The Question of the Dead Mistress

by E. J. Copperman

  The sound broke through the silence and momentarily panicked me until I realized what it was. When I retrieved the phone from my pocket I saw a text message from Ms. Washburn: Both Vivian and Reuben are fine. Heard nothing. We’ll stay inside until we hear from you.

  Certainly that was a relief and I texted back to Ms. Washburn simply, Thank you.

  When I reached the corner of the house after considerable effort to determine the property was secure I saw Mike the taxicab driver already in place behind the house. He seemed especially interested in something I could not see from my vantage point. His flashlight was pointed down at the foundation of the house approximately twenty feet from the back door.

  Seeing no reason to scan the rest of the area with Mike already there I walked directly to his side. His facial expression was grim. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a pair of thin gloves, which he put on.

  I approached him carefully, still running the beam of the flashlight along the foundation because that seemed to be the focus of Mike’s concern. Before I reached him I saw what he was examining: four metal cans, red, displayed carefully end-to-end next to a white cloth of some kind. Mike glanced over at me as I walked to his side.

  “Somebody doesn’t like what you’re doing,” he said in a low volume. He pointed at the cans. “They’re marked as pyrethroid, an industrial insecticide.”

  Something clenched in my stomach. “Flammable?” I asked.

  Mike nodded. “Could be used as an accelerant.”

  The thought made my right hand flap a little at my side. “Do I need to evacuate the house?”

  Mike bent down and, wearing the gloves, opened the spout on one of the red cans. I was a bit taken aback when he dipped his finger into the spout and then removed and sniffed it.

  “Mike,” I said.

  He stood up. “It’s water, Samuel,” he said. “Whoever did this didn’t want to set your house on fire. They just wanted to show you they could if they felt like it. They wanted to scare you.”

  “They succeeded,” I said.

  twenty-nine

  “They wanted us to know this was no empty threat,” I said.

  Ms. Washburn and I were in my attic apartment after having assured my mother and Reuben that there had been no real attack on our house and they should not blame themselves—as Mother had attempted—for not being vigilant enough while Ms. Washburn and I were out.

  “Except the cans were full of water,” she noted. Ms. Washburn was sitting on my bed, which was currently being used as her bed, while I was at my workstation just four feet away from her. “You couldn’t come up with a worse way to burn a building down.”

  “The cans of insecticide were merely props,” I reiterated. “The message was that we should take what we heard at Melanie Mason’s gravesite seriously.”

  “I already was,” Ms. Washburn said. “I’m glad you were there, Samuel. I was pretty freaked out.”

  I wanted to tell her that I would always be there when she was upset. I wanted to say that she should never be worried when I was there. But I thought saying such things might be too forward for the type of relationship we had defined and did not want to upset Ms. Washburn with ideas that I was envisioning something more serious than she.

  Therefore I nodded and said, “The scene set there was designed to make the visitor feel uncomfortable. It was quite effective. If I had not known it was being manipulated from a remote location, I would have found it extremely disturbing myself.”

  “I knew, or at least I knew you’d said so.” Ms. Washburn rested her chin on her right hand, fisted and supported by her knee. “I should have trusted your judgment, Samuel.”

  I saw no utility in that area of conversation. Ms. Washburn believed in me when others thought I was simply odd and awkward. She had touted my expertise to a client ten minutes after meeting me. I had no issue with Ms. Washburn’s trust, but telling her that would be redundant.

  “We need to focus on Anthony Deane, Debbie Sampras, and Virginia Fontaine,” I said. “I know it was not Virginia’s voice we heard at the gravesite and you are certain it was not that of Debbie Sampras. Another woman must be involved we have not heard about yet.”

  “Melanie Mason,” Ms. Washburn said. I believe she was attempting to be amusing in a sarcastic fashion.

  “Actually, I believe that is a possibility,” I said.

  Ms. Washburn looked at me without a clear expression on her face. “You think there is a ghost?”

