The Question of the Dead Mistress Read online

  “Ms. Washburn,” I began. But she put her finger to her lips in a gesture meant to stop me from speaking further. She pointed discreetly toward the podium.

  The man I’d met earlier who had identified himself as the rabbi was making his way down the center aisle and toward the podium, which he reached quickly. He appeared to be in a rush, like a man trying to get an unpleasant task completed as quickly as possible in an attempt to forget it had ever happened. I wondered if this was his first memorial service over which to preside.

  He cleared his throat as soon as he reached the dais. I believe this sound was intended to quiet the gathered assemblage but it went unnoticed by most of the people in the room including Virginia Fontaine, who was engrossed in a conversation with the white-haired woman and therefore not looking toward the podium.

  Finally the rabbi noticed a microphone attached to the podium and pulled it toward his mouth. “If we may begin,” he said, and his voice was amplified far too loudly. Many spectators winced at the sound and there was some feedback from the sound system. This might explain why the rabbi never finished his sentence to explain what would happen if “we” were allowed to begin. He held up his hands. “Brett Fontaine was a remarkable man and we are here today to celebrate his life.”

  It occurred to me that this hardly looked like a celebration: The gathered group was subdued at best. The white-haired woman appeared to be sobbing. The man in jeans was looking away entirely and seemed to be thinking about something other than Brett Fontaine and whether or not he was remarkable. I wasn’t puzzled but I felt the rabbi’s choice of words was questionable.

  “Born into difficult circumstances, he managed to grow into an ambitious and successful man with real estate holdings in three cities,” the rabbi continued. “His properties brought shelter to those staying away from home for the first time.”

  That was probably inaccurate, in that most first-year college students are required to live in dormitories and on-campus housing. It was fairly clear the rabbi was trying his best to expand upon what was undoubtedly thin information and “spin” it into a complimentary speech about Mr. Fontaine. But from a professional point of view it was obvious he had not done enough research on his subject and was probably working from the newspaper obituary that had been published the morning of the funeral.

  He went on for approximately nine more minutes and I did notice he had changed the closing of his eulogy, perhaps at my suggestion. “It is a deep sense of loss we’re all feeling at this moment,” he said. “Brett was a son, a husband, and a friend or colleague to everyone here. Our lives are diminished by his absence. But his buildings will continue to house students for years to come, and perhaps in that unbroken line we will find some solace. Brett is gone, but the good he did goes on.”

  The rabbi stopped then and waited thirteen seconds as if expecting applause but got none. Finally he seemed to compose himself again. “Is there anyone else who would like to speak?” he asked.

  Having never met Brett Fontaine and only knowing of his existence for three days, it seemed inappropriate for me to volunteer. I looked at Ms. Washburn and she shook her head, understanding the question I was asking with my expression. I was relieved at her reaction because it showed she was still communicating with me despite having some issue that was making her act a bit distant.

  There was a slight buzz through the gathered assemblage after the rabbi asked for volunteers to speak. But before anyone else could acknowledge a desire to do so, the man in jeans stood up and strode to the podium with what could only be described as a sense of purpose. The white-haired woman saw him, perhaps for the first time at the service, and gasped.

  The rabbi moved to the side and walked down from the dais to the front pew, where he sat on the opposite side of Virginia Fontaine and the white-haired woman. The man in jeans pushed his hair away from his face and did not clear his throat as the rabbi had done. He had no need to do so. The room was silent again.

  “My brother Brett was no saint,” the man said. “He was a cheater and a liar and he cared about no one nearly as much as he cared about himself.” If this was his idea of a suitable opening for a eulogy, I wondered if Brett Fontaine’s brother would be considered a person with an autism spectrum disorder. He did not appear to understand what was rude, and if I could make that observation it was probably much more obvious to the others in the room.

  “Brett thought he was smarter than most and maybe he was,” the man in jeans continued. “He thought he was better-looking than a lot of men and women seemed to agree with him. It bothered him that he wasn’t richer than he turned out to be but he always figured the next deal he made would take care of that because Brett believed he was entitled to anything he wanted.”

  Perhaps I had been too lenient in my initial assessment of the eulogy being delivered. It was probably one of the least complimentary orations I had ever heard.

  “But there was something about him that made you forgive the guy over and over,” Brett’s brother said. “He asked for loans and didn’t pay you back. He stole your girlfriend and never even apologized. He borrowed your car without permission, dinged it up, and told you it was already that way when he took it. But no matter what, when he came back the next time, his head hanging down because he knew he’d been a jerk, you always let Brett back in. Because that was his saving grace—he was a jerk, but he was our jerk. And he knew it.”

  The man in jeans turned and addressed the metal urn directly. “I’m gonna miss you, bro, even though I don’t know why. You treated me about as badly as anyone ever has and all these years I loved you for it. I’ll miss the phone calls in the middle of the night asking whether you’d made a mistake marrying Ginny.”

  There was an audible intake of breath throughout the room. Virginia Fontaine put her hand to her mouth and bit on a handkerchief she was holding. The white-haired woman looked down as if unable to bear the sight of the man in jeans. There was an audible guffaw from a woman sitting in the pews to our right, in the last row.

