The Widow's Husband

by William Coleman

  “Talk about a way to clear the room,” Sarah said.

  “Sorry about that,” Dave apologized. “I didn’t think they would be quite so pushy. I shouldn’t have told them that.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” Sarah said. “They seem nice.”

  “They are that,” Dave agreed. “Now, what was it you remembered?”

  “Well,” Sarah looked away. “About that.”

  “What?”

  “I really didn’t remember anything,” she said, her eyes down.

  “What do you mean?” Dave asked.

  “I just needed to have dinner with someone,” she said. “I couldn’t take one more night alone. I don’t really know anyone. And I wasn’t sure you’d come without a reason.”

  “You thought right,” Dave said. “This isn’t really a good idea.”

  “It’s harmless,” she said. “Just dinner between two people who have no interest in anything but friendly conversation.”

  “Conversation.”

  “That’s all.”

  “Okay,” he said. “We eat and talk. When we’re finished, we leave.”

  “Agreed.”

  The rest of the evening passed in near silence as Dave grew increasingly uncomfortable socializing with the wife of a murder victim. Sarah also grew nervous trying to decide if suspicion would be cast her way if Dave concluded she was trying to make a move on him so soon after Allan’s supposed death. They finished eating, said their goodnights and retreated into the night separately.

  In their respective homes, Dave sat in his favorite chair thinking about what had just happened, while Sarah crawled into bed and drifted to sleep dreaming about Detective Dave Parker . . . and his handcuffs.

  Chapter 23

  (Ashes)

  Allan opened his eyes in a panic. He wasn’t sure where he was. Nothing looked right to him. He stretched his limbs and the aches and pains from the previous day’s work renewed their assault on his body. There was no way he was going to be able to work another day. He was stiff. He was hot. He pulled the blankets down and kicked them off his legs. Still hot. He wondered if he should have the air conditioner checked. He wondered how he would pay for it if he did. He wondered why his room, dark in the shadows of early morning, looked different. Maybe because he never saw it at this hour. He was a writer. He wasn’t supposed to wake up before the sun.

  “Mr. Bolder,” he heard a woman’s voice. “Breakfast, Mr. Bolder.”

  The sound of her voice brought it all back to him. After dinner the night before, Henry offered their guestroom to him. It was obvious to the man and his wife, Allan was not in good shape after two days’ hard labor. Because they were going to work again the next day they convinced him to stay rather than go home just long enough to sleep. He wanted to be in his own bed in his own home and declined the offer. They pressed the issue convincing Allan the bed in the cabin was not his own bed in his own home.

  Allan stretched again, promised the woman he was on his way, and lay there a few more minutes before letting his legs slide over the side of the mattress. He looked down at his dirt and sweat caked clothes and wished his other change of clothes wasn’t at the cabin. He hated dirty clothes and was reminded of the suit he wore for the past few days. He did not want to be in that situation again.

  He slowly stood. A thousand needles pierced the soles of his feet and drove their way to his knees. He wanted to collapse back into the mattress. He tip-toed to a chair in the corner where he sat and rubbed his feet to alleviate the pain. Instead, the intensity escalated, bringing tears to his eyes. Slowly, the pain receded. When he could stand, he worked his body into the stiff, dirty clothing. With only his boots to go, he opened the door and went to the dining room where the Cutters were waiting.

  “There he is,” Mrs. Cutter smiled. She gestured for him to take a seat and poured him a cup of coffee. She disappeared into the kitchen while Allan leaned over the mug and breathed in the aroma.

  “You going to drink that?” Henry asked. “Or you just inhale it?”

  Allan grinned and lifted the cup to his lips, sipping the contents. A minute later Mrs. Cutter returned with a plate covered with eggs, hash browns, bacon, sausage and biscuits. She set the plate in front of Allan and took a seat across from him.

  “You eat that up, now,” she said. “You need your strength. You got no meat on ya.”

