The Question of the Dead Mistress

by E. J. Copperman

  It occurred to me that my mother might have discovered something about the women Reuben had known during the years he was away from New Jersey, but the idea that she would therefore have him abducted was absurd so I discarded it. “What happened, exactly?” I asked him.

  “I came out of the CVS and there was this van parked next to my car.” He meant my mother’s car but this didn’t seem the time to emphasize the distinction. “It had its back doors wide open and I was afraid I wouldn’t be able to back out of my space without hitting them. But I didn’t see anybody by the van. So I walked over to see if there was anyone in the back. As soon as I got there somebody put a dark canvas bag over my head and shoved me into the van.”

  “Did you see the person who attacked you?”

  Ms. Washburn, sitting next to me at our office workstations, widened her eyes with surprise. “What’s going on?” she asked. I could not answer and discuss the situation with Reuben at the same time so I made a rare choice and decided against responding to Ms. Washburn.

  “No,” Reuben answered. “I saw the inside of the van and then the inside of the canvas bag. It could have been anybody.”

  “Was it a man or a woman?” I asked.

  “You’re not listening. It could have been Kim Kardashian for all I know. I didn’t see anything. By the time I got this bag off my head they’d closed the doors of the van and locked it. All I can see is the inside of a van. It’s not very interesting.”

  “What about the voice of the person who took you?” I suggested. “Male or female?”

  “Nobody said anything. I was outside then I was in the van. I heard the doors shut. That’s it.”

  My best guess was that I could have found nine things in the back of an empty van that would be helpful in identifying it or finding a way out, but again there was no point in discussing that with Reuben. “Where are you now?” I said.

  He sounded exasperated. “I’m in the back of a van and it’s going somewhere. Every once in a while we turn and I lean one way or another. That’s it. That’s all the information I have.”

  The man was impossible to deal with. “Did you take note of the license plate number?”

  “What am I, a robot? I don’t remember every license number I see.”

  Ms. Washburn was suddenly at my side looking concerned. I did not feel especially tense; this was clearly not a very well considered plan. Anyone who believed they could influence my actions by taking Reuben simply wasn’t doing much research into the personalities involved.

  “All right,” I sighed. It was clear I wouldn’t be getting much information out of Reuben. “Have you called the police?” The idea that the kidnappers had left Reuben with his hands untied and his cellular phone in his pocket was another indication that we were not dealing with the most experienced professionals involved with this question. A theory was beginning to germinate in my mind.

  “And tell them what? That I got thrown in the back of a van but I have no idea where I am right now? I don’t think that’s going to help them find me much.”

  “No, I agree,” I said. “I believe I will be hearing from your abductors very soon and then we will have a plan of action. Conserve your battery power.” I disconnected the call.

  “Samuel!” Ms. Washburn shouted. “Did you say your father has been abducted?”

  “Yes.” I explained the situation to her with the meager information I had been given by Reuben. “The only thing to do now is to wait for a phone call from the person or people who took him. At the moment we don’t even have conclusive evidence that the question of Brett Fontaine’s murder is the reason Reuben was thrown in the van.”

  Ms. Washburn looked at me with an incredulous expression. “What other reason could somebody have to kidnap him?” she asked.

  “He has a rather checkered past,” I noted. “Any number of people might hold some grudge against him. But I agree that the Question of the Dead Mistress is most probably the cause of this abduction.”

  “We need to call your mother,” Ms. Washburn said.

  “There is no need. Reuben has his phone and he will contact her. No doubt my mother will be calling us within a matter of minutes. In the meantime, can you please look into the possibility that the homeless woman who vanished before Melanie Mason supposedly died was about the same age and height as Melanie?”

  “Samuel, your father has been kidnapped. Doesn’t that mean anything to you? I know that you have the same emotions as other people; why am I not seeing them right now?” Ms. Washburn was leaning over the edge of my desk to look into my eyes. I had never wanted to kiss her more.

  But I simply didn’t have an answer to give her. Reuben Hoenig meant very little to me emotionally, although Dr. Mancuso had recently been hinting—he never actually suggests anything—that I had issues with Reuben over his abandonment of my family that I had not completely resolved. That was valid, but it was not helping me at this moment.

  “I don’t know,” I said. It was the closest thing to an accurate answer I could offer.

  Now in the Kia Spectra Ms. Washburn found an appropriate time to speak but did not look in my direction. “What makes you think there are two separate groups involved with Brett Fontaine’s murder, and why do you think they’re not talking to each other?”

  “We saw Anthony Deane on the phone to someone as we left his office,” I said as Ms. Washburn continued driving. While I am not enthusiastic about talking to her while she drives, it is better than her talking to me. “Virginia Fontaine arrived at our office almost immediately upon our return to demand that we stop working on her question. Then Reuben was abducted. This leads me to a theory.”

  I thought that explained my thinking sufficiently but apparently Ms. Washburn would not have agreed. “I get the chronology,” she said when she had stopped behind a fifteen-year-old Buick letting a passenger in illegally in the middle of the road. “But how does that lead to all those conclusions?”

