The Widow's Husband

by William Coleman

  Resting her forehead on the edge of the desk Sarah looked down at her feet. She considered luring Allan to the house to show her where the manuscript was. Of course nothing was ever that simple. If he caught on to what she was after he may not lead her to it. If he got his hands on it, she may not get it from him. The most difficult possibility was, if she let him in, he may not leave.

  Contacting Allan would have to be a last resort. She would have to do everything she could to find it on her own. If it came down to it, she would use drastic measures to get what she wanted. And she would get what she wanted. Nothing was going to stop her from that.

  She renewed her search, opening every door, checking every corner. She opened cabinets, boxes and drawers. She rediscovered things she had forgotten she had, things she assumed were long gone. No manuscripts presented themselves, not even from previous books he had written, something that just didn’t seem right.

  After more than an hour, Sarah collapsed onto the couch to regroup. She had no idea how many hiding places a house this small could have. She lay on the couch with her face buried in the cushions letting her mind drift. She tried not to think of the book. She did not think about Allan or Mike or any of the others. She just let her mind empty. Free from thought she let her body relax, allowing the tension to release from her body slowly until finally she drifted to sleep.

  Waking to a dark room Sarah was disoriented. She sat up looking around until she got her bearings. She stretched and worked the kinks out of her joints before standing. She looked for a clock and saw it was almost midnight. And just like that a thought occurred to her; Allan was a wimp.

  Allan never stayed up to midnight. He couldn’t. Even on New Year’s Eve, her husband always gave up and went to bed before eleven. He was too much of a wimp to make it. He was afraid to drive. Afraid of loud noises, rodents, spiders. You name it, he was afraid of it. Even, Sarah suspected, his own shadow. So, even though he had the imagination to create heroes in his novels, characters who could do anything and everything and come out on top, Allan was incapable of functioning in the normal world. He was too afraid of the world to conquer it.

  He was afraid of others stealing his manuscript. That was why he only worked on typewriters. If there was no digital copy, it couldn’t be hacked. It stood to reason he would be afraid to leave a paper copy somewhere others could find it. What would Allan, her wimp of a husband, have done to protect the manuscript from his fears?

  What would be the first thing someone with that kind of fear would do after finishing a new book? He would make copies. Not just one, several. She was looking for one and couldn’t find it yet now she was convinced there were many. What had he done with them? He carried one copy in the briefcase, the copy she let Jimmy take. He would have one hidden at the cabin, no good to her now. He would have one at the house. But where? She looked everywhere. Where would he put it? Somewhere he could get to it, yet no one else would think to look. She already spent hours searching the house. She looked in every crevice and container, the obvious and the unlikely. There was nothing in the house.

  She turned to the window above the sink in the kitchen. The curtain there was as old as the house and Sarah hated the color and the pattern. She was not seeing them now. She was looking through to the wall on the other side. The freestanding garage was not an original part of the property. Allan had it built a couple years before she came into his life. She never really thought about it before, a man who didn’t drive building a garage. She thought about it now.

  Chapter 33

  (The Lesson)

  After two weeks of hard work and countless aches and pains, Allan and Henry finally completed the fence. They stood back to examine their work, pat each other on the back and discuss a job well done. It was the most physical labor Allan could remember doing in his life. The two men had come to know each other well, telling each other things about themselves usually left for old friends and drunken nights. Allan told the entire story of his recent distress leading up to his working on the ranch, something he never thought he would ever do. Henry told of his first marriage to the love of his life, how she passed away at such a young age, how he missed her sometimes. They bonded.

  Henry bought Allan another change of clothes, which Allan insisted Henry deduct from his pay for the work he was doing. Which Henry had done. Allan also insisted he deduct something for room and board. Which Henry had not done. There was no point in arguing with the man, Allan learned. Once the old rancher made up his mind it stayed made up. So he accepted the meals graciously and thanked God for the bed he slept in. And each day the men would drive out to the fence to work.

