The Question of the Unfamiliar Husband

by E. J. Copperman

  Mother opened the oven door and reached in with a potholder. “The plate is very hot, so be careful,” she said, removing a heavy ceramic oblong plate with slices of turkey breast separated neatly from a baked potato and green beans. “You must be starving.”

  I knew she did not mean that I was in danger of having my body attempt to nourish itself on its own tissue, so I did not correct her. Besides, I was quite hungry and sat down at the table to eat.

  “Janet called twice while you were out,” Mother said. “I’m starting to think it wouldn’t be an awful thing if you tried getting a cell phone again.”

  Three years earlier I had acted against my natural impulse and purchased a cellular phone because Mother had been ill and I did not want to be out of touch in the event that she needed me at any moment. But I had lost the phone after two days, and had not replaced it, confident that the same thing would happen again. I do not pay attention to objects when I am engrossed in a question, and I tend to misplace them.

  I chose not to address Mother’s comment because the idea of carrying such an easily lost item still made me uncomfortable. “What was Ms. Washburn calling about?” I asked her.

  “She heard from Detective Dickinson,” she answered. “Something about Oliver Lewis’s wives.”

  I knew Mother was usually much more thorough than that, and concluded that she wanted me to return Ms. Washburn’s call, but I was not sure about doing so. “It is almost ten,” I said. “Do you think I might disturb her?”

  “I’m a lot older than her, and I’m not in bed yet,” Mother pointed out, although I did not see the correlation between age and bedtime. It was something that Mother understood, I concluded, and not really worth the time to explore at this moment.

  I went to the wall phone in the kitchen and dialed Ms. Washburn’s number, which I had memorized. I have memorized the telephone number of every person I have ever called, with the exception of some businesses whose computerized services call Questions Answered on occasion to ask if I am a senior citizen in need of medical insurance or a new mother interested in a diaper service. I call them to ask firmly to be taken off their lists of potential clients.

  Ms. Washburn answered on the second ring and said I had made the correct choice by calling and had not interrupted anything important at her home. I did not hear Simon Taylor at all, so I assumed he was not in the room, as he might be otherwise telling his wife again what a poor decision it was to resume working with me. I was a bit intimidated by Simon Taylor, despite our never having met.

  “Detective Dickinson called before for a progress report,” Ms. Washburn told me now.

  “It has only been hours since the last time we spoke,” I pointed out. “The detective must be unusually anxious about this question.”

  “He is. When I told him I’d left you after we’d talked to Hazel and then Roger Siplowitz, he asked about Oliver Lewis’s other wives. Did you know he had other wives?”

  “Yes. Five in all, I believe. I just left two of them in a house in Fords.”

  There was a silence of four seconds on the other end of the line. “You went to someone’s house in Fords?” Ms. Washburn asked. “How did you get there?”

  “My friend Mike the taxicab driver took me there. He served as a very adequate backup when one of Mr. Lewis’s ex-wives was holding a gun on me.”

  Mother’s head turned sharply toward me, and she and Ms. Washburn chorused at the same instant, “Samuel!”

  “No shots were fired,” I pointed out, and told Ms. Washburn—and by extension, Mother—the entire story of my visit with Jennifer LeBlanc and Amy Stanhope. I did not leave out any details, since the one that Mother (and, it appeared, Ms. Washburn) would find most disturbing was the one I had mentioned first.

  “What did the detective say besides pointing out Mr. Lewis’s rather colorful marital history?” I asked Ms. Washburn when my tale had been completed.

  “He mostly grumbled about doing more work on this case—his words, not mine, Samuel—than we are,” was her reply. “It’s very strange to me that he hired us on this question when he seems to be doing the same things we’re doing. Why would he pay for that when he can do it himself?”

  “Only one of many contradictions and puzzlements surrounding this question,” I agreed. “I wonder if Detective Esteban is really the one doing the work for the Piscataway police department, and our client is merely reporting what she has accomplished as if it were the fruit of his own labors.”

  “Good question,” Mother said. I had forgotten about the dinner she had served for me, and looked at it. I realized I was hungry.

  “Well, thank you for the report,” I told Ms. Washburn. “I believe I will eat some turkey now.”

  “Hang on, Samuel,” she said. “There was one more thing the detective said that I think you need to know.”

  “What is that?” I was focusing on the food and had to force myself to pay attention to the voice on the telephone, which now seemed more disembodied because my mind was elsewhere.

  “He said the preliminary report from the medical examiner showed that the cut to the throat was not the cause of Oliver Lewis’s death. He said Oliver had also been poisoned with something called Metoclopramide, or Reglan, stabbed in the ribs with a smaller sharp object, possibly a scissor or nail file, and probably suffocated.”

  That stopped my thinking about the turkey for a moment. “Four causes of death?” I said, mostly thinking aloud.

  “Technically, the poison was what did him in. They found it in his stomach, not just in his esophagus, which would indicate it had been swallowed and made it into his bloodstream. The others were either inflicted on him after he was already poisoned or maybe someone cut his throat just before he died. That could have something to do with the relatively small amount of blood found on the scene.”

  “Indeed. Whoever killed Mr. Lewis was being remarkably thorough.”

