The Widow's Husband

by William Coleman

  “I think she went for a walk,” Carl said. “Or went to the grocery or something.”

  “She went to the grocery without her car?”

  “Maybe she just needed a few things,” Carl said.

  “Sure,” Monte said. “And soon she’ll be walking down the street.”

  “Why don’t you go back to your car? I’m going to go look for her,” Carl said.

  Before they could part, a taxi rounded the corner at the end of the street and drove up the street toward them. The passenger sat in the back, head down so the two investigators could not see a face or any other features. They continued talking to one another in an effort to appear like they belonged. The taxi pulled up to the curb in front of Sarah Tuttle’s house. There was some movement in the car as the passenger paid for the ride. The back door on the curb side swung open. The passenger stepped out and stood erect. Turning to the men, Mrs. Tuttle smiled before turning back to the house and climbing the stairs.

  They stood watching after her as she climbed the driveway and disappeared into the house. The two men glanced at each other. Monte shrugged and moved away to his own car. The mystery was over though not answered. Each of the men would fall into their own methods of trying to discover where she had gone and what she had done. They knew one thing. She had not gone to the grocery store. She returned to the house with no bags of any kind. What stood out to the two men, making them move away from one another to return to their solo work was what the woman was wearing.

  Appropriate for a grieving widow, she wore black from head to toe. Black slacks and soft-soled shoes were of no significance to anyone. It was the black sweater they took notice of, the sweater with the long sleeves and turtleneck. And most significantly, the rip in the shoulder along the seam.

  Chapter 48

  (The Interrogation)

  Allan sat in a hard wood chair with his elbows on the table in front of him. He held his head in his hands looking down at the worn, scratched surface. There was a single door across the room. To his left there was a mirror running the length of the wall. He knew from years of television and movies there was another room behind that mirror where he could be observed and possibly videotaped. Not too long ago he would have been in a state of panic being in the situation he was in. He was not the same man who walked into his house that night to catch Sarah with another man. He had changed more than he ever dreamed he might. He was stronger, more confident.

  The door opened and Ben Hunter, Henry’s lawyer, walked in. He set a briefcase on the table and sat in the chair to Allan’s left so the mirror was to his back. Allan looked at him quizzically.

  “Henry called me,” Ben explained. “I’m taking your case. I still don’t know that I believe your entire story, but my investigator raised enough doubt in my mind to give me reason to believe we might be able to raise doubt in the minds of jurors. And a little doubt is all we need to win.”

  “I appreciate it,” Allan said. “I really am Allan Tuttle.”

  “Okay,” Ben opened his briefcase and pulled out a notebook, a pen and a small tape recorder. “The first thing we have to do is answer some questions. The detectives are going to try to pressure you to confess. Of course, you won’t. No matter what they say, we stick to your original story. Our only obstacle will be Mrs. Tuttle. Her testimony will be very damaging in court, so we can’t give the police any more ammunition against you.”

  Allan nodded without conviction. “I understand.”

  The door opened again as Dave and Philip entered the room. Dave sat in the chair opposite Allan. Philip leaned against the wall to Allan’s right. The two of them were looking at Allan with disgust in their eyes. They ignored the attorney. Allan felt very small in the room, just not small enough to disappear the way he would like.

  “Your lawyer is here,” Dave said. “So let’s get this over with.”

  “I want to protest the arrest of my client,” Ben said. “You have no grounds for making an arrest.”

  “I have your client’s fingerprint on the victim’s credit card,” Dave said. “And your client told us he was staying at the victim’s cabin which was the last known destination of the victim.”

  “You have no proof the victim ever made it to that cabin and you know it,” Ben said.

  “The fingerprint on the credit card proves your client was in contact with the victim,” Dave said. “How much more proof do you need?”

  “I’ll come back to that,” Ben said. “I also want to point out that my client was brought in on an inappropriate warrant.”

  “An inappro . . . “ Dave started. “That warrant was as clean as they get.”

