The Question of the Unfamiliar Husband

by E. J. Copperman

  Copyright Information

  The Question of the Unfamiliar Husband: An Asperger’s Mystery © 2015 by E.J. Copperman and Jeff Cohen. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any mann

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any matter whatsoever, including Internet usage, without written permission from Midnight Ink, except in the form of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  As the purchaser of this ebook, you are granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this ebook on screen. The text may not be otherwise reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, or recorded on any other storage device in any form or by any means.

  Any unauthorized usage of the text without express written permission of the publisher is a violation of the author’s copyright and is illegal and punishable by law.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  First e-book edition © 2011

  E-book ISBN: 9780738745442

  Book format by Bob Gaul

  Cover design by Ellen Lawson

  Cover illustration by James Steinberg/Gerald & Cullen Rapp

  Editing by Nicole Nugent

  Midnight Ink is an imprint of Llewellyn Worldwide Ltd.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Cohen, Jeffrey, 1957-

  The question of the unfamiliar husband / Jeff Cohen, E.J. Copperman. -- First edition.

  1 online resource. -- (An asperger’s mystery ; #2) (An Asperger’s Mystery ; # 2)

  Description based on print version record and CIP data provided by publisher; resource not viewed.

  ISBN 978-0-7387-4544-2 () -- ISBN 978-0-7387-4350-9 1. Asperger’s syndrome--Patients--Fiction. 2. Murder--Investigation--Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3603.O358

  813’.6--dc23

  2015023972

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  Midnight Ink

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  Manufactured in the United States of America

  To Seymour M. Cohen and Byron T. Copperman, our dads,

  who showed us what being a familiar husband should be.

  And to Jessica Oppenheim, for making it a joy.

  Authors’ Note

  The reception to The Question of the Missing Head was really overwhelming in many ways, not the least of which was hearing from families of people dealing with autism spectrum disorders and from some of the Aspies and others on the spectrum themselves. It is a humbling experience to get your emails, and we appreciate all the comments (even the somewhat testy ones). We try to present as accurate a picture as we can, but we know perfection is impossible, certainly in our hands. We’re going to drop the ball every now and then. Your letting us know when that happens helps ensure it will not recur.

  Some of the stories we’ve been told and messages we’ve received have touched us beyond our meager powers to convey. Suffice it to say that we are happy and privileged to be on the almost-front lines with you. The battle for understanding goes on.

  There are always thanks when a book is finished, and this is no exception. Even two authors can’t do it alone. First, E.J. would like to thank Jeff for toning down the corniness for a bit, and Jeff would like to thank E.J. for letting Samuel go on a date.

  But enough about us.

  Thanks to the indispensible D. P. Lyle for Reglan, which was exactly what we needed. When you need a poison, always go to a licensed physician.

  For guiding us through, we as always appreciate the amazing work of Terri Bischoff and Nicole Nugent at Midnight Ink. Thanks for taking something barely comprehensible and turning into something … comprehensible. It’s nice to be treated like people and not word machines. Because we’re pretty sure we’re people.

  Naturally, huge thank-yous to Josh Getzler, Danielle Burby, and everyone at HSG Agency not only for getting Samuel to Terri’s attention, but for introducing him to the world! Samuel is now available in a variety of languages in a variety of countries, and that’s because of you. Thank goodness Josh lives in a convenient apartment building in Manhattan, or none of this might ever have happened. So thanks to Chris Grabenstein.

  To all who have read any of our books ever, we are astonished by you. Yeah, we know how that sounds, but the idea that someone other than close friends and family actually chooses to pick up our work and read it is an honor we do not take lightly. Thank you from the bottoms of our hearts.

  —Jeff Cohen and E.J. Copperman

  In the darkest corners of New Jersey

  June 2015

  One

  The front door opened and a woman walked in.

  I had been working on my Mac Pro in an attempt to complete the answer to the question of a client I’d taken on the week before. The question involved an asp, a high-diving board, and a quantity of bourbon, but it was not noteworthy enough to explore here. I had agreed to answer the question because I had not worked in six days and needed the mental exercise. The fee was also a consideration.

  Questions Answered had been open for six months. I’d rented the storefront at 735 Stelton Road in Piscataway, New Jersey, because it was close to the house in which my mother and I live, it was adequate to my needs, which were minimal, and it was affordable. Since then, I had advertised sparingly and through that activity and some word of mouth—an expression that makes very little sense to me, since words written on paper or pixels are just as effective—I had managed to keep busy most of the time the business had been in operation.

  The woman, who was approximately twenty-seven years old, five-foot-six, and brown-haired and -eyed, looked nervous as she scanned the room. It is not an unusual response among people who enter my establishment.