  Allan examined the food, more than he usually ate in a day, all pushed together on one plate. Next to it Mrs. Cutter set a tall glass of orange juice. Allan was sure he wasn’t going to finish the meal. He wasn’t even sure where to start. He said softly, “I’ll do my best.”

  “You better clear the plate,” Henry said. “Mrs. Cutter doesn’t accept anything less.”

  Allan nodded. He took a bite and chewed, savoring the flavor. It was like heaven. He had no idea how hungry he was. His hand began to move as if with a mind of its own shoveling food to his mouth. By the time he stopped, there was nothing left on the plate and he was washing it down with the juice.

  “Good boy,” Mrs. Cutter said as she took his plate away.

  “You ready for another day, son?” Henry asked.

  Allan looked at the man sitting across from him and contemplated the words. What he wanted to do was crawl back to bed and bury himself under the blankets. He wanted to hide somewhere this sweet couple couldn’t find him. What he said was, “I guess so.”

  “Well let’s get a move on,” Henry pushed his chair back and stood. He patted his stomach and grinned broadly. “Nothing better than starting the day with a great meal.”

  Allan pushed away from the table. “I can’t believe I ate it all.”

  Henry laughed and started toward the kitchen. Allan followed him a few minutes later and walked in on the Cutters, kissing. Allan came to a halt. He tried to back out of the room but ran into the doorframe. Noticing their awkward guest, they parted. Mrs. Cutter returned to washing the dishes and Henry picked up a large cooler.

  “Could you get the other one?” he asked Allan.

  “Why do we have two coolers?” Allan asked as they loaded them into the back of the truck.

  “One is our lunch,” Henry said, hefting his cooler over the side of the truck. “The other one is ice and drinks. Not going to have the same problem as yesterday.”

  “Problem?”

  “We slowed down toward the end of the day,” Henry said. “Too hot and dehydrated. Today we work harder and longer.”

  “Harder?”

  “We need to get out there and get to work,” Henry climbed into the truck and started the engine.

  “Longer?”

  “Let’s get a move on,” Henry called to him. “Get in. We need to go.”

  Allan pulled himself into the truck. He barely got his seatbelt fastened before Henry put the truck into gear and lurched forward following the same path he took the day before.

  Allan sat quietly, looking out the window at the fence illuminated by the headlights. He could see damage they would have to repair and wondered how many more hours of work it would take to reach this area. He was sure he would be long dead by the time they made it that far. After that, Sarah could tell anyone she wanted she was a widow and not be lying.

  The day passed quickly. At first, the muscles in Allan’s body protested, demanding he give up, sit in the field and cry. Once he fell into a routine, his muscles began to forgive and just worked to get the job done. It was a good four hours before they stopped. Only because Henry stood staring off into the distance long enough for Allan to join him.

  “Mrs. Cutter,” Henry said. They were standing side by side watching the approach of another truck much like Henry’s only blue where Henry’s was white.

  “She drives that?” Allan thought aloud.

  “Yep,” Henry said. “Out here you have to drive a truck if you want to get around. Wonder what’s up. She never comes out unless she has a good reason.”

  It took another five minutes of the truck bouncing along the pa
th before it came to a stop next to the white truck. Mrs. Cutter waved at them as she slid out of the cab and disappeared behind the massive vehicle. She walked around, mindful of each step she took.

  “What’s up?” Henry asked.

  “How you boys doing?” she said. “Make some progress, did ya?”

  “We’ve done fine,” Henry answered. “Now, what brings you out here?”

  “Well,” she took a deep breath. “I got a call from old man Jasper.”

  “What’d he want?” Henry said.

  “Well,” Mrs. Cutter looked around like she was trying to avoid looking at her husband, or possibly Allan. “Seems there was a fire last night.”

  “The general store?” Allan asked, concerned.

  “No, not the store,” she answered. “Store’s fine. Old man Jasper is fine.”

  “Where then?” Henry said.

  “Well,” she started, letting the word hang in the air.

  “What is it woman?” Henry said, his patience wearing thin.

  “It’s Mr. Bolder’s cabin,” she said.