  “I’m not doubting the warrant’s legitimacy,” Ben said.

  “Then what are you talking about?” Dave said.

  “The warrant is for a Jack Bolder,” Ben said. “And my client’s name is not Jack Bolder.”

  “I have a book with your client’s photo on the back showing his name as Jack Bolder,” Dave said. “So, don’t tell me he isn’t.”

  “Check your book again,” Ben said. “The biography in that book will say that Jack Bolder lives in this city with his wife. I challenge you to find the address of his residence. And where is Mrs. Bolder? You won’t find her either. There is no listing for a Jack Bolder anywhere in this city. And there is no Mrs. Bolder.”

  “Okay,” Ben said. “Let’s say your client is not Jack Bolder. Then who is he?”

  Ben shot a side-glance at Allan. “He’s Allan Tuttle.”

  “Don’t give me . . .,” Dave said. “He isn’t Allan Tuttle. Allan Tuttle is lying dead at the morgue.”

  “Says who?”

  “Says his wife,” Dave said.

  “We want a second opinion,” Ben said as calmly as he could.

  “You’re kidding?” Dave said. “You honestly think Sarah Tuttle wouldn’t know her own husband?”

  “On the contrary,” Ben said. “I think she knows her husband very well. I think she identified your victim as Allan Tuttle so she could get rid of her husband and collect on insurance.”

  “I can’t believe you,” Dave said. “We have your client’s finger print on the victim’s card. We’re holding him. I don’t care what his name is.”

  “It’s his card,” Ben said. “Of course it has his print on it.”

  “The victim was found with the card and your client’s finger print is on the card,” Dave said. “That proves there was contact between the two of them."

  "Did you find the victim's prints on the card as well?" Ben asked.

  "Your client is being held," Dave said. "And he is going to answer some questions.”

  “Ask what you want and we’ll answer what we can,” Ben said.

  Dave looked at Ben sternly for a long moment before turning to Allan. “The night in question, where were you?”

  “I was in Chicago,” Allan said. “And I caught a plane . . .”

  “You were not in Chicago,” Dave snapped. “Allan Tuttle was in Chicago. Now, where were you?”

  “Detective,” Ben intervened. “If you wish to question my client, I suggest you listen to his answers.”

  “Then have him answer,” Dave said.

  “He was answering,” Ben said. Turning to Allan he said, “Go on.”

  “I caught a flight home and took a cab to the house,” Allan said.

  “When you say the house, you mean the cabin?” Dave asked.

  “No,” Allan said. “I mean the house.”

  “You’re not helping yourself with this,” Dave said, rolling his eyes. “But if you want to provide the rope to hang yourself, by all means continue. What happened after you got home?”

  “I went in and caught my wife in bed with another man,” Allan said with his eyes down.

  “You caught . . .,” Dave started.

  “Let him finish,” Ben said.

  Allan looked from Dave to Ben and back again. “I thought, well, I uh, I . . .,” he took a second to compose himself. “I thought she was
being attacked.”

  Dave asked, slowly, “What made you think she was being attacked?”

  “She was tied to the bed,” Allan said. “She had a gag in her mouth. I thought the man was raping her.”

  “You thought your wife was being raped,” Dave repeated, skepticism in his voice. “Then what?”

  “I grabbed a bookend and hit the man,” Allan said.

  “You hit him?”

  “Yes.”

  “What did you do after you hit him?”

  “I started untying my wife,” Allan said. “That’s when I . . . you know . . . found out the truth.”

  “The truth?”

  “Yea,” Allan said. “That she wasn’t being raped. That she knew the guy and wasn’t happy to see me home early.”

  “Early?”

  “I came home a day earlier than I was supposed to,” Allan said. “I was going to surprise her. Some surprise it turned out to be.”

  “Where did you hit him?”

  “Pardon?”

  “When you hit the man with the bookend,” Dave said, “where did you hit him?”

  “In the bedroom,” Allan said.