  Before I opened Questions Answered, the building had been devoted to a pizzeria called San Remo’s. The ovens that had been used to create the chief product of that retail operation were still in the room, although I had never attempted to operate them. I must admit, however, that curiosity did sometimes cause me to consider doing so.

  The rest of the large room—larger than I needed, but adequate to my needs and open to the possibility of experimentation—was devoted to a desk in the center at which I was currently seated; a reclining chair to one side where my mother often sat when she visited the office; and two posts supporting the ceiling. Much of the room was empty, but it was clean. It has been suggested to me that the walls could benefit from a coat of paint, but I had not seen the utility, since there is no data of which I’m aware suggesting that people are more apt to ask interesting questions if the surroundings have been recently painted.

  “May I help you?” I asked the woman. I had trained myself to ask that question. My natural impulse would be to discover the nature of the potential client’s question, but Mother says that people find such directness disturbing. I n
ever ask, “Can I help you?” It confuses me when a person at a store or business asks me that. I have no idea if that person is capable of helping me before he or she knows the nature of my interest. I am certain I can help most of the people who walk in to ask questions, but statistically, it is true that I will not be able to answer every question.

  I have not yet been asked one I could not answer, but it is theoretically possible.

  “I … I’m not sure,” the woman said. “Is this, like, a detective agency?”

  So. It would be easy to deflect this interaction, because my business is nothing like a detective agency. “No,” I said. “This is Questions Answered.” I gestured toward the sign I have displayed in the front window, on which I had clearly written the business name in permanent marker. Mother says I should invest in a more professional-looking sign, and I suppose I should, since she is usually right about such things.

  Instead of appearing discouraged, the woman took five more steps toward me. I stood, since I have been told by Dr. Mancuso that it is viewed as impolite to sit while a person with whom one is conversing remains standing. I held out my hand, as I have practiced. “Allow me to introduce myself,” I said. “I am Samuel Hoenig. I am the proprietor of Questions Answered.”

  “Um … if I have a question that requires some investigation, you can handle that?” It was not technically a question, but her tone, with an increase of two and a half tones at the end of the sentence, indicated she believed it to be one.

  I answered as if I agreed that she had asked. “It would depend on the question,” I said. “Most questions require some research, but not all need outside investigation.”

  “You’ve investigated a crime before,” she reminded me. “I read about it in the Star-Ledger.”

  I bit down on the insides of my lips just a little. It was true; I had answered a question about a murder three months earlier, but only because it has been related to another question I was attempting to answer—and because Mother had rather unfairly asked about the murder and then paid me one dollar to answer her question.

  “We did,” I admitted. “That is not our primary business, however. If you need someone to investigate a crime, I suggest you look for a private detective or consult the police.” I thought about sitting down as a signal that the conversation was finished, but that came into conflict with the possibility of being seen as rude. It was a difficult situation, so I remained standing.

  “I’m not sure I do need someone to investigate a crime,” the woman said. “I’m not sure a crime has been committed at all.” She took another quick look around the room and her eyes stopped at Mother’s chair. “May I sit down?”

  Since my mother was not in the room, nor was she expected soon, I nodded. If nothing else, the woman being seated would allow me to sit down behind my desk again. She sat in the recliner but did not raise the footrest. I reclaimed my position and asked, “What is your question?” Again, I was not certain my direct inquiry was appropriate, but I felt it was necessary to progress the conversation so I could return to the matter of the asp.

  “My name is Sheila McInerney,” the woman said. I had not asked her name, but she continued, as I had expected she would. “I’m a graphic artist working for an advertising firm in the city.” When people from Northern New Jersey say “the city,” they mean New York City, specifically Manhattan. When people from Southern New Jersey say “the city,” they mean Philadelphia. Ms. McInerney meant Manhattan.

  I remained silent, as she had said nothing so far that seemed to lead to a question I could be employed to answer.

  “I’ve always enjoyed my work, but I still want to have the home and the family and everything,” Ms. McInerney went on, still saying nothing I found especially useful. “I’ve done the usual dating things, even signed up with one of the online services, but I hadn’t met the one for me, I guess.”

  I felt it was time for me to say something, although it would be difficult not to sound impatient or rude. I thought carefully. “How has this search led you here?” I asked. It seemed unlikely that Ms. McInerney had, through some computer algorithm, determined that I was the man of her dreams, but if she had come to that conclusion, it would probably be necessary to disabuse her of the notion.

  Still, she seemed startled despite my attempt to employ tact. “Well, I’m getting to that,” she said. “I wanted to impress upon you the idea that I’m not, you know, settling for just anybody romantically. I want to find a man who can be my friend and my partner, not just my lover.”

