The Widow's Husband

by William Coleman

  “Yes.”

  “Mr. Rivers would like to know if you would like him to handle that for you?” the voice asked.

  “Yes,” Sarah answered. She couldn’t believe it. Could her luck finally be changing for the better? She wasn’t going to have to search for a new agent, only work out a contract with this Mr. Rivers. She wondered if she could get the same deal as before, the one she had negotiated for Allan. She thought about that and added, “I need to change some things though.”

  “Well, Mr. Rivers will review the manuscript and give you some pointers,” the voice said.

  “No,” Sarah said. “I need to change the author’s name.”

  “The author’s name?”

  “Yes,” she said. “I don’t want to use the pen name, Jack Bolder this time.”

  “You want to use your husband’s real name?”

  “No,” she said hoping she didn’t sound curt. “I want to use a new pen name. And to use the real author's name on the contracts.”

  “The real author?”

  “Yes.”

  “And what is the name of the real author?”

  “Sarah Tuttle.”

  Chapter 30

  (Leroy Jenkins)

  Leroy Jenkins was old. Deep creases set in his cheeks and brow gave him a permanent scowl. His eyes were a faded gray only slightly darker than that of his hair. His skin was dark and spotted from too many years in the sun. His arms and hands, though thin, were strong as steel. He looked out of place sitting behind a desk and more like a man who should be working an oilrig or in the depths of a coal mine. The detectives entered the office, remarkably tidy compared to Stevens’ accommodations. The man did not greet them with a smile. He did not stand. He did not offer his hand. He sat in the large leather chair with his hands clasped in front of him, studying his visitors, sizing them up.

  “There a problem with one of my boys?” the man asked. His voice sounded like gravel crunching under a tire.

  “What can you tell us about Ray Morrison?” Philip asked.

  “Piece of crap,” Leroy barked. “What else you want?”

  “You don’t like Mr. Morrison?” Dave asked.

  “I love him like a son,” Leroy sneered. “Crap is a term of endearment.”

  “What do you not like about him?” Dave pressed.

  “What is there to like?” Leroy countered. “He calls himself a plumber and knows jack about plumbing. He says he’s dependable and he doesn’t show up to his job sites. He thinks he’s God’s gift to women and I would bet money women hate his guts.”

  “Are you aware Ray Morrison died in a house fire this morning?” Philip asked.

  Leroy hesitated for a second before responding. “Didn’t know. Who killed him?”

  “What makes you think he was murdered?” Dave asked.

  “For starters, if he wasn’t, you guys wouldn’t be here asking questions,” Leroy said. “And second, anybody who met Ray would want to put a gun to his head.”

  “Did you?” Dave asked.

  “What? Put a gun to his head?”

  “Or want to?” Philip added.

  “Didn’t put one there,” Leroy said. “Wanted to plenty. To know him was to hate him. Don’t know anyone who didn’t want him gone.”

  “You’re saying everyone here had a motive for killing him?” Philip asked.

  “No,” Leroy said. “I’m saying everyone here wanted to kill him. Along with anyone else who ever met the creep.”

  “Why didn’t you fire him?” Dave changed the direction of questioning. “I mean, we understand he wasn’t a talented plumber. No one seems to have liked him. Why keep him around?”

  “We were working on it,” Leroy said. “Dennis was documenting everything. Gotta have everything documented or scum like that will drain you with unemployment. Used to be able to flush crap down the toilet. Now you gotta coddle it.”

  “Did you ever work jobs with Mr. Morrison?”

  “If you can call what he did work, yea I did,” Leroy answered. “Matter of fact, lately I worked with him a lot. That’s one way we get rid of the riff raff. Most that work with me give up and quit. Saves paperwork.”

  “On those jobs did you have an opportunity to speak with Mr. Morrison?”

  “Can’t work together without talking,” Leroy said.

  “Did he ever mention women to you?”

  “When didn't he?” Leroy snickered. “He never talked about anything else. Sure didn’t talk about plumbing.”

