyn Beebe. But the other is a guy not far from here, in Westfield. His name is Neil Betts.”

  “What do we know about Neil Betts, as Reuben Hoenig would ask?” That was my attempt at humor. Ms. Washburn seemed to understand because she chuckled lightly.