The Question of the Dead Mistress

by E. J. Copperman

  Ms. Washburn shook her head but continued looking at the pen. “Oh no, Samuel,” she said. “I wouldn’t say a liability.”

  The ideas came flooding into my brain. I had been blunt and socially awkward in the interview with Rabinski, asking him questions he found upsetting and interrupting Ms. Washburn. I had gotten us thrown out of his office. We might have gotten more information, as she was suggesting, if Ms. Washburn had been sent to talk to Rabinski alone.

  Without me.

  I stood up and began circumnavigating the room, raising my arms and increasing my speed. I barely heard Ms. Washburn say, “Samuel, it’s not time for you to exercise yet. Samuel!”

  But my momentum, fueled by the recriminations I was hurling at myself mentally (that is a metaphor), would not abate. I walked faster and faster and flung my arms into the air with increasing levels of force as I walked. I knew I was muttering aloud but was not able to control my thoughts or my speech.

  “I am a liability, a drag on the business … It is my fault we have no strong information on this question … Ms. Washburn would be better off alone … If I could empathize with others I could find the answer … ”

  My mind was so cluttered with words and emotional thoughts that I had not even managed to count the number of laps I had completed around the office. I stopped only when I became aware of Ms. Washburn standing directly in my path at an especially narrow junction between the drink machine and one of the pizza ovens. She had a determined look on her face and was holding her arms out, palms extended, to halt my progress as I walked. Her strategy was successful, as I stopped directly in front of her. It is possible I even stopped talking to myself.

  “Listen to me,” Ms. Washburn said. “Nobody is suggesting that you aren’t really good at what you do. The last person on this planet who would say such a thing is me. You’ve taught me so much I can’t even begin to measure it. But in some cases the key is establishing a bond with the person you’re talking to, and as it happens I might be better than you at that one thing. It’s not a failure and you’re anything but a liability. Samuel, you know you have a special mind and that’s one of the reasons I love you. So stop blaming yourself for not being perfect and understand that maybe if we manage to split things up we can both do better.”

  I was breathing heavily and I felt a ring of perspiration at my hairline. My arms felt heavy. My head was hanging a little low. I found myself looking at Ms. Washburn’s feet rather than into her eyes and corrected my posture.

  “Yes,” I said. “Yes, you are correct about that. All of that. We should separate the work. I can ask Mike the taxicab driver to take me to my appointments. It would be more efficient and you can do better on your own without me to irritate some of the subjects. I see that you are right. But I think perhaps it would be best if I sat down now.”

  Ms. Washburn reached over to take my arm but I walked to my chair unassisted, feeling the cling of my shirt and wondering if I should consider bringing an extra set of clothing to the office for just such occasions.

  She knelt down by the chair as I caught my breath, an expression that would indicate breath could try to elude someone. “Are you all right?” she asked.

  I realized then I had sent an improper signal. “Of course,” I assured Ms. Washburn. “I simply tried to do the laps around the office too quickly.”

  “Good.” She took eight seconds to be certain I was not having a medical issue and saw my breathing was normalizing. “So you agree that we should split up the interviews?”

  I had already said that was the case, but I nodded. “It seems logical to do so.”

  Another six seconds. “Is there anything you want to say to me, Samuel?” Ms. Washburn asked.

  It would be possible to store an extra shirt and other items of clothing in the men’s restroom in the office, but Ms. Washburn’s question penetrated my thoughts and puzzled me. Clearly there was some response she was expecting. I did not know what it might be and that created some anxiety for me. If I said something that was not what Ms. Washburn was expecting, she would think me rude or insensitive. I am especially careful about this when talking to Ms. Washburn because by contrast I usually don’t care whether other people consider me rude or insensitive.

  “Thank you,” I said finally. It seemed the safest choice, and I was grateful to Ms. Washburn for clarifying the issue and disillusioning me of the notion that I was a useless member of the Questions Answered organization. I hoped that was the issue to which she was alluding.

  Her mouth twitched a tiny bit on the left side and she studied my face for four seconds. “You’re welcome,” she said. She stood and walked back to her desk and resumed her workstation.

  I was not certain, but I thought I might have given her the wrong response.

  Even as I continued to research the ownership of Fontaine and Fontaine—and became more convinced that Leon Rabinski and not Virginia Fontaine was now sole owner of the business—I mused over the most recent exchange with Ms. Washburn. Should I ask her what response she had been expecting? Should I consult Mike the taxicab driver (who often explains some human interactions to me) when he drove me home this evening? Would it make sense to ask my mother over dinner, or would I be inhibited by the presence of Reuben Hoenig?

  The interaction had dominated my thinking for twenty-six minutes when Ms. Washburn stood and said she was going to leave for the day. She asked if I’d like a ride home and I declined. Tonight it was probably best to contact Mike the taxicab driver.

  “So Janet told you that you weren’t a drag on the company and you said thank you.” Mike the taxicab driver knew better than to converse with me while operating the Toyota Prius he drives professionally. He was speaking as we waited for a red traffic light. “I don’t see anything wrong about that, Samuel.”

