The Question of the Dead Mistress Read online

  “I had no time. You came in and immediately began asking me questions.” I was going to continue but Mother turned her attention toward Ms. Washburn.

  “Are you all right, dear?” she asked. “That must have been terrifying.”

  Ms. Washburn smiled but her demeanor was not consistent with her facial expression. “I’m okay,” she told Mother. “I’ve sort of gotten used to this sort of thing since I started working here.” We had encountered three previous incidents of people being murdered, but it was hardly a normal part of the Questions Answered routine. Ms. Washburn was probably exaggerating.

  Mother took a moment to stand up. “Well, I won’t take up your time when you have something that important to discuss,” she said. “I have to get home anyway. I’ll see you at six for dinner, Samuel.” Her voice did not have its usual encouraging lilt as she spoke. She headed for the door.

  “You’re not at all a distraction,” I said. “You may stay if you prefer.”

  But Mother continued to walk to the door and reached it. “Not this time,” she said and left.

  Ms. Washburn looked over at me with a quizzical expression on her face. “What was that about?”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Your mother seemed upset. Is something wrong?” Ms. Washburn put her hand, fisted, to her lips. This can be a gesture meant to show concern.

  “I don’t know,” I said honestly. “She asked me about a conversation I had with Reuben Hoenig today.”

  “You spoke to your father today?” Ms. Washburn asked. She believes that my referring to Reuben by his first name rather than acknowledging his biological role in my life is somehow a sign of hostility. I consider it appropriate to the level of intimacy he and I have established.

  I told her of Reuben’s invitation to lunch and the conversation that followed. Ms. Washburn listened carefully, as she always does. When I had completed my recount she nodded thoughtfully. “I think your mother is concerned that you’re not giving your father a chance,” she said.

  “A chance for what?”

  Ms. Washburn looked at me for a moment. I recognized the look: She was trying to decide how to respond to me because apparently I had said something unexpected or inappropriate. She waved her right hand. “Samuel, I think we need to concentrate on Brett Fontaine.”

  We? “I would think the question Virginia Fontaine asked is your own assignment,” I said. “I would not want to intrude on your thinking in that matter, but it seems to me the answer is moot now that Mr. Fontaine is dead.”

  Ms. Washburn started as if prodded. “You mean you won’t help me?” she asked.

  I stood and walked to her desk and leaned on it with my hands gripping the edge. “I am happy to do anything I can to help,” I told her. “But I do not want you to think I have anything but the highest regard for your judgment. I do not wish to be seen as helping on something you could not do, because I believe you are more than capable of handling this question.”

  Ms. Washburn put her hand on mine. “That’s possibly the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me, Samuel.”

  “I meant every word.” Of course, I mean every word whenever I speak, so the iteration was probably unnecessary.

  “Thank you. But even you ask for my help on some of the more difficult questions. I think it would be best if we worked together on this one going forward.” Ms. Washburn smiled sincerely at me.

  But her request was baffling. “I do not understand the problem. Ms. Fontaine asked if her husband was having an affair with a dead woman. You and I had some disagreement on whether that might be possible, but now that he is deceased himself, I see no reason to pursue the question. Even if one believes in a physical afterlife, Mr. Fontaine is no longer capable of being Ms. Fontaine’s husband. Whether or not he is now involved with his dead college girlfriend is no longer relevant, in my view. Tell Ms. Fontaine the answer is no and close the file.”

  But Ms. Washburn had withdrawn her hand and begun shaking her head some eight seconds earlier. “But what about Brett Fontaine’s murder?” she said.

  “That is Detective Monroe’s business now. We have not been engaged to answer a question about it.” I walked back to my desk. “You would know better than I if enough time has passed to call Ms. Fontaine and conclude our business with her. We should do so whenever it is appropriate.” I walked back to my desk and sat down. Surely the Nepalese computations had been completed and were waiting for my perusal.

  “I don’t think I can do that, Samuel.” Ms. Washburn looked worried. “Ginny Fontaine asked us to find out if her husband was cheating on her and now he’s been killed. She’s a logical suspect in the murder. Don’t you think we need to follow through on the question she asked to try and clear her name?”

  I diverted my attention again from my screen and swiveled my office chair to face Ms. Washburn. Three minutes until I would exercise for the first time in four hours. “We have not been asked the question, and even if we had been it is always a mistake to research a question with a particular answer in mind. It prejudices the process.”

  It took Ms. Washburn a moment to absorb what I had said. “You think Ginny killed her husband?”

  “I have no opinion on that question at all,” I answered. “I have not done any research on it and have left Detective Monroe to do his own investigation. Ms. Washburn, you know how we operate. No one has asked us who killed Brett Monroe.”

  Ms. Washburn reached into the top drawer of her desk and retrieved a client intake form. She put it on her desk and began to fill it out. “I’m going to ask you the question, Samuel, and I will pay your fee. So let’s get to work on this right away.”