  “My cabin?” Allan’s eyes went wide, his face pale.

  “Well, damn,” Henry said. “We best get you over there.”

  “I thought you might want to,” Mrs. Cutter said.

  Allan’s eyes were directed at the woman, focused on a point light-years away. He barely remembered getting into Henry’s truck and bouncing all the way back to the farmhouse. He was completely unaware of waiting for Mrs. Cutter to park her truck and climb in next to him. He was in a daze as they drove down the road toward his cabin.

  He hoped there was a mistake. They would arrive and find his cabin undamaged and everything he owned inside just the way he left it. He watched the telephone poles pass as they drove the small stretch of highway. Turning up his road, he watched the trees.

  Henry pulled into the clearing at the end of the road and Allan heard Mrs. Cutter gasp. With that simple sound, he knew it was all true. His cabin was burned. His belongings were gone. He didn’t want to look. Henry parked and opened his door. Allan could see several other cars around the area. Come to see the show, Allan suspected. Well he wasn’t going to let his life be the entertainment for others. He pulled on the door handle and pushed the door open. He stepped out onto the gravel, which served as the driveway for so many years. He turned to look for someone to target, someone to take the brunt of his anger. He looked for a person. Any person would do. Instead his eyes fell on the charred remains of his cabin. He froze, his jaw dropped to his chest, and he fainted dead away.

  Chapter 24

  (Mr. Jack Bolder)

  Allan’s head swam in blackness.

  “Mr. Bolder?”

  He heard the voice somewhere in the distance. Was someone looking for him? He wasn’t Mr. Bolder. He was Mr. Tuttle. It was not him they were looking for.

  “Mr. Bolder?”

  Closer now, Allan did not recognize the voice.

  “Is he okay?”

  A second voice; a familiar sounding woman. Not so familiar he could put a name to it, he was sure he had heard it before.

  “He’ll be fine. Just fainted is all.”

  A third voice; another man. Allan recognized this voice, he was sure of it.

  “Who is he?” The first voice asked the question.

  “Name’s Bolder. Jack Bolder.” The second man answered.

  “Why is he . . .?”

  “I think he’s coming around,” the woman said.

  Allan opened his eyes and looked up at the faces looking down on him. Henry and Mrs. Cutter were there. Two men Allan did not know stood opposite the couple. They looked intimidating standing over him in their dark suits and unemotional facial expressions. Allan rose to his elbows.

  “Careful, son,” Henry said. “Don’t try to get up too soon. Could drop you again if you move too fast.”

  “I’m okay,” Allan said. He took the hand offered by one of the strange men standing over him. Together they managed to get Allan to his feet where he swayed slightly as he locked eyes with the man who helped him up. “Do I know you?”

  “Detective Dave Parker,” the man said.

  “Are you here to investigate the fire?” Allan asked.

  “In a way,” the other stranger said.

  “This is my partner Detective Smalls,” Dave said. The two men led Allan away from the others.

  “We are following the possible connection between this fire and another case we’re working on.”

  “Connection?” Allan asked. “Connection to what?”

  “We thought the man who started this fire might have some answers for us,” Dave said.

  “The man?” The idea was absurd to Allan. “Someone started the fire deliberately?”

  “We believe so,” Philip said.

  “Why would anyone come all this way to burn down the cabin?”

  “That’s what we hope to find out,” Dave said. “Now we need to ask you some questions.”

  “Okay,” Allan said noticing Philip step back a little.

  “Mr. Bolder?” Dave said. “Why did you come all this way?”

  “This is where he lives,” Mrs. Cutter answered for him.

  “It is?”

  “Yes,” Allan agreed.

  “You live in this cabin?”

  “Yes. At least I did,” Allan sighed, “until now.”

  The two detectives exchanged a glance. They looked back at Allan with serious expressions. Dave asked, “Why were you living here?”

  “Because my wife won’t let me back in my house,” Allan said shyly. “I’m staying here so I have a place to sleep.”

