The Question of the Dead Mistress

by E. J. Copperman

  It was a bold stratagem but apparently an effective one. “He’s in the offices, around the corner,” Dave said quietly. He pointed in the direction to his own left, which I assumed indicated where one would find the company’s offices. “Second floor.”

  “Thank you,” I said. Ms. Washburn looked up at me and smiled as we left the building.

  “I haven’t been hiding,” Anthony Deane told us.

  Ms. Washburn and I were sitting in the cramped office that Deane called his own. The door was closed at the moment because Deane didn’t want others to hear the conversation, which I understood. It was not related to the tire business. Ms. Washburn was obviously assessing Deane, as she had never talked with him before. I knew him from the memorial service, but this was a different version of the man.

  At the memorial Anthony Deane had cast himself as the outsider, wearing jeans at the chapel and letting his long hair hang down. Here he was being careful to appear businesslike, his hair neatly pulled back in what is unfortunately being called a “man-bun,” and wearing khakis and a denim button-down shirt with the company logo on the left chest.

  “It took us some time to track you down, and the last time we met you told me your name was Patrick Henry,” I pointed out. “You said you were Brett Fontaine’s brother when you were simply a member of his fraternity. Those are not the actions of a man who wishes to be especially accessible.”

  Deane laughed. “I like you,” he said. “You say what you mean.”

  “But you don’t,” Ms. Washburn told Deane. “You’ve been doing nothing but talking around the point since the first time you talked to Samuel. How about a straight answer for once?”

  Deane smiled and laced his fingers behind his head. “I wouldn’t count on that.”

  “You know something about Brett Fontaine’s murder and you’re withholding it,” Ms. Washburn countered. “We can let the police know that.”

  Deane’s face indicated he wasn’t especially concerned about that possibility. “You can.”

  “You went so far as to say you were Brett Fontaine’s brother,” Ms. Washburn said. “Didn’t you care at all about him?”

  At that Deane looked angry. “Don’t tell me what I cared about,” he said. “Brett was my friend and yes, my brother. If I could I would personally beat the person who killed him to a pulp. So don’t you dare tell me I didn’t care.”

  “Then why don’t you help us?” I asked, attempting to steer the conversation back into a useful direction. “Tell me why you said it was significant that I don’t believe in ghosts, that it was all I needed to know. Is it because Melanie Mason is still alive?”

  Deane was still glaring, but he turned his attention from Ms. Washburn to me. “You know about that?” he said.

  “We do now,” Ms. Washburn said, grinning a little too broadly in my opinion.

  Deane dropped his hands to his sides and sagged a bit in his chair. “Look. I don’t know who killed Brett, okay? But I do know that whole ghost thing was crap. Melanie didn’t die in the car crash. She was just trying to get some money for that husband of hers. I don’t think she liked him that much but he was ambitious and she didn’t want to file for divorce because he was jealous or something. Said he’d kill her if she left him so she figured she’d just be dead. He’d get the insurance and she’d get a new identity. But I never saw or heard from her again after that. All because of her husband.”

  Ms. Washburn blinked twice. “Leon Rabinski?”

  “That’s what I was told.”

  I saw Ms. Washburn look at me. I think she wanted to exchange some sort of facial expression, but all I was feeling was a sense of confirmation. “Who told you that?” I asked Deane.

  He did not resume his relaxed pose but he stopped glaring and looked through the window. There was nothing to see but the building next door but Deane appeared to find it fascinating. “I really can’t say.”

  “I don’t see why not,” I said.

  “Because I was asked not to and I’m not going to.”

  Ms. Washburn considered that for a moment and then looked at me, commanding my attention. “He’s not going to tell us, but we can certainly guess,” she said. “The only people in touch with Tony here were Debbie Sampras and Peter Belson. Debbie thinks Tony is the one who killed Brett and William Klein because he was in love with Virginia LoBianco Klein Fontaine.”

  Deane actually sputtered and sat forward in his chair, almost spilling a cup of water he had on his desk. “Debbie Sampras thinks I killed both of Virginia’s husbands? She thinks I’m in love with Ginny?” He laughed. “That’s so far off base.”

  “You’re not in love with Ginny Fontaine?” Ms. Washburn asked. She smiled at me privately because her gambit had proven successful.

  “Of course not.” Deane spread his hands on his desk as if to push himself up to a standing position but left them there. “I’m gay. I came out fifteen years ago. If you like you can ask anybody who works here about my husband, Gary.” He smiled at me with an air of triumph.

  “Why would Debbie think that?” Ms. Washburn asked. “Is this something from before you came out?”

  “You would have to ask Debbie.”

  “We will, believe me,” I said. “So that means the person who gave you this information is Peter Belson.”

  Deane merely smiled and said nothing.

  “Are you in touch with Melanie Mason?” I asked.

  Deane, as neurotypical liars often do, looked away. “Of course not. She’s supposed to be dead and I wasn’t supposed to know anything more than that. I told you, I never heard from her again.”

  “You are not telling us the truth,” I said.

  His head pivoted quickly and he tried very hard to look at me angrily. “You calling me a liar?” Deane asked.

