“We have no intention of abducting you for any reason,” I said. “But once Anthony Deane explained to us that he’d been with you when your first husband died accidentally I knew there was a very good chance that someone would come to take revenge upon you. And now that you are no longer a viable suspect in the death of your second husband there is no reason for the person holding a grudge to anticipate your arrest and imprisonment. So as they say the clock is ticking and I am very concerned that we might already have waited too long. Please come with us.”
“Wait,” Ms. Washburn said. “This hinges on Tony Deane saying he was with Virginia when William Klein died? What’s that got to do with Brett Fontaine’s murder?”
“Nothing.” I started toward the front door hoping the two women would follow me simply due to the power of my implied suggestion but they remained rooted to the spots where they stood. “It was only because Rabinski and Melanie Mason wanted there to be more circumstantial evidence against Virginia that they even conceived of staging Mr. Fontaine’s murder at the scene of Mr. Klein’s.”
“Wait,” Ms. Washburn said again. “William Klein was murdered?”
“Hang on,” Virginia said simultaneously. “Melanie Mason isn’t dead?”
It was going to take far too long to explain everything. “I promise all this will become clear but it is imperative that we leave now. Please follow me.” I looked out through one of the small panes of glass in the rather ornate front door and saw no threats. I reached for the doorknob and opened the door.
At that moment a shot rang out.
I was unable to see the shooter or even accurately pinpoint the angle of the shot but the report of the gun was unmistakable. It was probably a rifle, which was odd. This street did not seem to have any natural points where a sniper could set up without being observed.
None of that seemed to matter at the moment I heard the shot, however, because the first thing I saw was Ms. Washburn falling to the floor.
I slammed the steel door—which honestly could be expected to offer little protection from future gunshots other than to hide the people inside the house from the assailant outside—and immediately rushed to Ms. Washburn, who was lying on the floor at the base of the stairway. I was thankful there was no blood visible on the floor or an obvious wound on Ms. Washburn’s body anywhere I could see.
“Where did it hit you?” I asked when I reached her.
She looked up. “Hit me?”
“You are not shot?”
Ms. Washburn shook her head. “No. I just dropped to get out of the way.” She started to scramble to her feet.
“Wait,” I said. “We can’t be sure the shooter is unable to see us, or might not fire blindly into the door. Stay down.” Ms. Washburn sat on the floor.
“I’m shot,” said Virginia Fontaine. In my haste to reach Ms. Washburn I had run past Virginia and paid her no attention. “In the shoulder. Is it bad?”
I could think of no way to answer that question. Is a gunshot ever good? I pivoted from my position next to Ms. Washburn and attended to Virginia, who was indeed showing signs of a wound in her left shoulder. The bullet had probably entered through the back and had either lodged inside or gone through Virginia entirely. I was not a well-enough trained observer to determine which of those things was the case and I was not inclined to turn Virginia over to check for an exit wound.
“Please call 911,” I said to Ms. Washburn. “We need an ambulance and police officers here as quickly as possible.” Then I turned my attention toward Virginia. “Who is out there?” I asked her.
“How would I know?” Her voice included a tinge of pain but the wound was probably not life-threatening.
I resisted the impulse to roll my eyes in exasperation. “This is no time to be coy,” I said. “Someone is shooting at us and has wounded you. You must know: Who would have been angry enough at you for killing William Klein that they would want to exact revenge at this late date? Is it Anthony Deane?” He would have had enough time to drive here from his office, but I had no idea how he would have gotten news of the arrests made at the Flagship.
“You think I killed William?” Virginia wailed.
“Of course you did. Your alibi was that you were at your job when your husband accidentally fell off the fire escape outside your apartment. But the bolts on the railing had been loosened and Anthony Deane, whom we know was infatuated with you and might feel obligated to protect you, offered an alternative alibi when none would have been necessary if you’d actually been at work. You wanted to leave William Klein but for some reason you felt divorce was not an option and murder was. So tell me: Who is it out there who wants you dead because of that?”
Virginia moaned, ostensibly in pain but probably for dramatic effect. Ms. Washburn crawled to my side. “The police and EMS are on their way,” she said. “Probably the cops will get here first. It’ll just be a few minutes, Ginny.”
Our former client did not respond except to look pained. A second shot rang out. A hole appeared in the front door and I heard the bullet whiz at least two feet above our heads. “Stay down,” I said. “Whoever is shooting doesn’t know we’re on the floor.”
Another shot was fired, resulting in a hole lower in the door and the destruction of a vase on a table to our left. Virginia raised her head. “Hey,” she said. “That was a wedding present.”
I pushed her head back down toward the floor without comment. But I was wondering which wedding she was referencing.
“Maybe we can use that table as a shield,” Ms. Washburn said. She pointed at the dining table, which was large and appeared quite substantial.
“I’m not sure we can move it quickly enough to avoid further gunfire,” I mused aloud. “We could be putting ourselves in harm’s way as we would be attempting to protect ourselves.”
The shooter seemed to be newly emboldened because another shot rang out and destroyed a small bowl that had fallen to the floor four feet to my right. “Can we make it upstairs?” Ms. Washburn asked. “He’s not aiming up there.”