  “Do you remember any names he might have mentioned?” Philip asked.

  “You guys don’t get it, do you?” Leroy looked up at the two detectives. “I didn’t like the man. I did not listen to him. I couldn’t help but hear him. I didn’t have to listen.”

  “Is there anything you do remember that might help us?” Dave inquired.

  “I don’t know what you’re looking for,” Leroy shrugged. “How would I know if I could help you or not?”

  “Have you ever heard the name Sarah Tuttle?” Dave asked keeping control of the questioning.

  “No.”

  “How about Alan Tuttle?”

  “No.”

  “Jack Bolder?” Dave asked. “Maybe as a customer?”

  “No . . .,” Leroy lingered on the word and his expression changed slightly.

  “What is it?” Philip stepped forward.

  “Well, it’s probably nothing,” Leroy said. “I actually do know that name.”

  “From where?” Dave pressed him.

  “He’s a writer,” Leroy said. “He writes mysteries. I like mysteries and have read two or three of his. I doubt it’s the same Jack Bolder you’re looking for.”

  “We are talking about a writer,” Dave admitted. “You have any of his books here?”

  “Maybe,” Leroy spun his chair and opened a cabinet full of books stacked high on each shelf. He searched through the books, both paperback and hard cover, until he found what he was looking for. “Here we go.”

  He turned back again with a worn paperback novel in his hand. He held it out for the detective to see. ‘Mistaken Identity’ was printed in large letters across the top. Jack Bolder’s name was in blue across the bottom. Dave flipped the book over and looked at the photo of the author. It was the man from the cabin. Their very own Jack Bolder.

  “Mind if I borrow this?” Dave asked.

  “Keep it,” Leroy said. “I’ve read it. I don’t read them again.”

  “Then why do you keep them in the cabinet?” Philip asked.

  “That’s just another mystery,” Leroy laughed. It was not a pleasant sound.

  Chapter 31

  (The Deal)

  In the years that Gary Rivers had been an agent, he had made a good living, he just never found that one client; that one author who could bring in big deals and put Gary’s name on the map. Mike Bishop had done just that and more than once. Although Gary mourned the loss of his friend, the moment Mrs. Bishop asked him to deal with Mike’s clients he started to salivate.

  Mike had moved into the office directly across from Gary over ten years ago. The two of them would often join each other for coffee in the small café on the ground floor of their building, where Gary would share stories and advice that came from his years in the business. Always gracious, Mike listened intently to every word.

  It wasn’t until later that Gary came to recognize Mike’s greatest asset; his charisma. The younger agent had a talent for listening to people and making them feel like they were the most important person in the room at any given moment. He could charm the coat off a man freezing to death who would, in return, thank Mike in his dying breath. Gary envied that about him.

  Meeting Mike’s wife, Angela, in his office to pack up more than three file cabinets full of client information felt strange. Gary had only met the woman a handful of times over the years. A tall, slender woman with striking features and auburn hair that flowed softly to her shoulders, Gary had always envied Mike this area of his life as well
. To pack up Mike’s life, she had worn faded jeans and a t-shirt. Each time Gary had seen her in the past, she had worn a pantsuit that suggested power, and Gary seemed to recall Mike telling him once that her work had something to do with finance.

  “I’m so sorry for your loss,” Gary offered the obligatory condolence, not sure what else he could say.

  “How well did you know my husband, Gary?” Angela asked, shoving office supplies into a box.

  “Not well,” Gary said. “Just from the office. And coffee.”

  “Did you know what a liar and a cheat he was?” she asked.

  “No,” Gary was taken aback.

  “Well, he was,” Angela said. “I always thought he would be killed by a jealous husband. I guess he got off lucky.”

  Gary’s gaze was locked on her bright green eyes. He tried desperately to think of something to say. Nothing came to mind.

  “Did you know he couldn’t stand you?” she asked.

  “He what?” Gary’s jaw dropped.

  “He used to come home and complain about how you could drone on about anything.” Angela realized what she had just said and quickly added, “No offense.”