  The conversation was definitely going in an uncomfortable direction for me. I considered telling Ms. McInerney I was involved with someone, but that would be lying, and Mother always says lying never helps a situation. I could dispute that in theory, but in practice I am a very poor liar, so her advice is generally well taken.

  Luckily, Ms. McInerney had simply taken a breath and was not expecting my reply. “What I’m saying, I guess, is that I’m not the kind of woman who just falls into bed with a guy.”

  I have struggled for years to establish and maintain eye contact in conversation, but when the subject matter is awkward, I still have some difficulty in that area. Now I was staring at the screen of my Mac Pro, which showed a page devoted to various kinds of bourbon. But I was not really trying to read the copy. “I understand,” I said. Technically, that was true—I understood the message she was trying to convey. Why she might want to communicate that information was completely beyond my comprehension at the moment.

  “Good,” said Ms. McInerney, as if that settled something. “So we have the basis for you to understand my problem.”

  Certain keywords trigger responses from me that have become almost reflexive. When I hear someone refer to a “problem,” I am quick with my answer. “I do not solve problems here,” I said. “The business is called Questions Answered. I answer questions.”

  I was about to recommend several courses of action Ms. McInerney could pursue to solve whatever problem she might be experiencing, but she spoke before I had the chance to do so.

  “Okay, then,” she said. “I have a question for you, Mr. Hoenig: Who is the man in my bed who calls himself my husband?”

  Two

  This time, I made sure to establish eye contact with Ms. McInerney. “Do you believe an impostor is claiming to be your husband?” I asked. “Are you married to someone else?” She seemed to have said the opposite before, so I watched her face very carefully. There was no hesitation, no flinch. She had expected the reaction, and had indeed phrased her question for the maximum effect. It had worked very well.

  I was intrigued.

  “No, I believe I’m unmarried. I think the man who is now living in my apartment and sleeping in my bed is a fraud.”

  I looked at her left hand, where a woman often wears an engagement ring or a wedding ring, or both. Hers had the simple gold band and nothing else. Neither hand bore a diamond nor any other jewelry. “How is that possible?” I asked. “Surely you would know if you married someone.”

  “It’s complicated,” she answered, and I noted that this time she was the one to break eye contact. That can be telling in most people considered “neurotypical.”

  “I would imagine it is. How, specifically, is it complicated?”

  Ms. McInerney sucked in on her lower teeth as if trying to expel an unpleasant taste. “I don’t want you to think that this is something that happens a lot,” she said.

  My opinion of her actions seemed to be important to her, and as a potential client (now that I was interested in the question), it was important to alleviate her concerns. “I can only imagine you have just one unfamiliar husband,” I said.

  “It’s not funny, Mr. Hoenig.”

  “I was not attempting to be amusing,” I answered. “Please. Tell me what happened.”

  She nodded and took a breath; I could not be sure if the action was genuine or
for my benefit. I found myself wishing Mother were in the room, as she can often explain a gesture or signal that I will not recognize.

  “It was at a party a little over a month ago,” Ms. McInerney began.

  “Who hosted the party?” I asked.

  Ms. McInerney’s eyes blinked and widened just a little, which indicated she was either surprised or irritated at the interruption. “A friend of mine from work, Jenny LeBlanc,” she said. “It was a costume party, which I don’t usually like. But this one was fun. You were supposed to show up dressed as your favorite character from the movies.”

  I took a moment to process the idea that Ms. McInerney did not mean I was intended to be at the party in a costume. “As whom did you attend?” I asked, because I believed she wanted me to do so.

  “Actually, I went as Harpo Marx,” she said. “Do you know who that is?”

  Was it a trick question? I had seen all thirteen of the Marx Brothers films, and while some of the jokes were difficult for me to understand (“viaduct” really would not be mistaken for “why a duck,” a question which itself makes no sense), I was familiar with Harpo Marx. But Ms. McInerney masquerading as that character was confusing to me.

  “Harpo Marx was a man,” I pointed out. “And your hair is straight. His was very curly and unkempt. He has been dead for over sixty years. How could you have hoped to be mistaken for Harpo Marx?”

  She did not stare at me but held my gaze for a long moment, as if searching for something that was not there. “I wasn’t hoping people would think I was the real Harpo Marx,” she explained. “I was simply pretending for the party. Other people pretended to be Spiderman and Ron Burgundy. One woman came as the princess from Frozen. It was a party.”

  I forced myself to put aside the idea of masquerading and focus on the question. “How does this relate to the husband you claim is a fraud?” I asked.

  Ms. McInerney nodded, getting herself back on topic. I resolved silently not to allow for any more unproductive tangents in the conversation. “I met a man at the party. That much I remember. He had come dressed as Zorro, with a mask over much of his face.”