  During the two weeks Allan tried a number of times to call Sarah. Just to see if she changed her mind, he told himself. He knew she would not change her mind any more than Henry would change his about the room and board. Usually she hung up as soon as she heard his voice. Sometimes she would yell at him for impersonating her husband. He wasn’t sure how one could impersonate oneself. Occasionally there would be no answer at all. He would sit listening to the ringing until the answering machine picked up, then he would listen to Sarah’s voice without the anger he had come to know.

  To his surprise, he was showing signs of muscle. Standing before the mirror after stepping out of the shower, he could see the beginning of a well-toned man.

  With the job coming to a close, Henry was already discussing what task they would tackle next. The barn and the house needed painting. The drive leading from the main road to the house needed to be resurfaced. So many things they would be busy for months. Allan had an idea Henry was trying to put him at ease about having a way to make a living. Allan was not put at ease. He began to think he would never be able to write again, a thought he did not share with Henry.

  He needed to write. It was a part of him. It was who he was. He decided he would start a new book. He could work on it in the evenings after he and Henry finished for the day, before he went to bed. He was going to bed earlier than ever before. He could make time to write. Ideas were already forming in his mind. Unfortunately, each one focused on an evil wife. He knew he had his work cut out for him.

  He asked Henry about taking him to the general store to pick up yellow pads, pens and a few other supplies and was surprised the rancher suggested Allan take his truck. Allan wavered a few minutes before confessing he could not drive. Henry, shocked because his first time behind the wheel was shy of his thirteenth birthday, took Allan to the store, insisting the whole way he would teach Allan to drive. Allan protested, before ultimately agreeing to try. At one time he owned a car and drove everywhere. Theoretically, he would not have to learn anything. Only start doing what he already knew. In reality, he wasn’t sure he could.

  The next morning Henry pulled his truck up to the gate to his pasture and got out. Allan came out of the house ready to go and stopped dead in his tracks. The rancher was motioning for Allan to take the driver’s seat.

  “What are you waiting for?” Henry called to him.

  “When I agreed to let you teach me to drive,” Allan said, “I didn’t think you meant today. Or that it would be in your truck.”

  "What's wrong with my truck?"

  "It's too big."

  “Too big?” Henry chuckled. “You think this is big, you should have seen the rigs I drove in the army.”

  “I haven’t driven in years,” Allan said. “I don’t think I should start with . . . I mean, what if I, you know . . .”

  “Allan. It’s a truck,” Henry said. “You can’t hurt it. And where you’ll be driving there won’t be anything for you to run over or into. Just get in.”

  “I’ve never driven a truck,” Allan gave one last argument.

  “It's just like driving a car,” Henry countered.

  Allan reluctantly climbed behind the wheel of the truck. He thought back to his driver's Ed classes all those years before. He adjusted the seat and the mirrors. He took extra care to fasten his seatbelt. He took the wheel in his hands
and scanned the dash for the important things. Once he located everything he needed he sat staring through the windshield at the field beyond. Nothing out there to run over, Henry told him. Allan took no comfort in that.

  “You going to start ‘er up or we just gonna sit here all day?”

  Allan reached down gingerly to the keys. He turned them and heard the engine turn over. Immediately he turned them back killing any chance the truck might start. He looked at Henry and shrugged. He turned the key again, this time letting the engine catch and rumble to life. He removed his hand slowly from the keys as if anticipating it would do something unexpected. Nothing happened and he put his hands back on the wheel, his knuckles white.

  “Now put it in gear,” Henry prompted.

  “Oh, yea,” Allan said, making no move to do what the rancher asked.

  “You have to use your hands, son,” Henry said. “Ain't goin' to shift itself.”

  Allan stepped down on the brake and pulled the gearshift toward him, gliding it through the gears down to low. Allan moved it back up to drive and grinned nervously. Once set, he resumed his death grip on the wheel.

  “Okay let out the brake and let’s go.”

