The Widow's Husband

by William Coleman

  “You sure you don’t need anything?” Mrs. Cutter asked.

  Allan looked up at her. “No thank you.”

  Though her smile was as bright as ever, Mrs. Cutter’s eyes were heavy with sadness. Allan lowered his head to his hands again. He could not bear to face the world at that moment, not because he had lost his home as Mrs. Cutter had said, not because his wife was claiming to not know who he was. What kept him down was the thought hovering in the back of his mind like a raincloud; the idea that Sarah had something to do with the cabin burning down, and that she had intended he perish in the fire.

  He did not know where the idea was coming from. A week ago, the notion that Sarah would be capable of such a thing would have been laughable. But now, when she was already suggesting that he was dead and she was a widow, it seemed the only way for her to keep up the charade would be for him to actually die. The detectives said arson. Someone drove out to the cabin and set it on fire intentionally. It wasn’t a place people just happened to find. Besides old man Jasper, he and Sarah were the only ones who knew where to find the cabin. She must have given the man directions.

  “You know you can stay here,” Henry finally found his voice. “As long as you need.”

  “Thank you.” Allan raised his head again. “May I use the phone?”

  “Certainly,” Mrs. Cutter said. “Use the one in the office. It’ll be more private.”

  Allan dragged his feet as he walked, like a child on his way to receive punishment. He did not bother closing the solid wood door to the office. He sat on the edge of a soft leather chair and pulled the phone to him. He held the receiver to his ear with his shoulder while he dialed the number he knew by heart. The reverberating entranced him while he waited for an answer.

  “Hello?”

  It was Sarah’s gentle voice. The voice he heard almost every day for the past nine years, now the voice of a stranger. Or maybe the voice of a long lost loved one.

  “Hello?” she repeated.

  “Sarah,” Allan said, his voice cracking. “Who is Ray?”

  He could hear her breath for a long moment. It was the dial tone that announced she was no longer there. He set the receiver gently in its cradle. Had she said anything, he would have clung to a small bit off hope. Saying nothing, he knew. She sent a man to kill him. There was no proof. And no one would believe him if he suggested his wife tried to kill him. Not as long as they thought Allan Tuttle was already dead.

  “You okay?” Henry patted him on the shoulder.

  “No,” Allan answered honestly. “But there’s nothing to be done about it.”

  “It’ll get better,” Henry offered, not confident enough to sound convincing.

  “I’m suddenly in the mood to clear my mind,” Allan stood. “How about we work the fence?”

  Henry smiled broadly and started for the door. “Now you’re talkin’.”

  “Don’t you boys work too late,” Mrs. Cutter said. “It’ll be getting dark soon.”

  “We’ll be fine,” Henry said.

  The two men piled into the truck and drove away. Mrs. Cutter stood in the doorway and watched until they disappeared over a small hill. Satisfied they were not going to turn back she closed the door and returned to the kitchen where she could work on the pies she was baking for the church raffle. She enjoyed her husband’s long work days. It gave her time to get things done around the house without having to follow him around cleaning up his messes. She loved him dearly, but he was a handful.

  At the fence line and they started right where they left off as if they had only stopped for a break. Allan’s work pace was faster than before and increased as they went. Henry almost commented, changing his mind after catching a glimpse of the other’s face. Deep creases stretched across Allan’s forehead. The younger man’s jaw was set, his teeth clenched. Henry picked up his own pace to keep up.

  Allan clenched the crowbar with both hands. His white knuckles were cracked and bleeding from where they had smashed into the posts as he jammed the tool behind rotten boards with every ounce of strength he could muster. He used his weight to pry the board from the fence. Boards that resisted only served to increase his determination. He swung the crowbar into place again and again to wedge it into place. On two occasions, he dropped the tool and grabbed a board with his hands, wrenching it from the posts and throwing it to the ground. He continued down the fence line at a steady pace, his partner and new friend following closely behind.

