The Question of the Dead Mistress

by E. J. Copperman

  “From what I’ve been able to dig up, Neil is an agent of the IRS working out of their Newark office,” Ms. Washburn said. I found it was easier for me to concentrate on what she was saying when she was at her own desk more than eight feet away. My personal urges involving her were less pronounced. I always wanted to hear what she was saying but from here it was less difficult to make that the priority. “He’s married with two children. Apparently he runs a Facebook group for people who graduated high school with him and the others.”

  “Is there contact information for Mr. Betts?” I asked.

  “I friended him on Facebook and sent him a private message explaining what we’ve been doing and asking if there is anything he might be able to add to what we know so far. I’m waiting to hear back from him.”

  “Please let me know when there is a reply,” I said.

  “Of course, Samuel.”

  I told her of my visit to Leon Rabinski’s home and my mixed results. “He obviously knows more than he is saying. He outwardly admits to knowing more than he is saying. I can’t help wondering if he might have said more if you had been there, Ms. Washburn.”

  Ms. Washburn, who had been looking at her screen, turned toward me with her brow wrinkled and a concerned look in her eyes. “I doubt that, Samuel. Why would he tell me more than he told you if he doesn’t want to divulge the name of the person he bought the audio equipment for?”

  “Because you are more likable than I am and that makes a difference in getting subjects to offer more information,” I said.

  Ms. Washburn turned her chair so she could face me. “I don’t think I’m more likable than you are, Samuel. You can be very engaging when you want to be. You just don’t always want to be.”

  I stood up. It was time to begin a round of exercise walking. I begin relatively slowly and increase the pace after two circumnavigations of the office’s perimeter. “I think there are times when my personality is something of a mystery to most people,” I said.

  “If I’m so accessible, how come Virginia Fontaine won’t talk to me?” Ms. Washburn asked.

  “It is a good question. Perhaps we chose our subjects badly.” I began my second trip around the office and Ms. Washburn returned her gaze to her screen. It must be difficult to keep track of me as I move in and out of her line of sight.

  “You mean you should have talked to Virginia and I should have gone to Leon Rabinski’s house?” she asked.

  My breath was starting to feel a little more strained; that is normal. “Precisely. Mr. Rabinski, you’ll recall, reacted badly to me the first time we met, while Ms. Fontaine, aside from my reliance on facts in questioning the existence of ghosts, was not at all averse to my working on her question.”

  Ms. Washburn considered that point for twenty-seven steps. “You might be right, Samuel. But there’s nothing we can do about it now. We just have to be sure to think before we decide who’s going to talk to whom in the future.”

  My fourth trip around the office is when speaking starts to become slightly more difficult. “Or … we could go to the interviews … together … as we used to.”

  I happened to be directly in front of Ms. Washburn’s desk; she looked up. “But I thought we agreed that splitting up was a more efficient use of our time.”

  Now I was in the area of the office nearer the drink machine and the pizza ovens. “It is not … more … efficient … if we are not able to … get better results,” I said. “Perhaps … we make a more successful team.”

  I could not see Ms. Washburn’s face but there was an unmistakable sound of pleasure in her voice. “Maybe so, Samuel. Maybe so.”

  She worked rather diligently while I completed my rounds and accepted my offer of a diet soda when I purchased a bottle of spring water from our drink machine. From the sound of the bottle dropping we were running low on spring water; it was fortunate that Les the drink machine man would be delivering more the next day.

  I fell rather heavily into my chair after giving Ms. Washburn her bottle of diet soda. Exercise is important, but it often feels like it does more harm than good. My physician Dr. Levine would disagree. Science is constantly evolving but facts must be respected.

  “Samuel,” Ms. Washburn said, “what does it mean when a person goes missing and nobody reports until a year later?”

  That seemed a random hypothetical. “To what are you referring, Ms. Washburn?”

  “I was looking into what Officer Palumbo told us about no other women being reported as missing or dead around the time Melanie Mason died in the car crash,” she said. “And just like he said, I didn’t find anyone. But a year later a homeless man told a cop in North Plainfield that a woman he knew had vanished from their spot under an overpass. The guy said he hadn’t told anyone because nobody had ever asked him, but he thought maybe the cop would know because he was a cop.”

  It took me a moment to piece together the information she had given me. “Ms. Washburn, I believe you might have just answered a very important part of this question.”

  “I did?”

  “Yes, and that means we should call Mike the taxicab driver.”

  Ms. Washburn’s eyebrows dropped slightly. “I’m driving us both to your house, Samuel.”

  “We need Mike for backup,” I said. “We are going to have another conversation with Melanie Mason.”

  twenty-eight

  My mother and Reuben Hoenig had wondered why Ms. Washburn and I were rushing through dinner, even after I’d explained that we’d be leaving shortly. Ms. Washburn had suggested we not divulge our plans for fear of worrying Mother. I had agreed because I was concerned Reuben might try to tag along with us.

  Mike the taxicab driver was his usual reliable self, arriving in the driveway of my mother’s home at precisely the time I had requested. Tonight he knew precisely how to reach the gravesite in question, and the back gate of the cemetery had once again been left open. I wondered if Stephen Manfred would have approved of that practice, but it allowed us the opportunity to reach Melanie Mason’s grave after sunset.