  Allan lifted his foot slowly and let it hover a couple inches above the pedal. He was expecting the truck to roll forward forcing him to slam down on the brake to stop. The truck only sat idling. Allan looked at Henry.

  “Let’s go, son,” Henry said.

  Allan put his foot on the accelerator and rested his heel on the floor board. He looked out the windshield at the field. He looked down at his hands on the steering wheel. He looked down at his foot on the gas pedal. All he had to do was step down. He glanced at Henry who nodded at him. Allan turned back to the field and pressed his foot down on the accelerator.

  The initial lurch threw both men’s heads back with a jolt. Allan’s foot came off the gas and he tried wildly to hit the brake only glancing it before stomping on the floor. The truck rolled to a stop. Allan found the brake and shifted the truck back to park sitting back in the driver’s seat. He looked over to Henry who sat looking back at him.

  Allan thought the rancher was going to yell at him, tell him to get out of his truck and forget ever learning to drive. Instead, Henry grinned, suppressed a chuckle, gave in to the chuckle and was soon rolling with laughter. To Allan, this was worse than being yelled at. Henry must have seen something in his eyes because he stopped laughing and reached over to pat him on the back.

  “Don’t feel bad,” Henry said. “I was just reminded of when I taught my son to drive. It was a lot like this.”

  “Great I drive like a sixteen-year-old.”

  “Actually, Henry Jr. was fourteen,” Henry said. “But that was different. He was a cocky one. He thought he could do it. You think you can’t. Fact is you were both wrong. Now, put it back in gear and stop trying so hard. You know what to do, so do it.”

  Soon Allan was driving through the field in various patterns. Henry told him to turn and he turned. Accelerate and he gave it gas. Slow and he braked softly. Stop and he braked hard. Allan was actually starting to feel comfortable behind the wheel.

  Satisfied, Henry told his student to park. The two men climbed out of the cab and moments later were sitting on the open tailgate drinking coffee from a thermos.

  “Where is Henry Jr.?” Allan asked. “College?”

  “College,” Henry chuckled. “No. Henry Jr. would be forty-four next spring. He never even saw twenty-four.”

  “I’m sorry,” Allan said. “May I ask what happened?”

  “Army,” Henry said. “He was on patrol in one of those small countries. One that is always having problems. Has for years. Will forever. My boy was there to help make a difference. The only difference it made was I lost my son.”

  Henry took a deep breath and looked out at the field. He owned a lot. And he had no heir. He was past the point of tears over his son but he still mourned. Always would, he supposed. Nothing would dull the pain.

  “I’m sorry,” Allan said, not knowing what else to say. He had stirred memories that were not his to stir. And now his friend was reliving them.

  “Damnedest thing is,” Henry said. “I’m the one who convinced him to join up. I let his mother die. Then I sent him off to be killed. Mrs. Cutter tried to tell me to let him make his own choice. I didn’t listen. Now, he’s dead.”

  After a moment of awkward silence, Allan changed the subject. “Why do you call her Mrs. Cutter?”

  “Well, you see,” Henry gave a nervous chuckle. “My first wife, the one I told you about. Her name was Allison. Prettiest name I ever did hear. Don’t you agree?”

  “Very nice,” Allan nodded.

  “Well, Mrs. Cutter’s name is Alicia,” Henry said. “You see my problem.”

  “You called her Allison?”

  “Oh, yea,” Henry chuckled again. This time it was more humorous. “All the time. One day she told me the way it was going to be. She said to me, she said, ‘Henry Cutter, I know why you keep calling me by that name. And I understand. But if you do it one more time I’m going to poison your food and bury you out in the back pasture.’ Been calling her Mrs. Cutter ever since.”

  Allan looked at him slack jawed. Henry laughed, slapped him on the back and suggested they get to work. The two men drove out to the barn and did just that.

  Chapter 34

  (The Book)

  “Get a load of this,” Dave said dropping the book he borrowed from Leroy Jenkins on Philip’s desk.