  I noticed one man two rows in front of me smiling what I would have to describe as guiltily. He put his hand over his mouth immediately to cover his amusement. There was clearly something funny about the idea that Brett Fontaine had questioned his choice of wife, but I could not identify it.

  “I’ll miss the drunken nights you cried over your old girlfriend, the one who died in the car crash,” the man in jeans went on. Leon Rabinski’s eyes glared at him and a prominent vein showed in his neck. “I’ll miss the times when your business was going down the tubes and you’d call me for advice.”

  Times? In the plural? It would have been significant if Brett Fontaine’s business venture had failed once, but the man in jeans suggested there were more instances. My check on Mr. Fontaine’s business, at least under his name, seemed to have been inadequate or mistaken. I took a deep breath.

  Ms. Washburn appeared to notice the rise in my anxiety level. She put her hand on my arm and quietly asked, “You okay?” I nodded and repressed the feeling that I had failed. It was something I would have to address later when I had time.

  “Maybe that’s the genius you had, Brett,” the man said. He appeared to be struggling to keep his composure but was not crying. If this was an act, it was a very convincing one. “You could do all these things that I’d hate anyone else for doing, and you made me love you for it. So damn you, my brother. And bless you too. I’m sorry to see you gone. And I’m sort of relieved at the same time. That’s you, Brett. That’s you.”

  The man in jeans immediately left the podium and walked back to his pew, where no one waited for him. He did not interact with Virginia, the white-haired woman, Leon Rabinski, the rabbi, or anyone else in the room. He sat down and resumed the exact position he had affected before, one leg swung over the other, staring away from the podium and the assembled mourners.

  The rabbi, eyes wide, took a long moment—seven second
s—to compose himself and walked back to the podium. He looked out over the group.

  “Does anyone else want to express a few thoughts?” he asked.

  There was absolutely no response at all.

  “Then thank you all for coming,” the rabbi continued. He said there would obviously be no internment and mentioned that Virginia and Brett’s mother, Iris, would be sitting shiva at Virginia’s home that night and the next day. He nodded to the group and left the podium. The rabbi walked to Virginia Fontaine and offered his hand. She took it and they spoke too quietly to be heard from this distance.

  Ms. Washburn looked at me after surveying the stunned assemblage. Almost no one had moved. Some were staring at the man in jeans. Others were devoting a great deal of energy to not looking at the man in jeans. Some put their heads down. Those who were speaking were doing so in hushed tones. There was a slight buzz of sound in the chapel.

  “So,” she said, “was that the kind of emotional outburst you meant?”

  fifteen

  “It seems odd that we didn’t know about Brett Fontaine’s brother,” I said to Ms. Washburn. “He is not mentioned in any of the obituaries and no one we have interviewed so much as suggested there was a sibling.”

  We had returned to the Questions Answered office after the memorial service had ended. My first impulse had been to interview a number of the spectators at the event, but Ms. Washburn had said that was not an appropriate place to gather information through questioning. The thought did not make sense to me but I often defer to Ms. Washburn regarding such matters.

  I had insisted, however, on talking to the man in jeans. He was the closest to where Ms. Washburn and I had been sitting and seemed the least likely to be offended by my research into his brother’s murder. Ms. Washburn was not interested in accompanying me, saying it would be good practice for our separate efforts on the question. She decided to stand outside the inner door and observe people as they exited.

  I walked up to the man as he sat, seemingly relaxed, gazing out through the chapel’s window toward the parking lot, where a number of guests were already finding their vehicles and leaving.

  He noticed me because I was blocking his view, although why he thought it interesting was not clear to me. “You are Brett Fontaine’s brother?” I said. A quick Google search on my iPhone had not unearthed any information on such a man.

  “Yeah.” The man in jeans did not stand and, much to my relief did not extend a hand to be shaken. But he also did not say anything more than that.

  I searched my social skills training for an appropriate way to elicit a more helpful response. “I am sorry for your loss,” I told the man.

  That seemed to focus his attention. He looked at me. “Are you a cop?” he asked.

  I didn’t understand the question immediately but then realized my phrase had been something police officers and detectives often say to those they encounter during an investigation. “No,” I answered. “Allow me to introduce myself. I am Samuel Hoenig, proprietor of Questions Answered.”

  The man in jeans looked up at me but did not directly react to the information I had given him. “You a friend of Brett’s?”

  “No. We never met.”

  That appeared to confuse him; his expression was one I’d seen fairly frequently in my life, with one eye looking at me and the other narrowed in thought, almost winking. “So why are you here?” he asked.

  “I have been asked by your brother’s widow to answer a question and this seemed like a good opportunity to gather information,” I told him. That was probably something Ms. Washburn would have said was not tactful. I saw no other truthful answer to offer.

  “I’ll bet it is,” the man said. “What have you found out so far?”

