The Question of the Unfamiliar Husband

by E. J. Copperman

  I tried the names “Terrence Lambroux,” “Teresa Lambroux,” various alternate spellings of both names, and then “T. Lambroux.”

  Nothing appeared. The same was true when searching Google Images, which at that point was no longer a surprise at all.

  I will admit to sitting behind my desk staring at the Mac Pro for at least thirty seconds in wonder. Then I used various other search engines and a few specialized sites I know of to search for missing people, and each time was rewarded with the same lack of data.

  It seemed, at least as far as the Internet was concerned, there was no such person as Terry Lambroux.

  “Well, that’s certainly odd,” Mother said.

  We were removing plates and utensils from the kitchen table and I was placing them in the dishwasher. Had Mother been clearing the table, she would have put everything into the sink and washed it all by hand, arguing that it was just the two of us and the dishwasher wasn’t necessary. I worry about her health more than she does, or at least more than she will admit to, and I try to keep Mother from doing anything she doesn’t have to do. She has had cardiac issues in the past.

  To distract her from my dishwasher use, I was informing her about my most recent efforts involving Detective Dickinson’s question. “At least I did find some mentions of Roger Siplowitz,” I answered. “He apparently is an attorney specializing in family law in New Brunswick, but as far as I can discern, he did not participate in Oliver Lewis’s divorce from Hazel Montrose.”

  “How do you know that?” Mother was putting mustard and mayonnaise back into the refrigerator, knowing well of my disgust for such substances.

  “There are court records when such an action is filed,” I said. “They are a matter of public record, and can often be found online.”

  The doorbell rang, which interrupted our cleanup activities. Mother always answers the door when she is downstairs because she knows I am not fond of surprises. But in this case, I expected Ms. Washburn to be in the doorway, and so she was.

  Mother immediately asked if she’d like some lunch, but Ms. Washburn said she had eaten a small salad with Hazel Montrose, which surprised me. “I believed you were simply driving Hazel to her home,” I said.

  “She wanted to stop,” Ms. Washburn said, sitting at the kitchen table. Mother and I, having completed the cleanup process, joined her there. “She was pretty upset about what happened to her ex-husband, and she asked me to stop at a coffee shop so she could compose herself.”

  This led me to conclude that Hazel must be living with another person or more, since she seemed to have issues about being visibly emotional when she arrived at her home. But I did not voice that opinion (and it was just that) because I wanted Ms. Washburn to continue. Clearly, Hazel must have said something of significance for Ms. Washburn to mention the conversation so soon after arriving.

  But Ms. Washburn studied my face a moment, intent. “You’ve decided Hazel’s living with a guy, and it’s bothering you,” she said.

  “Amazing,” Mother chimed in. “I was thinking the same thing.”

  That was, to say the least, odd. While I had been speculating about Hazel’s motivation for delaying her return home, it was not troubling me in any way. “I don’t understand,” I said.

  “Come on, Samuel.” Ms. Washburn folded her arms, a posture which I have learned can be a signal of resistance or of a person who is defending an unpopular position. This confused me further, as it seemed the scenario would cast me in that role. “You have a little crush on Hazel Montrose, and you don’t want her to be married or living with someone. It makes sense.”

  “A crush?” It was a ridiculous statement, but I was sure it would be considered rude for me to say so. “I have no such feelings.”

  Mother laughed.

  “You were flirting with her all through the interview, Samuel,” Ms. Washburn said. I was unfamiliar with the smile she was adopting. “And I have news for you: she was flirting back.”

  “I believe you are mistaken, Ms. Washburn. Hazel was simply someone who had information I required, and I was acting as anyone would to ingratiate myself with her and extract the data.”

  Ms. Washburn’s smile got wider and more difficult to read. “Really. Samuel. I’ve known you for months. We’ve answered questions together. We’ve almost died together. But you continue to call me ‘Ms. Washburn’. You knew Hazel for maybe a minute and a half and you were addressing her by her first name.”