  “I had no idea,” Gary said.

  “Don’t take it personal,” Angela returned to packing. “He didn’t really like anyone with a dick. Not that he liked women either. Once they closed their legs, he had no more interest in them.”

  Gary was surprised by her bluntness. He asked, “If he didn’t like me, why are you asking me to handle his clients?”

  “He’s dead, Gary,” Angela said. “He doesn’t get a say. Besides, you’re the only other agent I know.”

  They finished packing Mike’s things in silence after that. Gary had a whole new perspective of his longtime friend. He found himself questioning that definition of their relationship. The last of Mike’s files moved to Gary’s office and the remainder of Mike’s belongings packed up and ready for the movers to come haul away, the two of them stood in the hallway between the two offices.

  “Thanks for helping,” Angela said, leaning in and kissing Gary on the cheek.

  “Not a problem,” Gary smiled, taking in her perfume.

  “You know,” Angela said, “I had actually thought about sleeping with you just because I knew it would piss Mike off. Too bad he died, huh?”

  “Too bad,” Gary agreed. He watched her turn away and walk toward the elevators, taking in the shape and sway of her body, imagining what it would have felt like pressed to his. The elevator doors closed taking Angela out of his life, along with any possibility he would ever find out. He sighed heavily and stepped into his office.

  Three days of sorting through Mike’s files produced a half dozen clients Gary hoped to sign contracts with. He called each one and each of them opted to take their chances, using their publishing history to query agents they had at least heard of. One had even referred to Gary as a vulture taking advantage of Mike’s death for his own gain.

  After that, Gary moved on to the ‘B’ files; those who had published works, without the same success as the ‘A’ group. While there were a few possibilities, one file stood out above the rest. That of Allan Tuttle, a.k.a. Jack Bolder, was in active contract negotiation. It was the reason Mike was on that plane.

  All the groundwork done, all Gary would have to do is finalize the contract and pocket the commission. He wasn’t an unscrupulous man, definitely not a vulture, as suggested. He would get the best deal for the author he could. It wasn’t as though he planned to do nothing for his commission. He just wouldn’t have all of the usual up front expenses. He had everything he needed to make it happen. Everything he needed with one exception. There was no copy of the manuscript.

  His secretary called to ask for a copy and discuss fees. That was when Tuttle’s wife claimed she was the author and wanted to change her pen name. It was all highly irregular and he didn’t know how to proceed. On the one hand it would be easy to say okay and change the name and move on. On the other hand, the husband could turn around and sue everybody if he could prove it was his novel.

  He sat in his office with his feet on the desk looking out the window at the city beyond, where no one slowed down for anything. He kept his office a stark contrast from the outside world. His doctor told him to slow down or he would die. He wasn’t ready to die so he was taking things easy.

  He reached for the phone and dialed the number his secretary had given him. The phone rang about seven or eight times and he was about to hang up when the woman’s voice suddenly met his ear.

  “Hello?’ It was a timid voice, expectant of something unwanted.

  “Mrs. Tuttle?” Gary said in his best put-you-at-ease voice.

  “Who is this?” she countered.

  “This is Gary Rivers,” he said.

  “Gary who?”

  “Rivers. I believe my secretary called you.”

  “Oh.” There was recognition in her voice. She continued. “The agent. I’m sorry I haven’t gotten used to your name.”

  The tone of her voice shifted so drastically he paused for a moment. Originally he had envisioned a meek little woman, the cliché librarian type. Now he was imagining a tough businesswoman. In his mind’s eye, he saw Mike’s wife.

  “That’s alright, Mrs. Tuttle,” he said. “You haven’t had much time to learn it yet.”

  “Please. Call me Sarah,” she said.

  “Sarah it is,” he said projecting a smile through the phone. Keep it friendly, keep her comfortable. “Sarah, the reason I’m calling is to discuss the contract negotiations for the novel Mike Bishop was representing for you.”

  “Yes,” she acknowledged. “I still can’t believe he’s gone.”