  “On that point, yes I am.”

  Ms. Washburn looked at me as she often does, questioning my motivation or my choice of action. She believes in my abilities but is sometimes taken by surprise when I do not attempt to act like a neurotypical.

  “Then I’m going to have to ask you to leave my office,” Anthony Deane said.

  Ms. Washburn and I stood. I opened the office door and we left without proper social cues indicating we were leaving. I thought that was an effective way to create a tense mood in Deane.

  The building was not large and Deane’s office was on the second floor, easily visible from the street. When Ms. Washburn and I reached the most logical vantage point I asked her, “What is he doing?”

  “He’s on his cell phone and he doesn’t look happy,” she answered.

  That was exactly what I’d expected. “I imagine we’ll be hearing from the ghost of Melanie Mason soon,” I said.

  thirty-one

  Neil Betts called Ms. Washburn not long after we arrived back at the Questions Answered office. I had not been able to exercise yet this morning and was trying to make up for the lost time when I heard her say, “Hello, Mr. Betts.”

  Ms. Washburn conducted the conversation while I completed my thirteen trips around the office, and I was able only to hear the occasional question as I passed her. But she was certainly capable of handling the situation and I waited until I had purchased a bottle of spring water and was seated in my office chair before asking about her progress.

  “Betts said he couldn’t confirm much about Brett Fontaine, whom he doesn’t remember all that well and wasn’t on the class Facebook page,” she answered, referring to notes she had typed into a file on her computer. “But he remembers Debbie Sampras and has kept in pretty close touch with her all these years.”

  “We are going to see Ms. Sampras later today.”

  “Three o’clock.” Ms. Washburn confirmed the time I had already committed to memory.

  “What does Mr. Betts have to say about her?” I took a small sip of the water. It is better after exercising not
to take large amounts of liquid even if one’s natural inclination is to do so.

  “He says Debbie was the class gossip and she liked to stir the pot,” Ms. Washburn said.

  “I am not familiar with that expression.” It is comforting that I don’t have to hide my ignorance of some idioms from Ms. Washburn.

  Ms. Washburn chewed on the end of a pen, so I averted my gaze. “It means she likes to be the center of attention by creating situations that might be dramatic.”

  “Like a playwright?”

  “No. Like a meddler.”

  That I understood. “Very well, then. So was Mr. Betts suggesting that information we get from Debbie Sampras might not be reliable?”

  “I think he was suggesting we might want to confirm anything she says with another credible source, as the journalists say.” Ms. Washburn put down the pen, which I heard her rest on the surface of her desk. I looked in her direction. “I’m saying that just because Debbie tells us Tony Deane must be the killer is no reason to start fitting him for a prison jumpsuit.”

  Before I could mention that prison attire is not tailored for each inmate the bells over our entry door sounded and I looked up, as did Ms. Washburn. Virginia Fontaine was walking into the Questions Answered office.

  She approached my desk, bypassing Ms. Washburn’s, with a purposeful gait. As I stood to greet our client she held up a hand defensively, palm out. “Don’t start, Mr. Hoenig,” she said. “I’m here to withdraw my offer. I don’t want you to look into Brett’s murder anymore.”

  I began to wonder if my initial analysis of the situation had been in error; perhaps Anthony Deane was calling Virginia Fontaine after Ms. Washburn and I had left his office. Was everything Deane had told us untrue? Could he possibly have been involved romantically with Virginia and not a man named Gary?

  “What has led you to that decision?” I asked. “When a client decides to end our agreement it makes sense for us to understand if what we have been doing is somehow unsatisfactory. That way we can avoid making the same mistake again.”

  I gestured toward the client chair in front of my desk as Ms. Washburn walked over to join the consultation, but Virginia shook her head and remained standing. “I don’t think I’m the main suspect anymore and I think we can leave it to the police,” she said. “I just don’t see the need for a separate agency to be looking into this matter.”

  Her choice of words was odd, which indicated she might have rehearsed the speech ahead of time. I have done the same thing when confronted with a pending situation I found uncomfortable. I find most pending situations uncomfortable. Virginia calling her husband’s death this matter was especially jarring, although I could not immediately analyze its relevance.

  “I can understand your decision, but we have made considerable progress and expect to have an answer to your question within twenty-four hours,” I said.

  “Twenty-four—” Ms. Washburn began. Apparently my suggestion had come as a surprise to her, which was understandable.

  “It doesn’t matter,” Virginia said. “I don’t want you to go forward. I’ll pay your fee.” She reached into her purse and pulled out a wallet. She searched for a specific credit card.

  I did not bother to inform her, as we had specifically stated in our client intake form, that Questions Answered does not accept credit cards. We are simply not equipped to do so. “That will not be necessary,” I told Virginia. “If we do not answer your question, we do not require payment.”

  Ms. Washburn must surely have expected that response from me, given that it has always been my policy. If the client no long wants the question answered, we will cease work on the research and there will be no charge because there has been no answer provided. Ms. Washburn has argued that our work is valuable and that we should bill by the hour as attorneys do, but I am still the proprietor and my initial decision has not been overturned. Still, now Ms. Washburn gasped a little as if what I’d said had been a surprise.