  “No. I believe it is possible, although so far unproven, that Melanie Mason did not die in that automobile accident, and that it was indeed her voice we heard amplified at the gravesite.”

  Ms. Washburn stood up and took a step toward me. “Samuel, you saw the pictures Officer Palumbo had of that car and the body inside. Frankly, they made me a little sick, but they left no doubt that the person in that car was dead.”

  It was now an uncomfortable social situation because Ms. Washburn was standing and I was seated. Should I rise just to meet her gaze? Would she think that somehow diminishing or insulting? I had another chair in the apartment, but Ms. Washburn had already been sitting on the bed. Should I point that out? Surely she’d seen it—she had in fact used it in the past. I found myself thinking of things other than the question at hand at this crucial moment.

  “The person in the car was unquestionably dead,” I answered, doing my best to focus. “Do you want to sit down?”

  “I’m fine. Are you saying the person in the car wasn’t Melanie Mason? Then who was it?”

  I stood up to relieve the tension. “It is possible that it was the homeless woman whose story you discovered this afternoon,” I said. “She would have been easy enough to convince and she was not missed for quite some time. It is even possible someone gave her Melanie Mason’s signature nail polish to wear in the hope that would be an identifying factor.”

  Now Ms. Washburn, realizing the gravity of what I was suggesting, sat on the second desk chair. “You think the homeless woman was set up? They knew there was going to be an accident on Route 22? How could that be possible?”

  I sat again in my desk chair, glad the sitting versus standing situation had been resolved. “Those are excellent questions,” I said. “I wonder if Anthony Deane, Debbie Sampras, or Virginia Fontaine might be able to answer them.”

  Ms. Washburn nodded slowly. “It sounds like tomorrow is going to be a very busy day,” she said.

  “Indeed. If you are tired, I will go downstairs so you can prepare for bed.”

  Ms. Washburn reached for my hand. That is a gesture I normally try to avoid, but I held it steady and let her place her own on mine. “Samuel, I think maybe it’s best if I go back home tonight,” she said.

  Immediately I had to deal with a flood of conflicting feelings. I did not want Ms. Washburn to leave. But I did miss sleeping in my bed. Sleeping on the sofa downstairs had been very different, and changes are not welcome to a person like me. I had very little time to settle on a proper response. “Why?” I asked. It was the best I could do. Her response would give me a conversational direction to follow.

  “The reason I came to stay here to begin with was that we were worried about the ghost … whoever is speaking at that gravesite doing me some harm,” she said. “I think what we’ve seen tonight proves that this house isn’t safer than my apartment. So there’s no reason for me to stay, is there?”

  I could think of many reasons she should remain in my house but none of them had anything to do with security against the voice in the cemetery. I considered carefully and then said, “No, I suppose not. Your argument makes sense.”

  For some reason Ms. Washburn looked a bit disappointed, but it was possible I had misinterpreted her expression. She withdrew her hand from mine.

  “Okay, then. I’ll pack up my stuff and come pick you up for the drive to Darby in the morning.” She s
tood and walked toward the bed, reaching underneath to pull her small travel bag from where she had stored it.

  But as she spoke an idea occurred to me. “Perhaps you should stay just one more night,” I said.

  Ms. Washburn turned to face me. “Why?” she asked.

  “Because we will be leaving at an early hour. It will be more convenient for you if we are together in the morning.” That made practical sense to our research and would potentially keep Ms. Washburn here another night.

  Again her expression changed to one of slight regret. “That is a point, but I do this all the time,” she said.

  “Just this once,” I said. My tone might have sounded a little more like begging than I would have preferred, though it was not intentional.

  Ms. Washburn sat on the edge of the bed and her lips pursed a bit. “I’ll tell you what, Samuel. I think you have a point, but I don’t like the idea that there could be danger wherever you and I go. If we stay here, it could put your parents at risk. So why don’t you come and stay at my apartment tonight?”