  “The last time she invited you,” Mike pointed out. “How can you be sure she’ll be watching for us now?”

  “I don’t know for certain,” I admitted. “We did not uncover any motion sensor or underground equipment that might alert someone at a remote location, but we know that Officer Palumbo had not arranged a conversation ahead of time when he supposedly heard Ms. Mason’s ghost speak. Whoever is speaking had been in place when he arrived.”

  Ms. Washburn was staring at the headstone and looked like she was unusually nervous. “Are we sure it’s not Melanie?” she asked.

  I walked to her and, as I had seen in motion pictures and television, put my arm around her shoulders. I spoke quietly to avoid Mike overhearing me. “This is just like going with your high school friends,” I said. “Pretend we are here to have a good time.”

  “When I did that I saw a ghost,” Ms. Washburn insisted.

  “I think not, but either way, you will not see one tonight. This area is wired for sound. If there were such a thing as a ghost, she would not need to rely on electronic equipment.”

  Ms. Washburn looked up at me. “That’s true, isn’t it?” Her face gained confidence. “Thank you, Samuel.”

  “You have your flashlight?” Mike called over. “Maybe we can attract someone’s attention, and hopefully it won’t be the cops.”

  We both reached for the flashlights I’d purchased earlier, ones with especially bright beams visible from a remote location. I took two from my pockets and handed the extra to Ms. Washburn, who seemed still transfixed by Melanie Mason’s headstone.

  “Ready?” Mike asked.

  I nodded and he turned on the powerful flashlight at the same time I lit my own. We pointed the beams into the sky and began to move them in a circular fashion, slowly, around a fairly wide area above our heads. We c
ontinued this movement for twenty-six seconds.

  Looking at Ms. Washburn I could see she was not participating. The third beam might not have been necessary but I did not know how far away our targets might be situated, or even if they were watching at all. Every bit of light we could generate would help.

  I walked to the spot where Ms. Washburn was standing and nudged her lightly on the right should. She looked at me. “The flashlight,” I said.

  “Are we sure we want to tell her we’re here?” she asked.

  “Certainly. If what you found this afternoon is an indicator, this could be essential to answering Ms. Fontaine’s question.” I kept moving the flashlight in a generally circular pattern.

  Ms. Washburn nodded. She turned on her flashlight and added her beam to the ones being generated by the devices in my hand and Mike’s.

  While we created the pattern and waited for a response, I made it a point to stay close to Ms. Washburn. I had noticed a slight tremor in her flashlight’s beam and a tight-lipped expression on her face. These are indicators that a person might be experiencing anxiety. Having studied romantic relationships through motion pictures and television, I assumed it was expected of me to be close to Ms. Washburn if she was feeling especially tense about the situation even if I did not expect it to be at all dangerous to any of us.

  Perhaps distracting her would also help ease her worried demeanor. “Have we found any evidence that Virginia Fontaine and Leon Rabinski are lovers, as Detective Monroe suggested?” I asked.

  “Nothing, but that’s not the kind of thing somebody advertises,” Ms. Washburn answered. Concentrating on my question seemed to help her relax even as we created our aural light show. “Debbie Sampras didn’t know anything about it, but she wouldn’t because she was friends with Brett and he’d be the last person to know if his wife was having an affair.”

  “Unless he did find out and that’s what got him killed.” Mike the taxicab driver had been listening from his station some nine feet northwest of me. “People get awfully testy about stuff like that.”

  “Wouldn’t a husband be more likely to commit violence on the woman who betrayed him rather than she or her lover killing him?” I asked. It was an honest question because there is only so much one can infer from depictions of relationships in motion pictures or television programs, which are largely fictional.

  “You think Brett would be justified in killing his wife if he found out she had an affair?” Ms. Washburn asked, an edge in her voice I did not recognize.

  “Not at all. I don’t think anyone is ever justified in taking another person’s life. But I believe he would have a reason to be angry with his wife. Of course, Ms. Fontaine did not seem homicidal when she was telling us her husband was dallying with a dead woman. It is possible I’m not reading the situation accurately.”

  From every direction there was suddenly a voice, the same one Mike and I had heard in this spot before. “You are trying to summon me, Samuel Hoenig?”

  Ms. Washburn froze in her tracks. Mike the taxicab driver immediately extinguished the beam from his flashlight and stood still, his hand resting on the pistol he had secured in a holster strapped to his left shoulder.

  I did the same as Mike but was carrying no weapon, although he had offered me one. I am not licensed to carry a gun. “Turn off your flashlight,” I whispered to Ms. Washburn. She did not move. “Ms. Washburn,” I said. That seemed to focus her attention and she turned off the beam. I felt her hand encircle my left bicep. If we had to flee quickly, that would make running more difficult, but I did not remove Ms. Washburn’s hand.

  “I did wish to have a conversation,” I said in what I hoped was an appropriate tone. “You left many questions unanswered the last time we spoke.”