  I will admit to a sense of relief. “I am glad to hear it. I would not want to hurt Ms. Washburn’s feelings.”

  “Especially now that she’s your main squeeze,” Mike said. I could see the side of his mouth widen to a grin even from the back seat of the taxicab. Mike likes to use such terms just to see if I will react to them, but with an iPhone I have been able to look up definitions even as we travel so I can respond appropriately. He had used this one four times previously.

  “I do not think you are analyzing our relationship accurately,” I said, most likely for the fourth time. “But I am glad you don’t see a serious mistake in what I said.”

  We were silent as Mike began to drive again and waited until he had parked the car in my mother’s driveway. Mike secured the parking brake and turned to face me before I could make my way out of the taxicab.

  “I know Janet,” he said. “If she reacted the way you said she did, something was bothering her maybe just a little. Are you sure you didn’t leave anything out of the story?”

  I did not believe there had been an omission but tried to remember everything that had been said. I recited as much of our conversation as I could recall verbatim to Mike, but it was not complete. I do not remember everything people say to me. Even when I care about the other person’s emotions and the topic being discussed, my mind tends to focus on certain areas at the expense of others. It was something I had been attempting to work on in sessions with Dr. Mancuso.

  When I had finished my recitation Mike tilted his head slightly to one side and pursed his lips. “I’m not hearing anything that would get somebody upset,” he said. “Maybe Janet’s just in a mood.”

  “Everyone is in a mood,” I told him. “They vary in tone and intensity.”

  Mike laughed. “That’s true, Samuel. You need me in the morning?”

  I got out of the cab and walked to the side of Mike’s open window. “I will text you if I do,” I said. “Is the usual time agreeable?”

  “That’s why it’s the usual time,” he answered and nodded as he backed the taxicab out of the driveway. Mike does not a
llow me to pay him for the rides he gives me and I have, after many attempts, stopped offering because he told me to do so.

  It was, as had often been the case, comforting to talk to Mike about my conversation with Ms. Washburn and more so to hear him speak on the subject. Mike says he has had many interactions with women and understands such relationships much more fully than I do. I felt less anxious about the look on Ms. Washburn’s face.

  But I still had trouble falling asleep that night.

  fourteen

  “Brett Fontaine was a good businessman. He was a loving husband. He was a good friend. And he was a man of integrity and humility. His loss will be felt by all of us for the rest of our lives.”

  I had merely been planning to ask for directions to the restroom in order to wash my hands, but the man in the suit was mumbling his words seemingly into his necktie. His head was bent and he was speaking quietly and quickly. He looked up at me after he was finished. “Did you hear that?” he asked.

  “Yes,” I said.

  “What did you think?”

  That was an interesting question. “About what?” I said. I honestly wasn’t sure whether the man was asking about what he’d been saying or about his necktie, which was dark blue and matched the somber tone set by his black suit.

  “About my eulogy. How did it sound?” The man was wearing a black yarmulke which was affixed to his hair with a bobby pin.

  “It sounded very quiet and rushed,” I told the man. When Ms. Washburn and I had decided to attend Brett Fontaine’s funeral, I had not expected to be pressed into service as a critic of oratory.

  “I don’t mean the delivery,” the man said. “I have to get up and say that in front of the crowd so I was rehearsing it to myself. I’m asking what you thought of the speech itself.”

  “I was just looking for the restroom,” I said again.

  “Perfect! I was going there myself. Follow me!” And the man headed through the outer door of the memorial home. I felt I had no choice but to go along since that had been my intent to begin with.

  Ms. Washburn was parking her Kia Spectra and had suggested I go ahead. I had accidentally touched a chewing gum wrapper in Ms. Washburn’s car and was anxious to wash my hands. Otherwise I would not have considered entering a public restroom I had never seen before. But now there was no choice so I followed the man in the black suit and the yarmulke and he did in fact lead me to a door designated gentlemen. I did not dispute the idea but was certain some males who were not at all refined must have passed through this portal at some time or another.

  It was not that the facility, the Crescent Hill Memorial Home in Somerset, was at all disreputable or had an unsanitary appearance. It was simply the mathematical idea that all people who opened this door were genteel that was unlikely. It was entirely possible, although not certain, that one person who walked over the threshold today could be a murderer.

  The man in the black suit turned to me as he walked. “The eulogy,” he said. “Tell me how you thought it sounded.” I had already responded to that specific question but was now aware the man was asking something other than what his words might have indicated.

  “I thought it sounded like something a person would say if he did not know Brett Fontaine very well,” I told him.

  The man’s mouth flattened out and his eyes took on a sad expression. “I was afraid of that.”

  I walked to the row of sinks and chose one that looked less recently used than the others. They were all in a good state of repair and looked freshly cleaned, which was reassuring. I turned on the hot water and waited for it to warm.

  The man, who had gone off to a corner where I thankfully could not see him, walked back toward me and took up a spot at the sink to my left. “What do you think I could do to fix the speech?” he asked.

  He seemed preoccupied with his eulogy for Brett Fontaine, about whom he seemed to know only the most basic of facts. I had been researching Mr. Fontaine for only three days and already had a better sense of him than the man in the black suit was exhibiting.