  “My reasoning is quite simple,” I told her. “I believe Anthony Deane was calling someone involved in this question as we left. Either it was Virginia Fontaine, whom he was informing that we had made some progress that could be damaging to her, or it was someone else, either Melanie Mason or an ally of hers, who immediately decided to kidnap Reuben in the rather dim hope that it would force us to stop asking questions about Brett Fontaine’s murder.”

  “And they’re not talking to each other because … ?”

  I felt my anxiety level rising a little. “Please watch the road, Ms. Washburn.”

  She nodded her understanding rather than say anything more.

  “Thank you. I surmised that the two groups, if they are groups and not individuals, are not in communication because there would be no reason to abduct Reuben once Virginia withdrew her question and we accepted. If they were in touch with each other, the assault on Reuben would have been aborted. I believe we are dealing with two factions here and they probably do not share the same agenda.”

  When the car had stopped again Ms. Washburn asked, “What about the theory you said you had reached? Was it about getting your father back?”

  “No. I had reached this conclusion before I knew he’d been taken. The fact is, I believe you and I were being used by Virginia Fontaine in an attempt to murder her second husband Brett, but that she had not managed to do so because others did so first.”

  “Hah?” Ms. Washburn grunted more than spoke because she was driving again.

  “Ms. Fontaine discontinued our contract immediately after Brett’s body was found and she was surprised. When she appeared to be the most logical suspect in his murder she engaged us again in an attempt to clear her name. She wanted to ride with you on the surveillance of her husband, whom she suspected of cheating. She was carrying a gun in her purse she did not want you to see. The research she was asking us to do was something she could easily have completed herse
lf, given her background and skills. But she chose to come to us. I believe she wanted you to find her husband being unfaithful while she was there so she could use you as a witness when she shot him in what would have been presented as self-defense.”

  Ms. Washburn said nothing. I’m not sure if it was because she was driving or because she looked stunned, but either way I hoped her attention was on the road.

  My mother had indeed called while we were in the office, sounding frantic and demanding that Ms. Washburn and I—particularly I—do something about Reuben’s abduction. I had suggested that Reuben was not in any immediate danger but Mother had not taken that piece of information as the reassurance I had intended it to be. So Ms. Washburn had suggested we call Reuben back for more information. His cellular phone immediately placed my call in the voice mail system. I saw no reason to leave Reuben a message.

  Less than one minute later my cellular phone had rung showing an unfamiliar number as the caller. The voice on the other end of the call, clearly filtered through a simple electronic device, was not Reuben’s.

  “We have your father,” it said.

  “I am aware of that,” I had responded. Ms. Washburn listened in as closely as she could from a few feet to my right. “What is your purpose in abducting him?”

  “You have to stop investigating Brett Fontaine’s death,” the voice said.

  “We have already done so. Our client has rescinded the offer to pay us for an answer to the question so we are no longer continuing our research.” I thought that information alone would be enough to secure Reuben’s release.

  The caller, however, did not seem to process my statement completely. “If you don’t stop asking questions your father will die.”

  It occurred to me that Reuben would die whether I continued the research or not because all living things die at some point. My mentioning that to the person on the phone hardly seemed advisable, however. “You are not listening. We have already ended our inquiry. There is no advantage to your holding Reuben Hoenig. The best course of action for you is to release him immediately.”

  Ms. Washburn had nodded her approval.

  “If you want to prevent your father from pain and death you must follow our instructions precisely.”

  I pressed the mute button on my phone. “I believe we are listening to a prerecorded voice on the phone,” I told Ms. Washburn.

  “Why would they do that?”

  “Either for technical reasons, to best mask the voice so we would not recognize it, or for time,” I said. “It might have made more sense to their schedule to have the demands recorded ahead of time. I think it possible no one is listening on the other end of the call.”

  Ms. Washburn absorbed this and then her eyes widened. “So they don’t care if you follow their demands or not.”

  “It is true. Their plan could be in place no matter what the outcome of this gambit might turn out to be from their perspective.”

  Ms. Washburn had leaned on the end of my desk. “So they’re going to kill your father either way.”

  I considered that. “Possibly. It’s more likely they were never going to kill him either way.”

  “If you want to prevent your father from pain and death you must follow our instructions precisely.” Apparently the kidnappers, having received no verbal response, chose to replay a sound clip they had used once before.

  I then released the mute button from my phone. “What are your instructions, other than to do something I have already done?”

  The recording seemed satisfied with that question, probably since a prerecorded answer had already existed. “Come to the PC Richard store on Route 22, the one that looks like a boat. Be there in an hour. Bring all your research into the death of Brett Fontaine. Do not contact the police. Any variance from these instructions will result in the death of your father.” The call was disconnected from the caller’s side.

  Ms. Washburn and I left the Questions Answered office sixteen minutes later.