  “I don’t have to answer your questions. My message was clear. I wanted you to stop investigating Brett Fontaine’s death and you didn’t listen.”

  I did not care for the words this woman was choosing. “I did not understand your objection. We are simply trying to discover the truth. How does that threaten you?”

  “I’m not threatened. I’m annoyed.”

  Ms. Washburn’s hand tightened on my upper arm.

  I decided to try to redirect the conversation. “Who are you?” I asked.

  “You know who I am.”

  The audio equipment Leon Rabinski had purchased was obviously of very high quality. Even with the one speaker I had removed no longer functioning there was no way to attribute a direction to the voice and no electronic interference or static. I marveled at the efficiency of the technology.

  “I know who you said you are, but I am certain that is not the truth. You are not the ghost of Melanie Mason.” The graveyard setting and the disembodied voice were effective, but the fact remained that I was talking to a completely ordinary living woman.

  “I am the spirit of Melanie Mason,” the voice said.

  Leaning closely toward Ms. Washburn’s ear I was very careful to whisper, “Is that Debbie Sampras’s voice?”

  Ms. Washburn shook her head fervently; no, we were not being watched by Debbie Sampras.

  “Perhaps you are exactly that after all,” I said more loudly, but without shouting. “Are you familiar with Anthony Deane?”

  The woman, wherever she was, did not answer my question. “I have warned you. Now go to your home. If you value the people who live there, you will go immediately.”

  I felt unable to move. Ms. Washburn, fire in her eyes visible even in this darkness, said loudly, “What do you mean by that?”

  There was no response.

  My head was beginning to shake. My hands were undoubtedly flapping at my sides. I must have fallen to my knees because I felt strong hands pulling me up and looked to see Mike the taxicab driver on my right side and Ms. Washburn on my left.

  “Let’s go,” Mike said. “Now.”

  I felt them pull me to my feet and I felt my legs begin to walk. I do not remember willing them to do so.

  The drive to my home was not a long one. I tried calling Mother’s cellular phone but the fact that the signal went immediately to her voice mail application indicated she had turned the phone off, probably to prepare for bed. I called the landline at the house but there was no answer. Sometimes my parents do not come back downstairs for a call, letting their answering device in the kitchen take the message.

  When it came on with Mother’s voice saying, “I’m sorry I can’t take your call. Please leave a message when you hear the beep,” I said, “This is your son, Samuel Hoenig. Please call my cellular phone immediately.” Then I disconnected the call.

  Ms. Washburn, sitting in the back of Mike’s taxicab, could not quite reach to put her hand on my shoulder, but she did make an attempt. “It’s okay, Samuel. I’m sure.”

  “Drive faster,” I told Mike.

  “Really?” He knew of my anxiety regarding exceeding the posted speed limit.

  “Really.”

  With Mike’s increased effort we arrived at my home in twenty-two minutes. I kept my eyes closed for most of the ride but it did not relieve my concern about my parents and the veiled threat issued by the woman at the cemetery. I found myself biting both my lips. Ms. Washburn made several attempts to reassure me that nothing sinister would be found when we arrived, but I could not help but mentally consider every possibility and there were many gruesome ones.

  At first glance when we approached the house everything appeared normal. There was a light on in the living room, as Mother would do if I was out. There was another light upstairs in my parents’ bedroom. No sign of anyone anywhere in or outside the house was visible.

  “What do you think?” Mike asked as he put the taxicab’s transmission into the Park gear and applied the parking brake. “I don’t see anything suspicious.”

  “Our first priority has to be Vivian and Reuben,” Ms. Washburn said. “I
’ll check on them.” She opened the door on her side of the taxicab and started toward the house before I could object, over my own fears, that I should be the one to do that. Ms. Washburn knows when to take charge of a situation.

  “Okay, then,” Mike said as Ms. Washburn opened the front door with the key I’d given her when she’d agreed to stay for the duration of this research project. She went into the house and closed the door carefully behind her. “Let’s you and I check out the grounds, shall we?”

  I did not answer but opened the passenger door as Mike got out of the taxicab. Without discussing it we both reached for the flashlights we’d taken to the cemetery, although the porch light was also still lit.

  Again, we did not discuss a course of action but both resorted to using gestures rather than speech to communicate in case there were prowlers in the area. Mike pointed to the east side of the house and gestured toward himself. Then he pointed his index finger down and made a sweeping motion in a semi-circular pattern toward the house. He would examine the east side and then go around to the back.

  I nodded and made similar gestures regarding the opposite side of the house. We would meet in the back yard.

  Mike started around, his flashlight scanning the property in front of him as he walked. I did the same until I reached the side of the house and Mike was no longer visible on his opposite path. After carefully examining every shrub my mother had planted in front of our house, I had seen nothing at all worrisome. That did not mean there would be no danger elsewhere.

  I made my way toward the back very slowly. Since I was not certain what to anticipate, each square inch of the grounds had to be inspected, even if cursorily. The flashlight beam was indeed bright, making me worry that it might be a warning to anyone who had come to do us harm. I was very careful not to tread too heavily and tried to control my breathing, which I noticed was through my mouth at the moment.

  Then my cellular phone buzzed.