It didn’t really matter what her motivation for wanting to push the process. The system did not rush for anyone. Each branch of the process worked at its own pace and no one could change that. Every step of the way took time and some took a great deal of time. He would do his best to convince them to make quick decisions, though knew he had little influence. Realistically, he would have to wait just like Sarah.
Gary did not mind waiting. There was no doubt in his mind that the sale would take place. He already took the time to calculate his cut of the estimated total sale. There was a stack of pamphlets on the corner of his desk for new cars. The pamphlets were not new. He had been considering a new purchase for a while. This deal would just make it that much easier to finally go through with it. He wondered if Sarah Tuttle had similar pamphlets on her desk.
He reached for the phone and pressed the flashing button. “Hello?”
“Mr. Rivers?”
“Yes,” Gary said. “What can I do for you?”
“Mr. Rivers,” she said, “it’s Sarah Tuttle.”
“Mrs. Tuttle,” Gary said. “How are you? And please, call me Gary.”
“Okay, Gary,” Sarah said. “I’m calling to find out how things are going. Have you heard anything new?”
“Mrs. Tuttle . . .”
“Sarah,” she said. “As long as we’re on a first name basis.”
“Sarah,” Gary said. “I told you before, you need to be patient. As soon as I hear something you will be the first call I make. We have two publishers competing for publishing rights and I am meeting with the Hollywood people next week. This is all good for you. The longer this goes the more the pay-off. You have to trust me, Mrs . . . .uh. . . Sarah.”
“I do trust you,” she said, though in truth she did not. She knew nothing about the man to whom she was speaking. She had no reason to trust him. She knew Mike, intimately. She knew everything about the man. Now he was dead and she was left dealing with a complete stranger. She didn’t like it. She just had no other choice.
“Good,” Gary said. “Give it a little more time. Things are going well and it is just going to get better.”
“Okay,” Sarah said with obvious hesitation. “I need to talk to you about one other thing.”
“What do you need?” Gary said. He was suddenly overcome with anxiety. He just knew she was going to drop a bomb. He braced himself.
“Well,” she said. “I was wondering. With this book finished and close to publication, how long should I wait before submitting another?”
“Another?” Gary’s jaw dropped. “You have another manuscript?”
“Well, almost,” she said thinking of all the manuscripts she discovered in the back of the garage. “I need to do a final proof read and edit, but I am close.”
“By all means, Sarah,” Gary said, barely concealing his enthusiasm. Most of his clients took years to complete a second piece of work. “Feel free to send me what you have ready. Even if it’s just the first couple of chapters. I would be glad to look it over.”
“Okay,” she said. “I’ll get the final draft started and send you some chapters as soon as I have them ready.”
“May I ask what this one is about?” Gary asked.
“I . . . uh . . . I really can’t tell you,” Sarah said. “Let me get started with the edit and I’ll give you a call. You know how we writers are.”
“Yes, I do,” Gary said. He wondered what kind of writer could not describe their current work. He wondered about her dead husband. He wondered if his blood pressure was raising just thinking about it all.
“I’ll call you,” she repeated.
“That’ll be fine,” he responded. “Good-bye, Sarah.”
The phone went dead leaving Gary listening to nothing. He dropped the receiver in its cradle and stared at it long and hard. There was something wrong. He wondered how long it would be before Allan Tuttle’s lawyer called him to challenge Sarah’s claim. He needed to cover his back so if things went down the toilet he wasn’t among the debris caught in the whirlpool.
“Stephanie,” he called out.
“Yes, Mr. Rivers?”
“Do you remember last year when I had my wife followed?”
“You had your wife followed?”
“Stephanie,” Gary said. “Don’t play dumb. You knew what was going on. Do you remember the name of the man?”
“The man your wife was with?”
“No.” Gary knew that name all too well. “The name of the man I hired to follow her?”
“I don’t remember,” she said.
Gary sighed again.
“I think he gave me a card,” she said. “Let me look.”
“Okay,” he said. “If you find it could you get him on the phone for me? I may have another job for him.”
“Your wife, sir?”
“No,” he said. “Not my wife. Just get him on the phone.”
“Sorry,” she said. “I’ll get him.”