  Allan was sure some of the boards left lying in his wake should not have been removed. Henry did not say anything. Had he, Allan would not have heard. His thoughts were consumed with questions about his life with Sarah. An image of the man she had been with crept into his mind, only the name “Ray” was stitched across his chest like a name tag. Could it have been him? Fresh from the realization that Allan had bashed him in the head with a bookend, the man may have been angry, may have wanted to hurt Allan back. Ray, not Sarah, may have decided to kill him. The small twinge of hope Sarah was innocent faded quickly. Sarah would have had to tell the man where to find him.

  Allan thrust the crowbar down, missing his mark and falling to the ground with the tool in his fists. He rose to his knees and, holding the crowbar like a bat, began swinging it in a wide arch. He beat the rotted board again and again. Wood splinters flew in every direction and Allan continued to swing. He did not hear Henry yelling at him to stop. He did not see the man moving in on him ever so slowly. He never anticipated the man’s bulky body slamming into his, taking him to the ground in a mass of tangled limbs. He lost his grip on the crowbar and it tumbled away. Allan did not struggle. He simply lay motionless under the rancher and started to cry. A single tear at first, followed by sobbing so hard Henry was compelled to release him and pull him to his feet.

  “It’s alright,” Henry’s gravelly voice as soothing as it could be. “Sometimes you just gotta let it out. Clear away the crud and get to the roots. There you can determine what’s healthy and what needs to be cut away.”

  Allan looked at the man curiously unable to stop sobbing. Through his own tears, he could see a single tear on Henry’s cheek.

  “We’ve done enough for today,” Henry proclaimed. “Let’s get back to the house.”

  Chapter 28

  (S & J Plumbing)

  The office at S & J Plumbing was more like a storage closet than a place of business. Detectives Parker and Smalls stood side by side in the cramped quarters surrounded by pipes, pipe fittings, pipe wrenches. Every tool Dave had ever seen used by a plumber was somewhere in the room. In this office, these tools of the trade were used as paperweights and bookends. What they held in place were the dozens of stacks of paper; invoices, bills, price quotes. Piled high on every available surface, Dave wondered who took care of the books. He pitied them, whoever it was.

  “So,” Dennis Stevens said. “What is it that brings you gentlemen here?”

  Dennis was a large man, not tall, just board. His thick fingers held a pen and Dave was reminded of watching his nephew learning to write in first grade. Dennis was writing on a pad as he spoke. He had yet to look up at his visitors. ‘I’m too busy for you,’ was what the bald spot on the top of his head seemed to say to them. Dave was a patient man. He could wait this man out. Philip was not. The younger detective would spend several years learning the skill of patience. He was nowhere near it now.

  “We are here about an employee of yours,” Philip said. Dave could hear the irritation in his voice. He wondered if Dennis heard it as well.

  “I have a lot of employees,” Dennis said without emotion. Not a point of pride, or a source of distaste, simply a fact. “You looking for any particular one?”

  “Ray Morrison,” Dave said, holding up a hand to keep his partner from adding anything more.

  “Morrison?” Dennis scoffed, finally looking up. “No surprise there.”

  “Why do you say that?” Dave inquired.

  “You know,” Dennis shrugged. “Obviously you know or
you wouldn’t be here looking for him.”

  “We didn’t say we were looking for him,” Dave said.

  “But you said,” Dennis stopped and looked from one stern face to the other. “Wait. What’s this about? What did that low life say?”

  “Didn’t say anything,” Dave said. “Should he have?”

  “I run a smooth operation here,” Dennis defended. “No problems. Least not until I hired that worthless . . .”

  “I need to know what addresses Mr. Morrison worked at over the course of the last year,” Dave said. “And where was he working yesterday in particular?”

  “He didn’t work yesterday,” Dennis scowled. “Bastard did come in and check out a truck though. If he’s working jobs on the side with my equipment I’ll tear him a new one. When you find him, you can tell him that for me.”