  “It’s Bolder’s book,” Philip said.

  “’Mistaken Identity’,” Dave read the title. “Guess what it’s about?”

  “Well, he’s a mystery writer,” Philip said leaning back in his chair. “So, I’m going to go with a murder mystery.”

  “Yes it’s a murder mystery,” Dave said. “Guess the details.”

  “Why don’t you just tell me and save us a lot of time?” Philip said.

  “You’re testy,” Dave said. “Problems at home?”

  “Just lack of sleep,” Philip said. “What is your book about?”

  “Okay, it starts with a man and woman found murdered on a beach in Florida,” Dave said moving to his desk to sit down. “The man’s wallet is gone. Her identification gives a Nebraska address. A classic tourist mugging gone bad.”

  “Mugging gone bad,” Philip repeated.

  “Right,” Dave said. “Then this man shows up claiming to be a friend of the couple’s. He was to meet them in Florida to play golf. Anyway, this guy identifies the bodies and everything is wrapped up. Unsolved, but wrapped up. Only the woman’s sister is unconvinced.”

  “Isn’t she always,” Philip remarked.

  “She hires a private eye to look into the killings,” Dave said. “She doesn’t think the story sounds right because her sister doesn’t play golf. Also, she doesn’t know this supposed friend. The estate was left to some stranger as well. Not that she was expecting anything.”

  “Of course not.”

  “It’s a book, okay?”

  “What is the point?”

  “I’m almost there,” Dave said. “This private eye looks into the friend who identified the bodies and the unknown beneficiary. Guess what?”

  “Same guy?”

  “Same guy,” Dave said. “It gets even better.”

  “What?”

  “It’s the woman’s husband.”

  “The sister’s husband?”

  “No,” Dave shook his head. “The dead woman’s husband. Turns out the man takes his wife to Florida and kills her and some other man then makes himself available to identify the bodies.”

  “So, you’re thinking Mrs. Tuttle isn’t Mrs. Tuttle?” Philip tried to follow.

  “No, you idiot,” Dave said. “We’re talking about Bolder. I think he got his idea of impersonating a dead man from this book.”

  “But in the book the supposed dead man is impersonating someone else,” Philip pointed out.

  “It’s a book,
Philip,” Dave said, frustrated. “Think about it. He isn’t copying the book. He’s just using parts of it to get what he wants.”

  “What exactly does he want?” Philip asked.

  “Mrs. Tuttle maybe?” Dave suggested. “I don’t know. I think anyone who can think up the things in this book can adapt them to his needs.”

  “Well, we can’t arrest him for writing a book,” Philip said. “Even if he writes a bad book. We need something solid before we can make a move.”

  “Exhibit B,” Dave said dropping a plastic bag on Philip’s desk next to the book.

  Philip picked the bag up and looked at its contents. It contained a credit card with Allan Tuttle’s name on it. He glanced at the sticker in the corner of the bag giving the details of when and where it was found, which case it was for and where it was to be stored in the evidence room. Philip knew the details so he didn’t read them. He looked up at Dave expectantly. The other said nothing.

  “God I hate this game,” Philip said. “It’s Tuttle’s card. What of it?”

  “The lab lifted a clean set of prints,” Dave said. “They weren’t Tuttle’s.”

  “You think they belong to Bolder?”

  “Only one way to find out,” Dave said.

  “We can’t just walk up to the man and ask for a set of prints to compare to,” Philip said. “He would laugh in our faces.”

  “So we get a warrant,” Dave said.

  “Based on a book?” Philip said. “You trained me, Dave. No judge is going to sign off on that.”

  “Not based on the book,” Dave said. “Based on the fact that Bolder was living in Tuttle’s cabin, which is where Tuttle was supposed to be going the night of his death. If he made it to the cabin, Bolder might have been the last one to see him alive. Now, we have just cause to ask for prints to eliminate Bolder as a suspect.”