  “If you are insecure about the eulogy, why must you give one at all?” I asked. “I assume the speeches are voluntary.” The water had reached the desired temperature so I began to wash my hands, which made my skin feel much better.

  “Not for me,” the man in the black suit said. “I’m the rabbi.”

  That had not occurred to me. Indeed, it had not struck me that Brett Fontaine might be Jewish, although that did not make a difference to my research. What bothered me was that I hadn’t known it until now.

  I finished my task and reached for one of the towels—unfortunately cloth and not paper, which bothered me because I didn’t know who had used it previously—left on the countertop. Reluctantly and gingerly I dried my hands and then turned toward the rabbi.

  “Bolster your assertions with facts,” I said. Then I turned and walked out of the restroom before he could ask me another question.

  I met Ms. Washburn at the main entrance. “What should we be looking for today?” she asked me as we walked into the memorial chapel and took seats in the second-to-last pew. I wanted a vantage point for the whole room.

  “Mostly we want to see who Mr. Fontaine’s ‘inner circle’ might be,” I said. “Look for those who spend the most time talking to his widow, those who offer eulogies, and those who make the most public displays of being upset about Mr. Fontaine’s death. They will be the most likely suspects in our research.”

  “Are you thinking that someone who shows emotion in public is automatically a possible killer?” Ms. Washburn asked.

  “Not necessarily, but it is the display that makes the difference,” I said. I wondered if her tone was challenging. That is not always easy to identify. “If he or she is particularly interested in having us see the emotion, it might not be genuine.”

  “Interesting,” Ms. Washburn said. I did not know exactly what message she was attempting to deliver. I doubted she found my thought any more interesting than others I have conveyed, yet she didn’t usually feel compelled to comment on most of them.

  But she didn’t say anything else and I could not properly respond, given that I did not understand the situation clearly. In one minute and sixteen seconds the memorial service began.

  Virginia Fontaine had already entered the chapel before Ms. Washburn and I had arrived. She was seated in the front pew. There was no casket on display; apparently Brett Fontaine’s body had been released by the medical examiner’s office in time to undergo cremation because there was an urn made of copper on a stand near the podium.

  I noticed Leon Rabinski in the pew directly behind Virginia. He was not conversing with her and sat very still in his dark suit. I could not see his face so I can’t report on his expression.

  Detective Monroe was not present. I had wondered if the investigator might attend the memorial, but he did not either because he felt it would not enhance his understanding of the case or because he had already decided Virginia Fontaine was the killer and therefore any further observation was superfluous.

  The room’s capacity was roughly two hundred people but it was far from filled. A white-haired woman in a blue suit with a hat that no doubt held a veil was sitting next to Virginia. I assumed she was Brett Fontaine’s mother. The three rows behind them, aside from Leon Rabinski, appeared to be accommodating family members. It was impossible to tell which ones were from Brett Fontaine’s family and which, if any, were representing Virginia’s.

  On the opposite, or left side from my vantage point, there were fewer guests. Ms. Washburn and I sat near the rear doors and we represented precisely 10 percent of the people occupying seats in this half of the chapel. Those who were seated here were scattered, mostly in couples. There were no children present, something I thought was significant and fortunate. Under such circumstances young people are easily bored and tend to act out, or “create a scene,�
�� as Mother used to say about me.

  In the eighth row back—which placed him six pews ahead of Ms. Washburn and me—sat a man, alone, in a dark sports jacket and denim jeans. I considered pointing him out to Ms. Washburn, who had insisted I wear a business suit and a tie. The suit was not a serious inconvenience for me, but I have a special dislike of neckties, which I feel are unnecessary articles of clothing that serve no practical purpose and make one’s throat feel constrained. I pulled at mine thinking about it. But I felt that the comparison would not make Ms. Washburn, who was being unusually silent, any more amiable.

  I did notice the man in jeans when he’d walked by us, however. He was in his thirties by my estimate and had long, unruly hair that flopped over the collar of his jacket. He appeared to squint at the podium as if struggling to see it clearly but did not avail himself of a closer pew, despite there being many seats empty ahead of him. He sat fully back in the pew and crossed his right leg over his left knee. He spoke to no one else in the chapel.

  Being sure not to speak too loudly I touched Ms. Washburn lightly on the arm and pointed the man out to her. “He is not the same as everyone else in the room,” I told her.

  Ms. Washburn took a long look at the man. “He’s a lot more informal,” she noted.

  “Anything that stands out could be significant,” I said. “We should make an effort to find out who that man is.”

  Ms. Washburn turned and looked at me with an air of importance. “He’s not displaying any outward emotion,” she said. I was beginning to understand that my observation about displays of grief might have in some way been responsible for Ms. Washburn’s sudden distant mood.

  “That is not the only thing we should note,” I explained. “It would only be one example, and even then, not a sure sign of guilt, just interest.” I felt that better explained my original statement.

  But Ms. Washburn did not seem better convinced. “Uh-huh,” she said, then sat back and crossed her arms. Her mood was endangering my ability to adequately observe the event because I was thinking about two things at once, something that does not come to me easily.