“I don’t think I can,” Virginia said. “I’m shot.” Apparently she thought we were not aware of her injury.
I raced through my mind for the probable identity of the sniper outside. Since I could not safely get a panoramic view of the street to determine a likely point from which the shots were being fired, I felt this was the most efficient road to ending our situation without any further loss of blood from anyone in the room.
Leon Rabinski and Melanie Mason were in custody. Unless they had staged a spectacular escape, which no doubt would have resulted in a message from Detective Monroe, I thought it impossible either of them was responsible for our current plight. And given that the attack was seemingly aimed at Virginia Fontaine more than Ms. Washburn and myself (the shooting had not begun until she had arrived through the attached garage, which made it more difficult for the shooter to aim at her before she was indoors), I believed my initial assumption that it was a form of revenge for the death of William Klein was correct.
That simplified the problem considerably. “Who would be especially upset about the death of William Klein?” I said.
“William’s been dead for years,” Virginia said. The loss of blood or shock might have been affecting her judgment.
Ms. Washburn clearly followed my line of reasoning. “Not Debbie Sampras,” she said. “She was a high school friend of Brett Fontaine, and probably never met Virginia’s first husband.”
“True. And while it is probably a physical possibility that Anthony Deane could have driven here in time to take up position outside the house, it was he who called to warn Virginia that we were asking questions about Mr. Klein. If she hadn’t been shot, I would suspect Virginia herself of trying to eliminate us.”
“Hey,” Virginia said. Then she lay her head back down on the carpet.
I heard sirens in the distance
. “Perhaps the shooting will stop when the emergency medical service vehicle and the police arrive,” I suggested.
Another shot rang out, causing no visible damage. “Maybe not,” Ms. Washburn said.
My cellular phone rang. The screen indicated the call was coming from my mother. No doubt Reuben had found his way home. This was probably not a good time to take the call. I texted a message to Mother indicating I could not respond at the moment.
“As I see it, there is only one suspect left who might be angry enough to want Virginia dead,” I told Ms. Washburn.
“Who?”
The front door lock exploded and the door swung open. Once it did my suspicions were confirmed.
“Peter Belson,” I said.
“Peter,” Virginia murmured. While her wound was not by itself life-threatening, the time it was taking for her to receive treatment was no doubt leading to a serious loss of blood.
Belson tried to kick the door closed behind him but he had destroyed the latch and the lock when he fired at it with the rifle he held with his right hand. It would not close, so he reached behind and secured it somewhat with the chain mechanism that had been left intact.
Ms. Washburn looked at me. “What’s our play?” she asked.
I did not understand the idiom. We were certainly not going to perform a theatrical presentation while being held hostage by a vengeance-driven car salesman. I wished again I had been able to see his hands when Belson and I had communicated via FaceTime. I might have anticipated his obsessive drive. I assumed his favorite Beatles song was either “I Will” or “Run For Your Life.”
“What does that mean?” I asked Ms. Washburn.
“She wants to know what strategy you’re going to use to get away from me,” Belson answered as he advanced toward us holding the rifle. I saw a pistol strapped to his hip. The sirens were much louder, indicating the emergency vehicles were either parking or already parked outside Virginia’s home. “And no matter what you’re thinking, there’s no way you’re getting away.”
I felt it best to appeal to his sense of justice, as that was driving his obsession. “Virginia is going to be arrested and tried for the death of her first husband,” I told Belson. “I have already spoken to the detective in charge of the case. He is no doubt on his way.”
“Huh?” Virginia barely looked up.
“Too little, too late,” Belson said. “Juries acquit people. She killed my brother and she’s going to die for it.”
“Your fraternity brother?” I asked. The term had been bandied about rather loosely in this matter and I felt it best to clarify the terms we were discussing.
“My brother,” Belson corrected me.
That was confusing. “William Klein was your brother?” Ms. Washburn asked. I was relieved to know she was puzzled as much as I was. “But you have different last names.”
Belson gestured wildly with his free hand. “Okay, my half brother! You happy?” He was obviously not in a very stable frame of mind. He pointed with the gun at Virginia. “And she killed him.”
“She never mentioned that you were her first husband’s half brother,” I said, hoping to get Belson to move the barrel of the gun away from Virginia’s head.
“Ms. Fontaine didn’t know. Will didn’t tell anybody about me. Because he was afraid it would hurt his mother.”
“So William’s father and your mother were not married,” Ms. Washburn said.
“No! I’m a bastard, okay?” Belson was clearly in a state of agitation, which was not terribly surprising considering that he had shot Virginia and blasted his way through her front door. “But that doesn’t mean we weren’t brothers!” No one had suggested they were not.
We were not able to make that point because there was sound from outside the house. We could hear footsteps, probably people wearing boots, approaching from the front and spreading out to encompass both sides. It was probable there were officers in the back of the house as well but that was too far away for us to hear them.