  Mother looked at me with a questioning expression, but said nothing. She considers it rude to speak to someone when he or she is talking on the phone, and knew I would inform her of my findings—or in this case, Ms. Washburn’s recitation of the findings from either Detective Dickinson or (more likely in my estimation) Detective Esteban.

  “Did the detective say what Reglan is?” I asked. I had no immediate access to my Mac Pro, so I could not do the research now.

  “It’s a medication for nausea,” Ms. Washburn said. “Ironic, no?”

  I had no idea if that was ironic; the concept is a difficult one for me. “Nausea. Is it a prescription medication?”

  “Yes. It’s given for acid reflux, for some diabetics, and for a number of other conditions. How can that kill?”

  “An overdose of almost any medication, in sufficient quantity, can be fatal, Ms. Washburn.” My dinner was now utmost in my mind; my attention was flagging.

  “What do you think we have to do next?” Ms. Washburn asked.

  “I have to go eat some turkey,” I answered. “I believe you should go to sleep. In the morning, we are going to redouble our efforts to find Cynthia Maholm, and I believe I know how to begin.”

  “How?” she asked.

  “We need to find the address at which Oliver Lewis was living before he married Ms. Maholm. Good night, Ms. Washburn.”

  “Good night, Samuel,” she said.

  twenty

  “I can’t believe we didn’t think of this sooner,” Ms. Washburn said.

  It was the next morning, and we were at the Middlesex County Clerk’s office, inquiring after any public records involving the deceased Oliver Lewis. The woman behind the counter, who had informed us her name was Janice (and that her favorite Beatles song was “I’m Down”), had gone off to retrieve what she had assured us would be “not much. The Freedom of Information Act doesn’t mean you can find out everything you want about everybody.” And off she’d walked.

/>   “No,” Ms. Washburn had said quietly. “We leave that to the NSA.”

  I had not responded to that comment, but now I said, “The issue was not that we hadn’t considered it. The issue was that what we had found out had not yet led us to this. This kind of research is a progression, and each step is necessary to that progression.”

  Ms. Washburn nodded. “So what got us to this? I’m a couple of steps behind.”

  Janice was still nowhere in sight, so I had time to answer, “The idea is that there were four ex-wives and one current wife when Mr. Lewis was killed,” I said. “Clearly, the apartment we had been led to believe was the home for Ms. Maholm and her husband was simply a staged set. So given that he had done this so many times before and had probably not rented a new home every time led to the conclusion that Mr. Lewis must surely have used his own residence for each marriage.”

  Ms. Washburn’s brows furrowed. “Why didn’t you just ask Jennifer or Ms. Stanhope where they lived when they were married?”

  I broke eye contact, which I do quite readily when embarrassed. “The atmosphere was not an especially welcoming one,” I said.

  “I’m sorry I wasn’t there.”

  That took my by surprise, but I did not search Ms. Washburn’s face. I trusted my ability to read her tone well enough to know she was not being sarcastic. “You have no reason to be sorry,” I said. “You didn’t know I was going to Ms. LeBlanc’s house.”

  “Even so. I could call her now and ask, if you like. Did you get the phone number?”

  I had memorized Ms. LeBlanc’s telephone number when I’d found it online, but did not recite it for Ms. Washburn. “The address is not the only data we are here to collect,” I said.

  Janice arrived back at the counter at that moment, so Ms. Washburn did not have time to ask me anything else. I was glad because I felt I had diminished in her view somewhat, although she had not communicated that feeling directly, so I was relieved not to continue that conversation.

  “This is what you can have,” she said. “There’s a fee.” She deposited a rather thick envelope on the counter.

  Ms. Washburn paid the fee with the understanding that I would reimburse the expense in her paycheck. I prefer not to handle cash except when necessary—I will do so when I have to—and also have issues about using a debit or credit card, as they are traceable by unscrupulous individuals who can access one’s personal and financial information. And by that I do not mean the kind of public data we were now obtaining about Oliver Lewis.

  Ms. Washburn and I left the clerk’s office and walked into the corridor where there were a few benches. We sat on one and she opened the envelope we had just purchased.

  “You sure you don’t want to take this back to Questions Answered?” she asked as she pulled out copies of various county documents.

  “If this information leads us to an address—and I believe it will—going back to the office would only waste valuable time. What is included here?”

  Ms. Washburn, who had no qualms about handling the documents, scanned the top few. “There’s an application to register a business with the county,” she said.

  “Excellent. That should have all the personal information we need, and it adds the data about the business. What kind of establishment was Mr. Lewis registering?”

  “Hang on. I’ve read halfway through the description and I still don’t know.” Ms. Washburn scanned the one-page document. “There are only two lines to describe the business and Lewis went on for six. He wrote really small too.”

  “Please read it to me,” I said, being careful to include the please.

  She read, “OLimited will provide its clientele with financial and practical life advice and products generated by multiple suppliers in an effort to increase wealth, generate retirement income, and insure against long-term health care necessities.”