  Dave nodded to his partner who seemed anxious to say what was on his mind. Philip leaned forward, his hands resting on the edge of the desk, where he found a little room. “Aren’t you even curious where your truck might be? An employee checks out one of your trucks on his day off and the next day the police show up asking questions. Why haven’t you asked about your truck?”

  “Why?” Dennis seemed more alert now. “What did he do to my truck?”

  Philip threw his hands up and moved away from the desk. “Now he wants to know about the truck.”

  “What?” Dennis looked at Dave. “He told me to ask. I’m asking. What happened to my truck?”

  “Your truck is fine,” Dave assured him. “You’ll get it back in a few days. This isn’t about your truck, Mr. Stevens. This is about Ray Morrison.”

  “What about him?”

  “Well, for starters,” Dave said. “He’s dead.”

  “Christ almighty,” Dennis said, pushing away from the desk as Philip had done. “Not in the truck. Tell me he didn’t die in the truck.”

  “Your sympathy for your employee is a little. . . How should I say?” Philip said, “Lacking.”

  “Don’t get me wrong,” Dennis said. “I’m sorry the guy’s dead. I’m not heartless. But, let’s face it. He was on borrowed time. I just didn’t know how borrowed it was.”

  “How do you mean borrowed?” Dave asked.

  “I was about to let him go,” Dennis shrugged. “He sucked as a plumber. Sent him on a snake job a couple days ago. The guy was gone three hours and never cleared the drain. I finally had to send another guy. Ray Morrison was simply the worst plumber I’ve ever seen.”

  “Does the name Allan Tuttle mean anything to you?” Dave asked.

  “No,” Dennis shrugged. “Should it?”

  “How about Sarah Tuttle?”

  “No.”

  “What about Jack Bolder?” Philip chimed in.

  “No,” Dennis said. “Who are they? Did one of them kill Ray? Do they have my truck?”

  “Could we talk to Ray’s co-workers?” Dave asked, ignoring the man’s questions. “See if they’ve heard any of these names?”

  “Help yourself,” Dennis said.

  “I’d like to start with his friends,” Dave said. “Could you give me their names?”

  “I could if he had any,” Dennis said. “Ray wasn’t exactly liked around here. Anyone working a job with him had to work twice as hard to cover his butt. And he spent most of his time bragging about his sexual adventures.”

  “Bragging?” Philip asked.

  “You know, like saying you caught a fish this big,” Dennis stretched his arms out. “But you let it go and don’t have any pictures.”

  “You think he lied?”

  “Of course he lied,” Dennis said. “If you ever met Ray you’d understand. He wasn’t likable. No one would sleep with him. Unless they were drunk as a skunk.”

  “We’ll ask the staff about that when we talk to them,” Dave said. “Maybe he mentioned a name while he was bragging.”

  “I’ll start with the receptionist,” Philip said. “Meet you in the warehouse.”

  The two detectives made their rounds, interviewing the employees at the shop one at a time. Each interview was basically the same. No one knew any names. No one knew anything about him beyond his inability to do his job. Everyone agreed he talked too much about a sex life none of them believed existed. Some even gave graphic details of stories Ray had told them. Dave found it interesting how good their recollections of the stories were even though, supposedly, no one liked the man.

  As they were about to give up and leave one more truck drove into the parking lot next to the warehouse where the water heaters, bathtubs, and commodes were stored. A lean gray-haired man stepped out of the truck and stretched his limbs with care. He rolled his head around on his shoulders. He bent backward, stretching his back. Finishing the ritual, he ambled up the sidewalk to the building’s entrance. If he noticed the two detectives standing off to one side in their suits, he did not acknowledge them. He strolled by and moved down the hall.

  The detectives watched him walk through the showroom floor. He passed without a word to anyone. A silence fell over the staff like a church congregation.

  “Who is he?” Dave asked the receptionist.

  “That’s Mr. Jenkins,” she said, her voice just barely above a whisper. “Mr. Leroy Jenkins.”

  “Mr. Jenkins?” Dave asked. He had the feeling he should know the name.

  “Jenkins,” the receptionist repeated. “As in J. As in S & J Plumbing.”