  “Your wife?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And who is your wife, Mr. Bolder?”

  “Sarah Tuttle.” Allan heard the question and his answer, realizing his situation immediately. They think his name is Bolder. They know the owner’s name is not Bolder. They think he’s been staying in the cabin without permission.

  “Well,” Allan said, “my name isn’t really Jack Bolder.”

  “It isn’t?”

  “No.”

  “Then what is it?”

  “Allan Tuttle.”

  “Allan Tuttle?” Dave repeated. “So, why are these people calling you Jack Bolder?”

  “That’s what they think my name is,” Allan said.

  “Now why would they think that?”

  “Well,” Allan said, squirming. “It’s kind of a long story.”

  “Why don’t you tell me?” Dave asked. “I have lots of time. You have anything better to do Phil?”

  “Not a thing,” Philip said.

  “It all started when I came home a day early from Chicago,” Allan began. He told his story in vivid detail as only the writer in him could. Telling his story was his way of getting back into his house. Proof he was alive. Proof she would not be able to deny in the face of the law. He told his story enthusiastically and without pausing. He told every detail except one. He left out the part where he smashed the man’s head with the bookend. It was a moment of violence not needed to tell his story, he reasoned. The detectives nodded as he spoke and wrote in their respective notebooks. He finished with the news of the cabin burning down. Everyone standing around him was silent for a long time.

  “Interesting,” Dave said.

  “Very,” Philip said.

  “I know,” Allan agreed.

  “You have any identification with the name Allan Tuttle?” Dave asked. Allan shook his head. “How about Jack Bolder?”

  “No,” Allan said. After a pause he added, “Except the books.”

  “The books?” Philip asked.

  “My books,” Allan said. “They have a photo of me.”

  “As Jack Bolder?”

  “Yes,” Allan said. “Oh. That doesn’t help.”

  “And you say your agent is dead?”

  “Yes,” Allan let his head sag. “Plane crash.”

  “I heard about that,” Mrs. Cutter said.

/>   “Quiet, dear,” Henry chastised her.

  “You have to understand,” Dave said. “While your story has some merit, it is mostly things you might have read in the paper.”

  “The paper?”

  “The stories about the case,” Dave said.

  “The case?”

  “And there’s the fact the woman you claim to be married to says you aren’t,” Dave said. “Why would she do that?”

  “I don’t know,” Allan said. “I’ve been trying to figure that out.”

  “And there’s the body,” Dave said.

  “The body?” Allan’s eyes rose sharply. “What body?”

  “The one Sarah Tuttle identified as her husband,” Philip said.

  “You have a body?” Allan asked, bewildered.

  “Yes,” Dave said.

  “Who is it?”

  “As far as we know,” Dave said. “It's Allan Tuttle.”

  “I am Allan Tuttle,” Allan cried.

  “Yet, you have nothing to back your claim,” Dave said.

  “I know who I am,” Allan insisted.

  “And we don’t,” Dave said.

  “But,” Allan was watching his hopes fade away.

  “Tell us one thing,” Dave said.

  “What?”

  “Who is Ray Morrison?”

  “Ray Morrison?”

  “Yes,” Dave said. “Who is Ray Morrison?”

  “I don’t know,” Allan shrugged. “Who is he?”

  “He is the man we found burned to death in the cabin,” Philip said. “The cabin you claim to be staying in. You saying you didn’t know Ray?”

  “No.”

  “No, you didn’t know him?” Philip asked. “Or no, you aren’t saying that?”

  “I don’t know anyone named Ray,” Allan said. “Why was he here?”

  “We don’t know,” Dave said. “He was a plumber though. Maybe he was fixing the pipes.”

  “I didn’t call a plumber,” Allan said.

  “Mr. Bolder,” Philip said. “I’m betting from the story you gave, these nice people will vouch for your whereabouts last night.”

  “He was with us,” Henry offered as he approached.

  “Okay,” Philip continued. “That’s all for now, but we are going to need to speak to you again. Where will we be able to find you?”