  “That is certainly a convoluted sentence, but—”

  “Wait, there’s more. ‘Clients will provide some initial seed sources in an effort to multiply opportunities through prudent and bold investments, fiduciary products, and insurance options to diversify portfolio and ensure a secure future.’ What do you think that means?” Ms. Washburn asked.

  “That he was trying to cheat old people,” I said. “Does he list a business address?”

  “It’s in Milltown,” she answered.

  “Near Questions Answered. Very convenient.”

  Within minutes, we were in Ms. Washburn’s car heading toward Oliver Lewis’s reported place of business. As usual, Ms. Washburn was attending completely to the road, but we continued to speculate (something I usually prefer to avoid doing, but which sometimes allows me to consider the facts I have in my possession in new and fruitful ways) on the information in Lewis’s file.

  “He listed a home address and a business address,” Ms. Washburn reminded me. “Why go to the business first?”

  “If I am correct in my assumptions, it makes more sense to go to Mr. Lewis’s business first because that is most likely the place in which he was killed,” I explained. “I think the apartment we were led to by Ms. Maholm was simply a stage and that even when they were married, neither Mr. Lewis nor Ms. Maholm lived there. So it is highly possible they were living in Mr. Lewis’s residence.”

  “So why do you think he wasn’t killed at home?” We were four minutes from our destination, located above a bakery on Main Street in Milltown.

  “Because I think Ms. Maholm is still living in the residence, and it seems, although we cannot confirm it, that she was involved in the killing. She would not want to leave evidence in her home because it could be easily tied to her.”

  “If Oliver Lewis was murdered in his office, wouldn’t someone have noticed something at the scene? Co-workers, secretaries, janitors, somebody?” Ms. Washburn was going through the same thought process I had employed in reaching this conclusion; she is very intelligent.

  “Not if it is the kind of office I presume it to be,” I said.

  The building was a two-story commercial structure boasting a sign on its street-level story for a “classic Italian bakery” at which there was currently a fairly robust business. Ms. Washburn parked the car across the street and we walked to the entrance.

  “This isn’t Oliver’s office,” Ms. Washburn said. “It was supposed to be upstairs. There must be another door somewhere.”

  We walked around the building to the back, where indeed there was a wooden door with a window and a mailbox that bore the legend Italiano’s/OLimited. I looked at Ms. Washburn, who shrugged.

  “You didn’t expect it would be luxurious, did you?” she asked.

  “On the contrary. This is precisely what I had anticipated. I was waiting for you to open the door.” I did not have a pair of latex surgical gloves with me.

  Ms. Washburn did as requested, and we walked into the hallway and then, since the form we’d read indicated the office was on the second floor, up a case of rather suspect stairs. We ascended successfully and came to the only door on that level.

  It had no identifying mark on it. I hesitated a moment, then nodded at Ms. Washburn, who knocked four times. There was no answer, so I nodded and she knocked again. Still no response.

  Ms. Washburn did not ask; she merely reached over and turned the doorknob. The door swung open.

  The room inside was the very description of empty. It would have been like the scene at Ms. Maholm’s apartment after everything had been removed, except in this room, clearly intended to be used for office space, there was a thick coat of dust on everything. I hesitated before stepping inside.

  “It’s just dirt, Samuel,” Ms. Washburn said. “You know we have to go in.”

  I nodded. The thought was not a pleasant one, but it was necessary. I waited for Ms. Washburn to lead the way and followed her into the abandoned suite.

  “Did Oliver Lewis ev
er have an office here?” Ms. Washburn asked. “He hasn’t been dead that long, and it doesn’t look like anyone’s been here in a while.”

  “No,” I agreed. “You are quite correct. This space was never intended to be a legitimate office for Mr. Lewis or anyone else. It was an address he could use to show a loss for tax purposes, legal ramifications, and in the event a potential client would ask. But I guarantee that if someone would show interest in the ‘services’ he was offering, Mr. Lewis would arrange to see the client in his or her home or office. He never brought anyone up here.”

  We wandered about the room, examining the dust and the floorboards, which were almost all the room had to offer visually. The windows had not been cleaned recently, if ever. The walls had last seen a coat of paint in another decade, and possibly not the most recent one. And the room held the quiet and musty smell of a space that had been neglected for quite a while. When we reached a door marked restroom, I had to gather my thoughts for a total of seventeen seconds.

  “I am not going to ask you to look inside,” I told Ms. Washburn. “That would overstep the boundaries of the professional relationship we have initiated. But please give me enough time to—”

  Ms. Washburn curled her lip and opened the washroom door. She flipped the light switch but seemed mildly surprised when the fixture over the sink illuminated.

  “He had to keep the utility company paid so he could claim to have the business here; it would look suspicious otherwise,” I explained. “I’m sure the water in there is operational as well.” But I was staring at the light fixture in an attempt to avoid looking at anything else in the small room.

  “There’s nothing scary here, Samuel,” Ms. Washburn said. “It’s not pleasant to look at, but I don’t see anything that looks like violence occurred here.”

  She had mistaken my revulsion for fear, but I chose not to explain myself. “Remember that it was probably the poison that killed Mr. Lewis, if our information is correct,” I said. “There might not be the kind of gore one would expect.”

  “But the knife wound,” she reminded me.