  Mother nodded. “It’s nothing to be embarrassed about; it happens to people all the time.”

  I shook my head at the absurdity of the conversation. “I am not the least bit embarrassed. I have no ‘crush,’ as you put it, Ms. Washburn. I believe you misread the body language during my interview with … with Ms. Montrose.”

  Ms. Washburn exchanged a look with Mother, who shrugged.

  “Okay,” my associate said. “Do you want to hear what Hazel said at the coffee shop?”

  I ignored her emphasis on our acquaintance’s name and said, “Of course, if it is of interest to our work.”

  Ms. Washburn seemed to become suddenly interested in the saltshaker on our kitchen table. She picked it up and examined it, although I have never considered it to be especially interesting in design. “She said she wasn’t surprised someone had killed Oliver Lewis.” I caught a slight flicker of her eyelashes as she looked quickly at me to gauge my reaction.

  “There are many people who would say such things about their ex-spouses,” I noted. “Did she mention a reason she was not surprised?”

  Ms. Washburn looked a little disappointed that I had not been startled by her revelation. “She said he had a pattern of pursuing people, mostly women, and then abandoning them when he had won them over.”

  I reminded her that Hazel had said virtually the same thing when I was questioning her.

  “But she said he’d done that with someone he shouldn’t,” Ms. Washburn went on. “Apparently some woman he’d led on was suing him.”

  “Do we have a name?” I asked.

  Ms. Washburn looked away. The lack of eye contact signaled some degree of disappointment with herself, I believed. “She wouldn’t tell me,” she said. “She said Ollie would tell her about this other woman when they were married, just to upset her. But she wouldn’t give out the name.”

  I put up my hands to show that it was not important. “The strongest probability is that Oliver Lewis was lying in an attempt to hurt his wife,” I said. “Keep in mind that we have a very strong suspect in Ms. Maholm, who went to such elaborate lengths to distract and implicate us. I believe our first order or business should be locating her.”

  Ms. Washburn nodded. “Back to Questions Answered, then?” She stood up, as did I. Mother stayed seated, as it was clear she was not about to come with us.

  “No,” I told Ms. Washburn. “Not yet. Instead, please drive me to Darien, Connecticut.”

  fifteen

  “This is going to be at least an hour and a half drive,” Ms. Washburn said.

  “Yes, that is an accurate approximation,” I answered, and immediately wondered whether an approximation can be considered accurate.

  “With traffic, it could be as much as three hours.”

  “That is true, although unlikely.”

  “You don’t know the Connecticut Turnpike. What is it we’re going for that can’t be scanned, emailed, faxed, or iPhoned?” Ms. Washburn asked.

  I wanted to correct Ms. Washburn’s use of the noun iPhone as a verb, but I knew that people do not appreciate such statements. I could surmise her meaning and so replied, “We are attempting to persuade a justice of the peace to relinquish records of the wedding we know took place between Oliver Lewis and Cynthia Maholm,” I said.

  “And that can’t happen electronically because … ?”

  “Because it is not the delivery of the records that is th
e difficult part. It is the surrender of the records. It will take some persuasion, and that is best accomplished in person. You know I am not especially effective on the telephone.”

  “But I am,” Ms. Washburn protested.

  “There is also the matter of the photographs,” I said.

  She drove silently for some moments. “What photographs, Samuel?”

  “Every justice of the peace presiding over a wedding would have someone nearby taking photographs, which would no doubt be sold to the happy couple,” I explained. “Was your wedding performed by a justice of the peace?”

  “No.”

  I waited, but she said nothing else. “The photographs can tell us who else was present at the wedding, and might give you especially some insight into the mood of Cynthia and Oliver when they were married.”

  “Because I’m more likely to read their facial expressions in the pictures,” Ms. Washburn said, nodding slightly.

  “Yes.”

  “It’s a long drive for something that skimpy,” she said. “Is this our best lead so far?”