  Virginia stopped reaching for her credit card. “Really?” she asked.

  “That is our policy. I would advise against this, but the decision is yours.”

  She did not stop to rethink her statement. “Fine, then. You’ll stop trying to find out who killed Brett.”

  “If that is what you have concluded,” I answered.

  “Samuel,” Ms. Washburn said quietly. I looked at her but did not respond. There was nothing else to do.

  “That’s what I’ve concluded,” Virginia said.

  “You realize we will report any findings we’ve made to Detective Monroe,” Ms. Washburn said. “And we’ll have to tell him you asked us not to solve your husband’s murder. That might make you seem like a more logical suspect.”

  Virginia glanced at her and shrugged. “I’ll take my chances,” she said. She turned and walked out of the Questions Answered office while Ms. Washburn, mouth slightly open, watched her go.

  Once Virginia had gotten into her car and driven out of the parking lot of the strip mall where our office is located, Ms. Washburn rolled her desk chair closer to my desk and looked at me. “So what do we do now?” she asked.

  I looked up from my screen, which displayed a listing of people who had died in Leonia, New Jersey, in April of 1884. “I don’t understand,” I said. “We have been asked to stop researching Ms. Fontaine’s question. So we will stop researching that question and go back to the questions we were trying to answer before she hired us. You’ve done this before.”

  “Yeah, but this is a murder and her firing us came out of nowhere. Aren’t you curious about why she did that?” Ms. Washburn was looking at me intently, trying to convince me of something.

  “The subject matter of the question has no bearing on our policy, Ms. Washburn. The client is no longer employing us. We have no reason to continue working on her behalf.”

  There was a promising listing on my screen, a woman named Nathana Brookins who had been only thirty-four years old at her death. No cause was listed in the perfunctory obituary I had found. I wasn’t sure it was the one I was seeking, but Nathana certainly had all the necessary qualifications so far.

  “Doesn’t it seem to you that she might have fired us because we were getting too close to finding the killer?” Ms. Washburn asked. “That maybe she was the murderer after all?”

  “That is not our concern.” Nathana Brookins had been the wife of Richard T. Brookins for eleven years before her death. She had two children, a son named Richard Jr. and a daughter named Elizabeth.

  “Samuel, there are times I don’t get you at all. I understand how you’re thinking, but I can’t fathom that you don’t care.”

  I turned my attention back to Ms. Washburn and tried to consider, as Dr. Mancuso has urged, how she might be feeling. But the issue was so clear in my mind that her suggestion seemed irrational. “Ms. Fontaine has, as you said, fired us. Who would we be working for if we decided to continue with our research?”

  Ms. Washburn crossed her arms. “For Brett Fontaine,” she said.

  “I doubt he will be available to pay our bill.” Richard Brookins Jr. had married a woman named Samantha Taylor in 1902. They’d had no children. But Elizabeth Brookins, who married Francis Bensonhoff in 1905, had a son named Arthur.

  “Is that what this is about?” Ms. Washburn asked. “The money? Isn’t the question itself the reason you get involved? I’ve seen you turn down a hundred questions because you didn’t find them interesting and those people would have paid us. What is it about this question that makes you so quick to quit?”

  Tracing the lineage of Nathana Brookins was going to have to wait. I looked at Ms. Washburn. “This isn’t simply about money. It’s about the order of things. This is a business. If we start researching questions simply because we want to know the answers, we should do so during our free time, not while we are working here.”

  Ms. Washburn’s eyes narr
owed. “Really. What are you working on right now?”

  I brought up the email client on my screen. “I am reading through my emails,” I said. I don’t know why I did that, except that Ms. Washburn was about to find a hypocrisy I was perpetrating and I did not want to diminish myself in her eyes. That must have been the motivation.

  It didn’t matter because that is the moment my cellular phone rang.

  I did not find it unusual that the call was coming on my personal phone and not the landline we have at the Questions Answered office. That was particularly predictable when I saw the caller was Reuben Hoenig. I debated answering but could not summon an appropriate reason to ignore the call.

  “Hello?” I do not know why the greeting on a telephone is always presented as if it were a question, but that seems to be the norm.

  “Sorry to bother you,” Reuben responded. “But I think I’ve been taken hostage.”

  thirty-two

  “The only things we can be certain of about this question are that there are two factions who are trying to keep us from finding the answer, and they are not communicating with each other.”

  Ms. Washburn looked at me from the driver’s seat of her Kia Spectra and shook her head slightly. “Aren’t you the least bit worried about your father?” she asked.

  “There is no reason to worry about Reuben at this moment,” I told her. “He has been taken against his will and that is troublesome but I do not believe him to be in much danger at all right now. The kidnappers think he is their best bet to get us to abandon the question. What I don’t know is why they think we are so close to answering and how it will affect them negatively.”

  “But he’s so scared.” The light turned green so Ms. Washburn refocused on driving.

  Reuben had sounded shaken when he called; that was true. “I’m pretty sure they took me because of something you’re doing, Samuel,” he told me. “I can’t think of anything I’m doing that anybody would care about.”