  “Yes, it shocked us all,” Gary said. Clearing his throat he continued, “I’ve reviewed Mike’s notes and everything looks pretty good. I think the numbers he worked up are reasonable and I will work for the same standard commission as stated in your contract with Mike.”

  “That sounds fine,” Sarah said. “Do you know how long this will take?”

  Gary hesitated. Was she in a hurry? He wondered again about Allan Tuttle. Was she trying to cheat him out of his novel? Or was she really the author? It was definitely a question he would need answered before things proceeded. No point in losing his entire career over one contract.

  “Uh, Mrs. Tuttle?”

  “Sarah.”

  “Sarah. I need to know something.”

  “Yes?”

  “All of the previous books Mike worked on with you were submitted by Allan Tuttle under the pen name Jack Bolder.”

  “Yes they were.”

  “Now you claim to be the author,” Gary said. “What is your husband, Allan, going to say about the change? I mean is he going to be a problem from a legal viewpoint?”

  “My husband is dead, Mr. Rivers,” she said. “He won’t be any trouble.”

  Gary sighed audibly and smiled at the phone. “Call me Gary. Please.”

  “Okay, Gary,” she said. “Is there anything else I can help you with?”

  “Well, now that you mention it,” Gary said, “there is something else.”

  “What is it?”

  “Well,” Gary said. “It seems we don’t have a copy of the manuscript.”

  “You’re kidding?”

  “Nope,” Gary said. “I was hoping you could shoot another copy our way.”

  “Sure,” Sarah said. “I’ll get that to you right away.”

  “I appreciate that,” Gary said. “It was nice talking to you.”

  “And to you,” Sarah said. “Good-bye, Gary.”

  “Good-bye, Sarah.”

  He hung up the phone and called through the open office door. “Stephanie, draw up a new contract for Mrs. Sarah Tuttle. Use Mike’s old contract to fill in the blanks.”

  “Yes, sir,” his secretary called back to him.

  Gary leaned back and put his feet back on his desk. He cupped his hands behind his head and smiled broadly. Looking out the wi
ndow again he watched the city rushing by. Stress was not going to kill him like it did his father. A massive stroke claimed the man’s life at only forty-five. It devastated Gary at the time. A few years later he was living life the same manner as his father; smoking, drinking, steak dinners and short nights. Not anymore. Now there was no caffeine, no fat, no salt, no sugar. He exercised although not as much as he told his doctor. He lived as close to a stress free life as he could.

  His job was stressful, so he often took the time to sit back and relax. He had Stephanie to handle most of the stress. There would always be some amount of stress, he knew. Compared to three years ago, he was mellow. With the phone call to Sarah Tuttle out of the way he was looking forward to moving on to the next step. He called to Stephanie.

  “Steph, could you get that Hollywood contact Mike had on the Tuttle novel?”

  “Yes sir, Mr. Rivers,” she replied.

  Chapter 32

  (The Novel)

  Sarah was in Allan's office, sitting in his chair staring at his desk. Gary Rivers’ call was a nice surprise. His request for a copy of the novel was unexpected. She spent years editing her husband’s work, always on a typewriter. Allan always feared someone would hack his computer and steal his manuscripts, so there was no electronic copy. A typed manuscript was a tall stack of papers, yet she had no idea where to search for it.

  Sarah hoped the copy Jimmy took on the plane with him wasn’t the only one. There had to be another copy somewhere. In all the years she lived with the man she never paid any attention to where he kept his manuscripts. Now her greatest fear was he might have kept any existing copies at the cabin. The fact the cabin was a pile of charred wood made that possibility a source of despair. So she clung to the hope there was another copy somewhere in the house and all she had to do was find it.

  Not finding it wasn’t an option. There was no way she could reproduce the work. It took Allan almost a year of hard work to come up with the finished product. He spent months making revisions alone. She only read it once. It was his best work. All of her plans hinged on the money she would get from the sale of that manuscript. She had to find it. She just had to.