  “No,” Dave said. “I mean where did you hit the man? On his chest? Where?”

  “The head,” Allan said. “I think I knocked him out.”

  “What did you do next?” Dave asked. “I mean after you learned the truth about the man and your wife?”

  “I left,” Allan said. “I went to the cabin to think things through.”

  Dave looked to Philip who held his gaze for a long time. They seemed to be communicating without speaking. A second later Philip pushed away from the wall and took the seat across from Ben.

  “Isn’t it really true, Mr. Bolder,” Philip said, “that you saw Mrs. Tuttle in bed with Mr. Tuttle while you were peeking in through the window? Isn't it true that you were obsessed with Mrs. Tuttle and were infuriated by what you saw?”

  “No.”

  “When you saw Mr. Tuttle leave the house you followed him to the cabin?” Philip continued. “And at the cabin you attacked Mr. Tuttle, first striking him in the head with a blunt instrument. Then, when he was lying unconscious and helpless, you strangling him to death?”

  “No,” Allan said. “That isn’t what happened at all. He was strangled?”

  “Mr. Bolder,” Dave said. “How did the victim end up with the wallet if it belonged to you?”

  “My name is Allan. Allan Tuttle,” Allan said. He looked at Ben pleadingly. “I didn’t strangle anyone.”

  “Someone did,” Philip said. “And you were the most likely to be the last one to see him alive.”

  “I left him at the house with my wife,” Allan argued. “She can tell you.”

  “She’s the one telling us the man in the morgue is her husband,” Dave reminded him. “Why would she lie?”

  “Maybe she killed him?”

  “You’re kidding,” Philip said. “According to your own story this man was her lover. Now you want us to believe she killed him? Why would she? And why lie about who you are? What possible reason would she have?”

  “Insurance,” Ben said. “As I already said.”

  “No way,” Dave said. “You expect us to believe she could convince everyone who knew Allan Tuttle that he’s dead. Someone would have come forward to say it wasn’t him.”

  “Who?” Ben asked.

  “What do you mean who?” Dave said. “Anyone who knew him. His co-workers.”

  “Self-employed writer,” Ben said. “No co-workers.”

  “His family?”

  “Only child,” Ben said. “Parents deceased.”

  “Friends,” Dave said.

  “Have you found any?” Ben asked. “Mr. Tuttle is a recluse, detective. He does not go out. He does not have people in. He met Mrs. Tuttle by chance. He does not have friends.”

  “What about a doctor?” Philip asked. “Everyone has a doctor.”

  Ben turned to Allan with an expectant look on his face. The others followed the lawyer’s gaze until all three of them were staring at Allan. He squirmed in his seat. Allan shrugged.

  “I don’t trust doctors,” he said. “Scared of them in fact.”

  “Bah,” Dave dismissed. “Afraid of doctors. We aren’t talking about your client anyway. We’re talking about Allan Tuttle. He’s dead. End of story.”

  “Find his doctor and have him verify the identity of the man in the morgue,” Ben said. “All we are asking for is a second opinion.”

  “He’s dead,” Dave said. “Don’t need a second opinion for that.”

  “You know what I mean,” Ben said.

  “Yes, I do,” Dave sneered. “And I’ll find your second opinion. In the meantime, we’re holding your client on the charge of first degree murder.”

  “Very well,” Ben sighed. “But we will continue to look for a witness who will identify our client as the real Allan Tuttle.”

  “You do that,” Dave challenged.

  “Birdie Login,” Allan said suddenly. His lawyer and the two detectives turned to him.

  “What?” Philip voiced the question on all their minds.

  “Not what,” Allan grinned broadly. “Who. Birdie Login can identify me. She used to work for me years ago. She knows who I am.”

  “Do you know where she lives?” Ben asked.

  “North I think,” Allan said. He was excited now. “On the edge of town. She’d be getting old now. And she had a bad heart. But I haven’t heard that she passed away. She could help me.”