  That was definitely unexpected. I looked at my bed, which seemed awfully inviting. Then I looked at Ms. Washburn. Somehow this seemed to be a situation like those Dr. Mancuso would sometimes create when I was a teenager and young adult; it was a test to see if I would react like a neurotypical. I rarely did, but it helped me understand what was expected even if I could not provide it.

  In this case, I felt Ms. Washburn was challenging me. Would I leave my comfort zone at her behest rather than ask her to do the same for me? I certainly did not wish to disappoint her but the prospect of staying in her apartment, her private space, was daunting. There were so many ways I might violate social norms.

  In the end there was no choice. “That is a very sensible idea,” I said. “I will put my necessary belongings in a bag.”

  Ms. Washburn looked surprised and I wondered if this was not the outcome she had hoped to see. But there was a slight smile on her face as well.

  thirty

  “Put your things anywhere.”

  Ms. Washburn made a vague gesture with her left arm as her right returned her keys to her pocket. We had just arrived at her apartment and were preparing to retire for the evening in anticipation of a long day of work starting early the next morning.

  I looked around the main living area in the apartment and wondered where I might be sleeping tonight. The most likely spot was the Ikea sofa, which looked sturdy enough but might not accommodate a man of my height lying flat upon it. I put my travel bag down on the floor next to where I was standing and assessed the room. I saw no other natural areas to sleep other than the floor itself and I had not brought a sleeping bag. Perhaps Ms. Washburn owned one.

  She draped her jacket casually over the back of a small club chair, the only other piece of furniture in the room other than a pole lamp and a small table in front of the sofa. There was no television. The kitchen was to my left, just large enough to allow for one person doing the cooking. Two barstools were set up next to a counter to allow for a quick meal. I saw no dining table.

  The only other rooms were the bathroom and Ms. Washburn’s bedroom.

  It was difficult to know what I should ask and what I should simply take for granted. Ms. Washburn turned and looked at me. “Well, it’s pretty late,” she said. “I think maybe it’s time to turn in, don’t you?”

  That was certainly an interesting question, although the answer was obvious. “Yes,” I said. “That seems like a very good plan.”

  I was about to ask where I might be sleeping and if there was a blanket or large pillow I could lay on the floor when Ms. Washburn said, “Okay, then. Come on.” She walked toward the door to the bedroom.

  I stood absolutely still. “Where?”

  “In the bedroom. It’s late, Samuel. Let’s go.” She walked into her bedroom then turned and stood in the doorway looking at me. “Samuel?”

  At last I understood. “Ms. Washburn, I would not have agreed to spend the night here if I’d understood I was putting you out of your own bed.”

  She chuckled. “You’re not going to do that, Samuel.”

  That confused me. Did Ms. Washburn intend for me to sleep on the floor in her bedroom? “I don’t understand,” I said. She always responded well when I did so.

  “You and I are going to sleep in here,” she said, indicating her bedroom. “Don’t worry.”

  That was even more baffling. Was Ms. Washburn suggesting we take our physical relationship to a much higher level? I was both intrigued and immediately frightened. “Don’t worry,” I repeated to myself.

  “Come on in, Samuel,” Ms. Washburn said. “It’s okay.”

  Because I had been told to do so I walked into Ms. Washburn’s bedroom, incapable of sorting the emotions rushing through my brain. I have read accounts in which people describe such moments in intricate detail but I couldn’t possibly do so now. I was operating without my conscious mind and I believe my hands began to flutter at my sides.

  Ms. Washburn, upon looking at me, broke into a laugh. “Oh, Samuel,” she said. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean what I’m guessing you thought I meant. We’re just going to sleep in the bed at the same time, that’s all. There’s plenty of room and no reason for one of us to be uncomfortable.”

  “So we’re not—” I began. I could not think of a word that was not obscene or clinical.

  A light chuckle. “No. Certainly not now, anyway. We have a long way to go, Samuel. This is just a question of practicality. We have two people and one bed. We might as well use it.”

  I exhaled. I’ll admit to a moment of disappointment, but overall I was more relieved of tension than I was upset. “Should we create a barrier of some sort, a wall between us?” I asked.