  “That old guy is one of the owners?” Philip asked.

  “Not one of,” she said. “The. He’s the owner.”

  “What about Stevens?” Dave asked.

  “What about him?” Her head even tilted slightly.

  “As in S & J Plumbing,” Philip said.

  The receptionist laughed. “You think Dennis is one of the owners?”

  “Where did the ‘S’ come from?” Philip asked.

  “The ‘S’ was a guy named Sterling,” she whispered. “He died years ago. Now it’s just Jenkins. J Plumbing didn’t sound as good.”

  “We’ll need to talk to Mr. Jenkins,” Dave said.

  The young woman behind the desk looked as if he just slapped her across the face. The surprise in her expression was mixed with what Dave knew could only be fear. She did not move. Did not call for Mr. Jenkins.

  “Is there a problem?” Dave asked.

  “Are you sure you need to talk to him?” the receptionist asked.

  “Did he know Ray Morrison?”

  “Yes,” she answered.

  “Then we need to talk to him,” Dave insisted.

  “Okay,” she said, her shoulders sinking as she reached for the phone. She pushed some buttons and spoke in a hushed voice. She nodded occasionally as if the person on the other end of the phone could see her. Dave realized maybe the person on the other end of the phone could see her. A moment later she hung up and looked up at the two men, “He said he would see you.”

  Chapter 29

  (The Call)

  Sarah sat in the living room contemplating her next action and the phone rang. She answered and heard Allan asking her who Ray was. In a panic, she disconnected the call and dropped the phone onto the seat next to her staring at it as if it were a snake ready to strike.

  How had Allan learned Ray’s name? She couldn’t imagine Ray introducing himself while in the process of burning down the cabin. Remembering the night Allan had come home to catch her with Mike, the night he reacted completely out of character and cracked Mike’s skull, she wondered if he caught Ray as well? Had Allan killed Ray?

  No matter what happened at the cabin, it was a complicated mess. Sarah was sure the detectives would never connect Ray to her. The day he was sent to work on her plumbing was long ago. He hadn’t worked for that company for a couple years. Even if they managed to find the right company, it was unlikely there would be any paperwork to find since he never actually did any work and she was never billed.

  She tried to remember, in the years since she met Ray, if he had driven a co
mpany truck to see her. She couldn't remember. He was the type to use company property for personal use. Of that she was sure. She only hoped he had not done so recently.

  Ray’s death had dealt another blow to her sexual needs. Her lovers were all dead and she couldn’t call Allan. Just the thought of having no one to turn to was making her anxious. Sure, she could go days, even weeks without a man. But when the cravings hit, it would become a problem.

  The phone rang. She gazed at the offensive device and feared who might be calling. Hesitantly, she lifted the phone and pushed the button to answer.

  “Hello?” she said, her voice almost a whisper.

  “Is this Mrs. Tuttle?” a woman’s voice asked her. A friendly voice with a touch of enthusiasm, Sarah’s fear was instantly replaced with annoyance.

  “Yes?”

  “Is Mr. Tuttle home?” the voice asked.

  “No,” Sarah replied. A saleswoman no doubt. “He isn’t.”

  “Can you tell me when he might be available?” the voice asked.

  “He won’t be.”

  “Pardon?”

  “He won’t be available,” Sarah said. “He’s dead.”

  There was a long pause on the other end of the phone while the voice collected her thoughts. “Well, uh . . . I guess . . . I mean . . . may I speak to you then?”

  “I’m not interested in buying anything,” Sarah said.

  “No ma’am,” the voice said. “I’m not selling anything.”

  “Then what's this about?” Sarah asked.

  “Well, I am with The Gary Rivers Literary Agency,” the voice announced. “We were given Mike Bishop’s client list.”

  “Given?”

  “Gary and Mike worked together on many occasions and Mrs. Bishop asked us to handle the accounts,” the voice explained. “Gary is reviewing the list. We came across a file on your husband’s most recent work. The file says there was a contract in the works for movie rights.”