  Now we were three minutes from our destination, a strangely shaped building with a very long and odd history. The Flagship began its existence as a ship-shaped nightclub in the 1930s and had gone through any number of incarnations since, including a complete tear-down and rebuild in the same shape as a large cruiser. It has been an outlet for various electronics chains for at least two decades.

  “What should we expect?” Ms. Washburn asked me.

  I understood her feeling of urgency but the conversation while the car was in motion on such a treacherous stretch of highway was too stressful for me. I did not reply until she had parked her Kia Spectra in the Flagship parking lot.

  “I think we will see a panel van of some sort pull up. A woman will most likely get out of the passenger side while the engine remains running,” I said. “The woman will demand our research. We will make it clear that we have no intention of doing any further work on Ms. Fontaine’s question. Then we will see how the woman and her compatriot in the van react.”

  “What if they react badly?”

  “I sincerely doubt they will react well.”

  The white van, marked with the logo of U-Haul, appeared at that moment. Ms. Washburn pointed to draw my attention but I had already seen the vehicle and was tracking it with my eyes. “I think it would be best if we got out of the car,” I told her.

  Ms. Washburn had opened her driver’s side door before I could open mine on the opposite end. We stood in the parking lot among other cars and in view of shoppers entering and exiting the PC Richard & Son store until the van had parked as unobtrusively as possible about ten yards away from us, too far to rush the van but close enough that our interaction would not draw attention from anyone else at the store.

  “There will be no violence here,” I said to reassure Ms. Washburn. “It is far too public a space.”

  Ms. Washburn did not acknowledge my words. She was focused on the van. As I’d expected, the passenger door opened and a woman stepped out. I did not recognize her face from Brett Fontaine’s memorial service, although she might have been the woman who laughed at Anthony Deane’s remarks. I did recognize her from online photographs I had studied.

  “Who’s that?” Ms. Washburn asked.

  “That is Melanie Mason.” I did not advance toward the woman, preferring to have her as far from the van as possible. She did not seem to have any strategic agenda in regard to her placement from the van, which made me wonder if Reuben was indeed in the cargo compartment in the back.

  “Mr. Hoenig,” she said when she had reached Ms. Washburn and me.

  “Ms. Mason. I would say it is nice to meet you but we have met in a sense twice before and besides, this is not very nice. You have a man confined in that van and you will get nothing from me before I see him.”

  Melanie Mason was a woman of medium height with brown hair and a tight smile with no amusement in it at all. “Your father is unharmed, Mr. Hoenig. So far.”

  “I will need visual confirmation of that statement.”

  Ms. Washburn, I could tell, was sizing up (I believe the expression goes) Melanie Mason and finding her less than admirable. Melanie would not have known that, but having studied Ms. Washburn’s facial expressions for some time I could make the judgment easily.

  “You’re not going to get it,” Melanie Mason said.

  “Then our business here is concluded,” I said. Ms. Washburn’s face, turned toward me as I spun on my heel, registered astonishment. I started back toward the Kia Spectra.

  “You’re condemning your father to death,” Melanie suggested.

  I had only a few steps to reach the Kia Spectra but I did not turn back to face my adversary. “I do not believe I am,” I said.

  “Believe it.”

  This time I did stop and regarded her carefully. “Prove it,” I said.

  Ms. Washburn gasped. Her voice was audible only to me
, standing only a few feet to her side. “Samuel.”

  I thought of Reuben and his behavior over the past twenty-seven years. I thought of my mother and how devastated she would be if any harm came to him. I thought of Virginia Fontaine and her odd plea for us to stop investigating her question. And I thought of how angry I was at Melanie Mason for causing all this. I took three steps back in her direction so she could hear me snarl at her.

  “You created the illusion of your own death by killing a perfectly innocent homeless woman in a car. Was it just for the insurance money? Have you been in touch with your husband all this time? What makes a person behave the way you do? Is it a simple disregard for the feelings of others? They tell me I’m supposed to be the one who has trouble with empathy but as far as I can tell, Ms. Mason, you are as empty emotionally as anyone I have ever met. Now open the back of that van and show me my father or I will drive away and tell the New Brunswick police everything I know about how you killed Brett Fontaine.”

  Melanie Mason waited two seconds and then began to applaud very slowly. “Very impressive, Mr. Hoenig. I’m really very taken with that speech. Were you preparing it all this time or was that spontaneous? You’ll see your father when I say you can.”

  “Then say it or we’ll leave.” Ms. Washburn’s determined look would have been enough to convince me.

  It did not seem to have that effect on Melanie Mason, however. “You’re not scaring me,” she said. “All you have that I want is an assurance and some documents. I have a person.”

  “You have overestimated that person’s value to me,” I told her. “Do with him as you will if you are not satisfied.”

  I saw Ms. Washburn flinch but she said nothing.

  This stalemate might have continued indefinitely but for two factors: First, I was fully prepared to leave the scene if Melanie could not immediately produce Reuben (and I was fairly sure she could not). Second, that was when the driver’s door of the van opened and Leon Rabinski stepped out of the vehicle.