  Ms. Washburn managed not to laugh, which in retrospect I appreciate. “I don’t think that’ll be necessary,” she said. “I think we can trust each other not to be overcome.”

  We did spend the night together in that bed. And while nothing of note occurred during that time (other than my discovery that Ms. Washburn snored), I did not sleep very much at all.

  I was thinking about Melanie Mason. Mostly.

  The next morning started at 6:20 a.m. and was devoted entirely to being dressed and ready to leave quickly. We were in Ms. Washburn’s Kia Spectra and on the road to Darby, Pennsylvania at 7:02.

  “How are we going to find Tony Deane once we get there?” Ms. Washburn asked. “We know where he works, or at least where he was working the last time anyone on the internet checked, but what if he’s not there? We don’t have a home address.”

  “His employer will have one. He or she might not want to give it to us, but we can see if there are ways to discover it without help.”

  “That sounds ominous.” The light turned green and Ms. Washburn resumed driving.

  We arrived at Darby Tire, the business that employed Tony Deane (whom we were assuming was the Anthony Deane I’d spoken to at Brett Fontaine’s memorial service) at 8:47 a.m. It was larger than the usual car repair shop, which indicated to me there were offices for the whole company and not just this outlet in the building, but it was still configured like a tire store with bays to remove and install tires in the back and a small waiting area in the front where customers might purchase tires and amuse themselves while the new purchases were being installed. Ms. Washburn noted the sign in the window indicating the business did not open until nine. “I want a coffee anyway,” she said, so we walked to a small coffee shop listed on Ms. Washburn’s cellular phone.

  I ordered nothing, but when we sat down at a table with Ms. Washburn’s coffee and a croissant her phone buzzed. Ms. Washburn examined the screen and said, “Looks like Neil Betts has gotten back to me.”

  “Betts?” The high school chronicler of Brett Fontaine, Debbie Sampras, and others. “What did he say?”

  “He’s busy today
at the IRS but will be happy to talk to me during his lunch break a little before noon.” Ms. Washburn looked at her watch despite us both being keenly aware of the time. “We should be back by then, don’t you think?”

  “That depends on how complicated our search for Tony Deane becomes,” I mused.

  “I’ll eat fast.”

  We were at the door of Darby Tire by 9:12. Once inside we approached the counter, where a man in a blue uniform shirt that bore his name, Dave, on an appliqué smiled at us as the potential customers he clearly thought we were.

  “How can I help you?” he asked, unwittingly using the proper words. He did not yet know his assistance would not be required concerning the sale of tires.

  Ms. Washburn, as has become our custom, approached Dave and spoke first. “Hi. We’re here looking into a matter for a client of ours and one of the people we’d like to talk to is a man named Tony Deane. Does he work here?”

  The man’s face, smiling at the prospect of the day’s first sale, darkened. “You’re cops?” he asked. “Let me see a badge.”

  “We are not employed by any law enforcement agency,” I assured him. “We are simply representing a private agency that has been engaged to answer a question. Mr. Deane might be able to help us with that question and we are anxious to discuss the matter with him. That’s all.” People we encounter often believe we are there to arrest someone when we have absolutely no authority to do so at all.

  “If you aren’t cops, why should I talk to you?” Dave asked. “Besides, Tony isn’t here.”

  Ms. Washburn moved a little closer to the counter. “That’s very disappointing,” she said. “We drove almost two hours to get here first thing today. Can you tell us where he is? We won’t take up much of his time.”

  “I don’t care how much time you take,” Dave said. “He’s not here.” He started to leaf through some forms on the counter, but it was clear he was doing that simply for our benefit. None of the forms were filled in.

  “There’s been a murder,” I said. Ms. Washburn turned and stared at me with what looked like shock. Dave looked up from his forms and opened his mouth but said nothing. “Mr. Deane might be able to help us discover who committed the crime. Do you want to be the man who refused to let us speak to him?”