  There was no advantage in sharing information with the man in jeans, particularly since I did not know if anything he had said was true, including his claim to be Brett Fontaine’s brother. But I felt it would be inadvisable strategically to refuse sharing information. Studies have shown that most people tend to respond more favorably to those who appear to be cooperating with them or sharing their interests.

  “So far the only person who has spoken to me is the rabbi,” I told him truthfully. “He does not have much information to share.”

  The man in jeans grinned. “He’s someone who got a phone call yesterday to come and preside over the funeral of a man he never met. Brett wasn’t even a little religious and never attended temple after his bar mitzvah, as far as I know.” He leaned back, giving the impression he was enjoying the moment. I would bet his favorite Beatles song was “Revolution.” The single version, not the one on the White Album.

  “I’ve been trying to determine who some of the people who came here today might be,” I said. “Do you know most of them well?” It seemed likely he would; surely many of the attendees were relatives of Brett Fontaine, and therefore him as well.

  The man stood up and turned toward the emptying chapel to survey the few people left other than ourselves. He sighed a bit theatrically. “I don’t know most of them,” he said. “But Pete Belson? Do you know him?”

  “I have heard of him. Your brother met him in college.” That was an attempt to show that I had actually gained some information about Peter Belson. It is important to establish one’s abilities as a professional.

  “Pete’s a piece of work,” the man in jeans said. The expression can indicate that the person being discussed is an impish prankster or someone who is difficult to deal with. “You should definitely talk to Pete. He’s the one that started the whole thing with Melanie Mason being a ghost.”

  I’m not sure I adequately disguised my surprise at his remark. My expression must have betrayed me because the man in jeans laughed lightly.

  “Mr. Belson made up the story about your brother’s college girlfriend?” I managed.

  Again a chuckle, but the man in jeans did not look at me; he was taking stock of what now was otherwise an empty chapel. “Do you believe in ghosts?” he asked.

  I was not sure if he expected a response, but it seemed disrespectful to ignore the question. “I do not,” I said.

  “Good. Neither do I. So that leaves one conclusion to reach, don’t you think?”

  I could think of seven conclusions to draw from that information but I chose the most likely one. “Brett Fontaine was mentally ill?” I asked.

  This time the laugh was rueful and the man in jeans shook his head. “I don’t think Brett was crazy.” Without explaining himself he turned back and looked at me closely. “Did I get your name?”

  My sensibility was being tested. I had been clear about telling the man in jeans my name before but felt my best course of action was to do so again. “Allow me to introduce myself. I am Samuel Hoenig, proprietor of Questions Answered.”

  He took my hand and then let it go. “And what is the question you are trying to answer?”

  I suppose I could have told him such information was confidential but I did not. “I have been asked who killed Brett Fontaine,” I said.

  The man in jeans nodded. “I figured as much. How’s that going so far?”

  This time I felt it was best not to disclose any information because certainly Brett Fontaine’s brother, after the eulogy he had delivered, could not be ruled out as a suspect in the killing. “I don’t believe you have introduced yourself,” I said, changing the subject. “What is your name?”

  The man in jeans smiled. “Patrick Henry,” he said.

  “Well, clearly his name isn’t Patrick Henry,” Ms. Washburn said later in the Questions Answered office. “Could it be Patrick Henry Fontaine?”

  I stared at my computer display, which was filled with seven separate web page images pertinent to the question we were trying to answer. “I have already looked into that possibility,” I told Ms. Washburn. “There were two men of some significance to American history wit
h that name, both of whom had died by the early twentieth century. I can find no evidence anyone named Patrick Henry Fontaine is currently alive in the United States, and probably not anywhere else on Earth.”

  Ms. Washburn chewed the end of her ballpoint pen, a habit I find disturbing so I averted my gaze from her direction and looked back at my screen. Brett Fontaine’s birth name was Neil Silverman but his father Myron had changed the family name two years after Brett was born and assigned new names to everyone in his family except his wife Sarah. The reason for the change was not clear.

  “What do you think he meant when he said there was one conclusion that could be drawn from you not believing in ghosts?” Ms. Washburn asked.

  “I’m not certain he was doing anything other than trying to understand me,” I told her. “I think he said that to see what I thought the one conclusion might be.”

  Ms. Washburn made a very small grunting noise in her throat. “It’s not always about you, Samuel,” she said. I was about to suggest that I was aware of that fact but she did not pause. “He had something in mind that he wanted you to guess or something. Why do you think he gave you a fake name?”

  I ignored the idea that the man in jeans had somehow changed my name because I understood what Ms. Washburn was asking, but it was a distraction. I was looking at a web page devoted to legends of ghosts and spirits in northern New Jersey but did not find what I was seeking immediately. “It should be easy enough to ask Virginia or one of his relatives what his name is, so it seems there is no advantage in not divulging his name,” I admitted. “It’s possible he simply enjoys manipulating people and doesn’t like to answer questions.”

  “Well, I found out a few things while you were talking to him,” Ms. Washburn said. “Peter Belson was at the service. I didn’t get to see him because he must have left before I went outside, but Virginia Fontaine stopped to talk to me for a minute.”