  I stood up and walked past Ms. Washburn’s desk. It was time for me to raise my heart rate and exercise my legs and arms as well as my cardiovascular system. In the early stages, perhaps until the fourth lap around the office perimeter, I can still speak without sounding like I am gasping for air. (I have in the past alarmed my mother with the sound, although it is simply the result of normal exercise and making one’s pulmonary system work harder than usual.)

  “I will not accept your question, Ms. Washburn. I don’t want your money and I do not think this is an area we should explore as a business.” The first lap is not very difficult but I do have to keep a clear head or I will begin at too rapid a pace and find it more taxing to continue when I am in the later stages of the program.

  Ms. Washburn, I saw as I turned in her direction, had stopped filling out the intake form. She said nothing but was quite clearly in thought as I passed. After a moment her voice lowered in volume but was still audible. “But you can’t object if I take the question on myself, can you?”

  The question was badly phrased. Of course it was within my ability to express my objections to Ms. Washburn taking on the issue of Brett Fontaine’s death. But I sensed she was asking whether I was within my rights as her employer to forbid her from doing so. That was an entirely different thing to consider. Legally I could not stop Ms. Washburn from taking on any project she wished to explore. Whether I could insist research on a question not be done on company time would eventually hinge on my willingness to dismiss her as an employee of Questions Answered if she did not obey the firm’s rule, which would be one I would have to create on the spot because the issue had never been raised before.

  “If you are asking what I believe you are, I would ask you a question in response,” I said as I began my third circumnavigation of the office space. My voice would have to increase in volume as I moved away from Ms. Washburn, but I did not wish to sound like I was angry with her. “Whose question are you answering? Virginia Fontaine’s question is about her husband carrying on with a dead woman. No one has asked this firm who killed Brett Fontaine, or why.”

  I was not in a position to see Ms. Washburn at that moment. I did hear her say, “Give me a minute,” and believed that meant she needed so
me time to formulate a response, which would indicate that my logic had indeed stumped her and perhaps lead to the conclusion that this discussion could be ended.

  Forty-three seconds later it became clear that I had been incorrect in my deductions.

  “Virginia has asked who killed Brett,” Ms. Washburn said. “She asked me directly, and since you suggested I should work on her question myself, I’ve already told her I would accept.”

  I turned the corner, feeling a bead of sweat at my hairline that was a little premature for this stage of my exercise program. “How did she ask you?” I said. “I heard no conversation on the phone, and surely you didn’t call a woman who just discovered her husband had been murdered to solicit business for the firm.”

  Ms. Washburn’s arms were folded in front of her in a gesture of determination. “I texted Detective Monroe. I figured he was with Virginia, and he was. I suggested he ask whether Virginia wanted us to look into her husband’s death and he texted me back saying she did. I can show you the texts if you don’t believe me.”

  That last sentence was unnecessary; I had no reason to disbelieve Ms. Washburn now or ever before. “I can refuse the question,” I said. “I don’t find it interesting.”

  “But I do.” I turned past her desk and Ms. Washburn’s eyes were clear and certain.

  I found myself increasing my pace and made no effort to correct myself. The sooner I could sit down with a bottle of spring water, the better things would be. “Very well,” I said to Ms. Washburn. “We will answer the question.”

  “We?” she asked.

  I had not misspoken. The idea of Ms. Washburn researching a homicide with no idea of the killer’s motive led to the probability of antagonizing a violent person and putting Ms. Washburn in harm’s way. I could not abide that.

  “If you don’t mind,” I said, walking faster still.

  nine

  “Is it possible that this was just a robbery that went wrong?” Ms. Washburn asked.

  After I had called my mother to ask if Ms. Washburn might join us for dinner and been told she was welcome without asking any evening, my associate had indeed accompanied me home and eaten with my parents and myself. Once the meal had been completed and we had helped Mother by cleaning up afterward, Ms. Washburn and I had gone to my attic apartment to consider the question of Brett Fontaine’s death.

  “It is unlikely,” I answered, “although not impossible. Mr. Fontaine’s wallet was still in his pocket with no apparent missing items and a package containing a vase worth a few hundred dollars was discovered in his car. If someone robbed Mr. Fontaine, that person did a very poor job of it.” I had asked Detective Monroe for any help he could offer and was emailed a copy of the police report on the incident, which was a matter of public record.

  “Besides, the medical examiner said the body had been moved. If someone robbed him, they would have done it wherever they killed Brett. Why bother to drive him all the way to High Street for a robbery?”

  “There has not yet been a medical examiner’s report issued,” I answered, “but from what I overheard at the scene it would seem the technician based her statement on the conclusion that there was not enough blood on the sidewalk for the crime to have happened there. She suggested no explanation for moving the body other than to confuse the police.”

  Ms. Washburn sat down on my bed while I stayed in the desk chair. I was already noticing the urge to kiss her again and wondered if I could focus on the question at hand. So far the intellectual puzzle was foremost in my mind. I did not make any internal predictions as to how long I could maintain that discipline.

  “And to confuse me,” Ms. Washburn said. “I can’t shake the feeling that whoever did this knew I was following Brett and wanted me to think what I thought. Why would somebody do something like that? How would they do it?”