  Dave rolled his eyes. “Okay,” he said, “I’ll play along. What’s her name again?”

  Chapter 49

  (The Night Before)

  It was not unusual for a widow to wear black as a sign of mourning, which worked well with Sarah’s plan. She picked a sensible outfit; black jeans, black sweater, black sneakers. She admired herself in the mirror and smiled. She could pass as a mourner if she saw someone she knew. Of course, she was going to the north end of town where she would not expect to see anyone.

  Dressed and ready, she turned off all the lights, sat in a chair by the window and watched the man in the car as he watched the house. She waited for what seemed like hours before the man pulled away from the curb and sped away. It was only moments later the second car drove off as well.

  Convinced they were gone, she left the house under the cover of darkness with nothing more than a little cash and a piece of paper with an address written on it. She walked for more than an hour before stopping at a convenience store to use a payphone to call a cab.

  The cab arrived some time later and she got into the back without a word. She made no eye contact with the driver; silently showing him the typewritten note. He nodded, pulled onto the nearly deserted street and steered toward the address. She sat back and looked out the window at the buildings as they went by. She could hear her heart pounding in her ears. She was very conscious of her breathing. Her hands shook.

  She was not a bad woman. She always considered herself one of the good guys if sides were to be chosen. She abhorred violence and hated thieves and the like. She was for more police and tougher sentences for criminals, though she fell short of agreeing with the death penalty. She wanted the streets to be a safe place for women and children. It was part of her nature.

  She did believe every citizen had the right to defend themselves and their property when faced with danger. She believed if someone threatened your life you had the right to protect yourself using whatever means possible, even deadly force if that’s what it took. And she believed her life was threatened. She was not facing death. She was facing a different kind of threat. She could easily lose everything if her plan failed, including her freedom. Defending herself was only natural.

  The cab rolled to a stop in front of a house standing dark among old oak trees. Sarah paid the driver and slid out of the car. She stood silent and motionless until the cab was out of view. She scanned the neighborhood for lighted windows. Satisfied no one was
watching, she walked up to the house with her hands in her pockets. In the dark she looked like a floating head with her hair blowing in the breeze.

  She stepped onto the porch and strolled up to the door. With gloved hands she pulled the storm door open slowly to prevent any squeaking from rusty hinges. She tried the inside door. It was locked as she assumed it would be. She took a deep breath and fingered the doorbell. The chime lingered in the house. She pulled her finger free of the button, the chime faded to silence. She sighed deeply and shook her head at her foolishness.

  A light came on in the house. She could hear movement inside. For good measure, she rang the bell one more time.

  “Hello?” a timid voice called through the door. “Who’s there?”

  “Mrs. Login?” Sarah said in her softest most unthreatening tone.

  “Yes?”

  “Can I come in Mrs. Login?” Sarah asked.

  “Well,” the woman hesitated. “I’m not sure. Who are you again?”

  “I’m here on behalf of Allan Tuttle,” Sarah said. “It is very important.”

  “Oh, that poor man,” the woman said. “I read about him in the paper, you know. Such a tragedy. So young. I can’t believe he was,” her voice dropped to almost inaudible, “murdered.”

  “It is very sad,” Sarah said. Very sad indeed. She was planning to use a story about Allan wanting to talk to her to get her to open her door.

  “You say you’re here on Allan’s behalf?”

  “Yes ma’am,” Sarah said. “He, uh, he . . . He left you something in his will.”

  “Really?” the woman said. “I can’t believe he thought of me. He never came to visit me.”

  “Well, he spoke of you often,” Sarah lied. “Now, if you’ll just let me in, we can get these papers signed. Then I can be on my way.”

  “It’s awfully late to be working isn’t it?”

  “My kind of work never stops,” Sarah said. She was getting nowhere with the old lady and she knew it. “Now if you could . . .”

  “Why are you here so late?”

  “I, uh, have a plane to catch tomorrow morning,” Sarah said. “I just need to finish this up before I go.”