  “Our best lead, as you put it, is to find Ms. Maholm, but we do not have a clear path to follow for that,” I reminded her. “If you have an idea as to how to locate her, I would be happy to turn back toward Middlesex County immediately.”

  Ms. Washburn was silent for 7.4 miles. Then she pursed her lips. “How badly do you want those photographs?” she asked.

  I sensed there was an underlying message to the question, but I was at a loss to identify it. “They are the most likely source of new information we have at the moment,” I reiterated. “Why do you ask?”

  “I have an idea,” Ms. Washburn said. “Do you trust me?”

  “I think you know the answer to that question.”

  “Fine.” She changed lanes to the right, not impulsively or dangerously, but certainly more quickly than normal. I believe I was successful in cloaking my sharp intake of breath. Ms. Washburn signaled a right turn, and took the next jug handle marked U and Left Turns.

  “Where are we going?” I asked, fighting the impulse to bite my lips. I am not the most sedate passenger in a moving vehicle, given the statistics of automobile accidents occurring each year.

  “To New Brunswick. To Roger Siplowitz’s office. Remember? You said Cynthia told you he took pictures at their wedding.”

  “So she did. But should we believe anything she said?”

  Ms. Washburn was able to shrug her shoulders without affecting her efficiency as a driver. “I don’t know, but I’m sure of one thing.”

  “What is that?” I asked.

  “New Brunswick is closer than Darien, Connecticut.”

  We had not found a home address for Roger Siplowitz, but it took only a quick Google search to determine the location of his office, which I programmed into Ms. Washburn’s global positioning device while she drove. It was not difficult to get to New Brunswick, she said. Finding the office was the tricky part.

  But in practice, there was no trouble finding the law offices of Jennings, Masterson & Siplowitz. Many attorneys have offices near the Middlesex County Courthouse on Bayard Street, and Siplowitz’s firm was no exception, located on Paterson Street, only one block to the north. Because it was three in the afternoon it was not difficult to find an available parking space only thirty yards from the front door to the office, which had a door painted bright red. It was a relatively small building, a converted townhouse with two concrete steps leading up to the door, which required a visitor to be buzzed in to enter.

  Inside, the décor was somewhat more lush. Thick carpeting on the floor of the reception area was complimented by real plasterwork on the walls, two of which held original oil paintings by an artist named Friedman, according to the signature in each lower right corner. The receptionist sat behind a small oak desk with a telephone console and a banker’s lamp with a green hood. The lighting in the room was incandescent, not fluorescent like at Questions Answered, as I had “inherited” the lighting from San Remo’s.

  The receptionist herself was a very elegant African-American woman, roughly thirty-three years old, dressed conservatively. She was not on the phone when we entered, but having buzzed us in, knew we would be entering. She smiled professionally and looked attentive when we asked for Roger Siplowitz.

  “Does Mr. Siplowitz expect you?” she asked, although she certainly was aware we were not on his calendar for this time.

  “No, he doesn’t,” Ms. Washburn said, “but it’s a pretty urgent matter.”

  “I’m sure it is,” the receptionist answered in a very smooth voice. “However, Mr. Siplowitz is all booked up for the afternoon, and he just doesn’t have the time.”

  “Please mention the name Cynthia Maholm,” I interjected. “If you say we’ve come about her, I’m sure he’ll want to see us.”

  The receptionist’s eyes narrowed. When some people do that, their faces take on a look of anger bordering on intended violence. With this woman, my impression was more that she was trying to understand as fully as she could. The eye adjustment was undoubtedly involuntary.

  She picked up the phone and pushed a button, her gaze never leaving mine. It was an effort, and not a small one, for me to maintain the contact. My instinct is to look away from someone gazing in my direction. The attention is disquieting and the other person’s eyes always seem disapproving if I don’t focus hard and try to remember the sample expressions I have been shown. It took years of effort to recognize and process emotional expressions. It still does not come naturally, or comfortably.