  Both were intriguing questions, but the foundation upon which they were built was not yet verified with facts. “I do not discount the importance of your feelings, but we don’t know that what you are describing was the case,” I reminded Ms. Washburn, using language I thought was sensitive to her emotions. “We need to gather information we know to be factual.”

  Ms. Washburn’s eyes narrowed a bit but she did not look angry, as is often the case with that facial gesture. She was thinking. “All we know so far for sure is that Brett Fontaine was killed with a tire iron on High Street in New Brunswick. Or more to the point, that he was left on High Street after he was apparently beaten to death somewhere else. That’s the thing that keeps getting me crazy.” Ms. Washburn did not mean to imply that she had a mental illness; this was an expression indicating some irritation with the circumstances she described. “I don’t understand why they moved the body, and specifically why they moved it there of all places.”

  The urge to kiss Ms. Washburn was very strong now and threatened to cloud my judgment. I swiveled the desk chair to turn away from her and toward my three computer displays to distract myself from the temptation.

  Part of the problem, of course, was that I have some difficulty with the social cues involved in romantic gestures. Kissing Ms. Washburn was something I would happily do to fill an entire day, every day. But there were times when it was appropriate and times when the action would be seen as wrong. Also, it was imperative to be sure Ms. Washburn wanted me to kiss her at any given moment. That was especially problematic for me because I could not always tell if she was open to the gesture or not. This relationship was very nuanced and therefore confusing.

  I centered my attention on the center computer display and began a search for Brett Fontaine generally. Since this had been Ms. Washburn’s question to answer on her own, I had done very little to understand the parties involved and therefore was at a disadvantage to Ms. Washburn, whom I was sure had become very well versed in their histories. I could ask her questions, but this would be faster and I could avert my gaze for a while.

  “What do you know about Brett Fontaine’s business dealings?” I said without turning my head toward Ms. Washburn.

  “Ginny listed his profession as ‘real estate entrepreneur’ on her client intake form,” she answered. “I figured that meant he was a landlord and I was right. Brett owned six buildings in New Brunswick that Rutgers students would rent, trash, and then leave. He did a lot of the repairs—they always needed repairs—and maintenance himself because he didn’t want to pay someone else to do it. The building he was staged in front of today was near one of his. It’s possible someone thought he was a really bad landlord, I guess.”

  “Let’s not form opinions until we have the facts,” I reminded her, although her research seemed thorough and accurate, in line with the information I was getting in my internet search. “Brett Fontaine was the owner of several buildings used by students but his reputation as a landlord is not verifiable. It would be a serious breach of protocol to leap to a conclusion about the motive in this killing. That is particularly true in that the police obviously believe his widow is the prime suspect in the murder.”

  “Ginny?” she said. I did not see Ms. Washburn’s expression but I could hear the surprise and something approaching outrage in her voice.

  “Certainly. All the circumstantial evidence we have gathered or seen so far would appear to point directly to her.”

  “Like what?” Ms. Washburn was obviously being somewhat protective of her first personal client. In my judgment, that was blinding her to some of the facts involved in the question.

  I began a search concerning the name of William Klein. “Ms. Fontaine believed her husband was having a romantic relationship with a woman from his past. She thought that woman to be deceased, which was unusual, but the fact is in such cases the logical assumption is that a jealous wife would be quite angry with the cheating husband.”

  “Ginny was calm and came to us for help,” Ms. Washburn pointed out behind me. “She didn’t present as angry or ve
ngeful, but confused and hurt.”

  “Either of those emotions can lead to rash acts,” I answered. Now the urge to turn around and look at Ms. Washburn, which would undoubtedly lead to an urge to kiss her, was becoming impossible to ignore.

  “This was anything but a rash act,” she countered. “Brett was bludgeoned to death and then put in a car and moved to High Street. That doesn’t sound like a crime of passion to me.”

  The word passion reverberated in my mind. That was a distraction as well. “The time of death was hours before you discovered the body,” I said. “Ms. Fontaine’s alibi for that time, according to Detective Monroe at the scene, was that she was shopping at the Menlo Park Mall. Until security footage can be found and viewed it will be impossible to verify her whereabouts when her husband died. And there is also the possibility that she hired someone to do the killing. The fact that she wanted to come along with you when you were doing surveillance on Mr. Fontaine would seem to point to that conclusion.”

  “How?” Now Ms. Washburn’s voice was enough to distract me. I had to find a way to normalize my thinking. I concentrated more directly on my computer display.

  “It would establish an airtight alibi if she were in the car with you when the body was found,” I suggested. “But that is pure speculation.”

  Then something on the screen actually did demand my attention to the point that I briefly abandoned any thought of physical contact with Ms. Washburn. She noticed that I leaned forward to read the text on the display, and I imagine my facial expression betrayed a sudden increase in interest. “What is it?” she asked.

  “I believe I have found another piece of circumstantial evidence that has a connection to our client,” I told her.

  I scanned the article dated fourteen years earlier, a routine newspaper report on the accidental death of a man who fell from his fire escape. “It’s about William Klein, Virginia Fontaine’s first husband,” I said to Ms. Washburn.