The amplified voice of Detective Monroe came through next. “You inside the house.” Clearly they were not aware of the shooter’s identity yet. “There are officers on every side of you. You can’t get out. If you open the door and come out without a weapon, hands on top of your head, you will not be hurt.”
Belson seemed to find the message amusing. He did not laugh out loud but smiled and shook his head as if acknowledging a ridiculous statement. “Do you hear this guy?” he said to the prone Virginia. “He thinks I’m coming out so they can shoot me.”
“No,” I countered. “He said if you go outside without a weapon—”
Belson turned to me with a furious expression. “I wasn’t talking to you!”
Ms. Washburn caught my eye with a look that indicated I should not try to correct him. I trusted her judgment and remained silent.
“You in the house!” Monroe said again through his bullhorn. “We know you have hostages in there. Send them out and we can talk about this!”
This time Belson did laugh. Again he addressed Virginia, who might have been unconscious. “If I send you three out, what leverage do I have?” he asked her. I do not know if he expected—or perhaps heard—an answer. “You’re not going anywhere. I’m going to shoot you and then shoot myself.”
“They never get the order right,” Ms. Washburn mumbled.
Belson spun. “What?” he shouted at Ms. Washburn.
“I didn’t say anything.”
“Yes, you did!” Belson took two steps toward Ms. Washburn and pointed the barrel of his rifle toward the floor. “What did you say?”
“I said you should let us go and turn yourself in. It’s the only way to save yourself.”
“Weren’t you listening? I said I’m going to shoot myself after the three of you are dead!” He looked at Virginia again. “Honestly, some people.”
The situation, from my point of view, was deteriorating rapidly. Monroe was unlikely to successfully negotiate Ms. Washburn, Virginia and me out of the house. If Belson intended to shoot us and then turn the gun on himself, he could not be reasoned with by emphasizing his own survival.
I stood up, taking a chance that Belson would not fire at first movement. He did not, but looked at me with wonder on his face. “What?” he said. “You need the bathroom?”
In retrospect it might have been useful to say I did need to use the restroom, but I did not think of it immediately. The thought of using a bathroom in an unfamiliar house was so distasteful to me that I rejected it reflexively. “No,” I said. “But I would like to call my mother and say goodbye if you are going to kill me.”
Belson’s eyes widened as he comprehended what he was being told. “You have a mother?” he asked. The thought never seemed to have occurred to him.
I had not done enough research into Belson’s background to know the answer to my next question and that made it emotionally (and possibly physically) dangerous. “Yes,” I said. “Does your mother know what you are doing today?”
Ms. Washburn inhaled sharply, understanding I had taken a chance. If Belson’s mother was deceased, he might react badly to the suggestion. If she were alive and would approve of his actions, that might embolden him to the task.
Instead his face seemed to sadden. “No,” he said. “I didn’t tell her I was going to kill you.”
“Don’t you think she will be sad if you do that?” I asked. “And if you were to turn the gun on yourself, that would be her last memory of you.”
Belson’s eyes moistened. “No.” That was all he said.
“That would be very sad.” Ms. Washburn stood up and took my arm. “I bet she would tell you there are still possibilities as long as you don’t do what you’re planning.”
From outside Monroe said, “I’m going to call you on the phone in there. Answer the phone and we can figure a way out of this.”
>
I looked at Ms. Washburn. “Did you see a land line in the house?” I asked. She shook her head.
My cellular phone rang again. Caller ID told me the call was coming from the New Brunswick Police Department. Belson leveled the gun in my direction.
“Answer it,” he said.
Before he could reverse his decision I pushed the section of my iPhone screen to accept the phone call. “Detective Monroe,” I said immediately.
“Hoenig. Who’s holding a gun on you in there?”
“There is a wounded woman in this house who murdered her husband some years ago, but she needs medical assistance as quickly as possible,” I said, deliberately not answering his question. “Are there emergency medical technicians with you?”
“I’m not letting them in,” Belson said.
“Your mother would want you to let them help her,” Ms. Washburn told him.
Belson did not answer but I saw a tear emerge from his right eye. That seemed to be the most effective avenue to explore.
“They’re here,” Monroe answered. “But I’m not sending them into a room with an armed man who could endanger their lives as well as yours. Who’s the gunman, Hoenig?”
Again I did not respond directly to Monroe’s question. I looked at Belson. “Suppose we ask the detective to call your mother so you can explain your motives and say goodbye,” I said. “Can you give me her telephone number? What is your mother’s name, Peter?” I felt that calling him by his first name might be a better way to establish a rapport with the man holding the rifle.
Belson did not blink or move. “Patricia. Patty.”
When I spoke into the phone again I made an effort to lower the volume of my voice. “Find a phone number for a Patricia Belson, Detective. Call her Patty and tell her that her son needs to speak with her.”
“Her son? Who’s her son?” Monroe had clearly not considered Belson a suspect. I did not answer him. After four seconds he asked, “What town is she in?”
“Where does you mother live?” I asked Belson.
“South Brunswick. Why?” His attention seemed to be fixed on a far-off point but he was staring at the floor and the prone body of Virginia Fontaine.
The Question of the Dead Mistress Page 25