  After a moment, the receptionist said into the phone, “Maggie, is he there? Tell him there’s a Mr. Hoenig and a Ms. Washburn and they said to mention the name Cynthia Maholm.” She remembered each name and pronounced each one flawlessly without having written anything down to use as a reference. This was, clearly, a very highly skilled receptionist.

  For thirty-four seconds all of us waited for a reply. I took the opportunity to avert my glance and focus on the painting to my left, which was of an open field on a spring day. The technique was excellent, although I was not affected emotionally by what I saw. I do some painting myself, but my goal is always to accurately portray my subject and not to evoke some emotional response from the viewer.

  The receptionist suddenly became more animated as the person she had called must have spoken again, but we could not see any change in her demeanor overall. “Okay,” she said, and disconnected the call. She looked at Ms. Washburn. “Mr. Siplowitz will see you in a moment.”

  Ms. Washburn looked surprised, although I could not determine why she should be; the real name of his deceased friend’s wife would surely get us an audience with him if he had known it at all, and there was no reason to think he had not.

  The receptionist pointed behind her toward a corridor. “There’s an elevator there,” she said. “Third floor. His assistant, Maggie, will meet you.” She handed Ms. Washburn a visitor’s pass, which was somewhat unusual but not unheard of, and Ms. Washburn thanked her for the help. We walked to the elevator.

  Once there, Ms. Washburn pushed the button and the doors opened. We stepped inside, for the first time out of earshot of the receptionist, and Ms. Washburn asked me, “Why do you think he decided to see us if he’s that busy?”

  The doors closed and we could feel the lift of the elevator begin. “He was not as tightly scheduled as he would like us to believe,” I said. “Most such people are not. The receptionist and Mr. Siplowitz’s assistant are gatekeepers intended to keep unwanted visitors from gaining access.”

  “I’m aware of that,” Ms. Washburn said. “I’m wondering why he’s agreeing to the meeting.”

  “We’ve indicated we know something about Cynthia Maholm, which most people could not claim,” I said. “Mr. Siplowitz is curious.”

  It was not a long elevator ride. The doors opened, and a very fashiona
bly dressed woman in her thirties was beyond them. “Hi! I’m Maggie,” she said, extending a hand, which Ms. Washburn was quick to accept on my behalf. “I’m Roger’s executive assistant. Please come this way.”

  It would have been interesting to ask Maggie her favorite Beatles song, since there is one called “Maggie Mae “(not to be confused with the song “Maggie May” by Rod Stewart), but there was no time. She led us to a door only fifteen feet from the elevator. It bore a heavy gold-colored placard embossed Roger Siplowitz, and Maggie opened it and led us inside.

  There was a waiting area within where Maggie’s small but neat desk stood (exhibiting a name plate reading Margaret Caruso), but she walked directly to an unmarked inner office door and knocked.

  “Come,” said a male voice inside.

  Maggie opened the door but did not walk inside the office. She indicated that we should.

  As we did, I heard Ms. Washburn very quietly observe, “The great and powerful Oz.”

  Roger Siplowitz was a hale-looking man in his mid-thirties. He had not yet begun to lose his hair, although judging by the oil portrait hanging behind his desk of a man whose close resemblance to Roger indicated he was a relative, he would do so fairly soon. He was tanned and appeared fit, and he too extended a hand, which Ms. Washburn intercepted.

  “Roger Siplowitz,” he said. After some explanation and training, I have accepted that many people introduce themselves in this fashion, although it seems an odd thing to say to a person as you shake her hand. The logical assumption would be that the speaker was naming the person he is meeting, which is not the case.

  “Nice to meet you,” Ms. Washburn said. “I’m Janet Washburn, and this is Samuel Hoenig.”

  Siplowitz, assuming merely that Ms. Washburn was the first to want to come into physical contact with him, broke the handshake and pushed his arm in my direction. Ms. Washburn flashed me a concerned look, but I understood the process and that it is not always avoidable. I concentrated on not noticing the perspiration on Siplowitz’s palm except for its possible indication that he was nervous.