Chapter 39
(The Truth)
After the detectives left, Allan went to wash the ink off his hands before returning to the dining room. He had lost his appetite, an air of gloom surrounding him. Henry and Mrs. Cutter did not press him, choosing to eat quietly, watching him out of the corner of their eyes. He did not move the entire meal. Only after Mrs. Cutter got up to clear the table did he show any sign of life.
“Thank you,” he mumbled.
“I’ll put this in the fridge in case you want it later,” she smiled shyly. “You need your strength.”
He only nodded in response. Henry left the room without a word, returning a few minutes later with two glasses filled half way with a brownish liquid. He set one of the glasses on the table in front of Allan. He gestured at it with one finger. “Drink this. It’ll do you some good.”
Allan looked up at it. “I don’t drink.”
“Then start,” Henry said. “I’ve been around a lot of men in my lifetime. I’ve seen them at their best and at their worst. You, sir, are at your worst. Now drink.”
Allan looked at Henry before scrutinizing the glass. He never drank in college like all of his friends did. Not that he had a lot of friends. He was a bookworm and bookworms did not make good company. His roommate had friends. They were nice to him. They simply did not include him. He was always in the background. They offered him drinks, even poured them. Someone else always drank them in the end. He remembered those boys, how they acted while drunk. It was not something he ever found appealing. And the mornings after were even worse. He remembered, one of those difficult mornings, asking his roommate why he drank. The boy looked him in the face and said, ‘To escape reality.’ Immediately after speaking those words, his roommate turned and wretched into the toilet bowl.
Escaping reality was never something Allan needed to do. His writing did that for him. Right now he was beginning to think it might be a good idea. He took the glass in his hands, cupping it as if it were something fragile. He inhaled the odor rising from the liquid and gently put the rim of the glass to his lips. Tipped the glass slowly he sipped the cool drink. It tasted good on his tongue. It burned his throat going down. And a second later he was coughing hoarsely, Henry patting him on the back and chuckling.
“Take it easy there,” Henry said. “Twenty year old scotch is supposed to be savored.”
“Sorry,” Allan said between coughs. Henry laughed again.
A half-hour sitting at the table drinking scotch and the two men were loosening up. They were relaxed and speaking to each other frankly. Occasionally they laughed at things of questionable humor. They joked about things that they would never joke about on a normal day. For some time, they skirted around the issue foremost on their minds.
“What’s going on?” Henry finally asked, his words slurring slightly.
Allan sobered a bit. “You don’t want to know.”
“Can’t help you if I don’t know what’s wrong,” Henry said. “You told us you caught your wife with another man and she t
hrew you out. That won’t bring the police to your door. What’s the rest of it, Jack?”
“Well,” Allan said with an uncontrolled drawl. “That is one of my problems for one thing.”
“What?” Henry said. “I don’t understand.”
“Jack is my problem,” Allan said.
“You aren’t the problem,” Henry insisted.
“Not me. Jack.”
“I don’t follow.”
“My name is not Jack,” Allan said.
“What do you mean?” Henry said. “I saw the picture on your books. You are Jack Bolder.”
“No,” Allan said. “Jack is me. I am not Jack.”
“Son, I haven’t had enough to drink to understand what you’re talking about,” Henry said.
“Jack Bolder is the pen name I use when I write,” Allan said. “My name is Allan Tuttle. I did catch my wife in bed with another man, like I said. And she has locked me out of the house, like I said. What I didn’t tell you is that she is telling the police that I am dead. And that I hit him with a bookend.”
“She’s telling the police you’re dead?” Henry said. “How can she do that?”
“Apparently there’s a body,” Allan sighed.
“A body?” Henry asked. “Who? From where?”
“I hit him with a bookend,” Allan repeated, absently.
“You killed him?”
“It’s the only thing I can figure,” Allan said. “They have a body she identified as me. The only forms of identification I can produce are pictures on the back of my books with the name Jack Bolder. Now, the cops say they are going to test my prints against the prints found on the victim’s credit card.”
“Did you touch his wallet?” Henry asked, hopeful.
“You don’t understand,” Allan shook his head. “They think I’m the victim. The credit card is my credit card, from my wallet. Of course they're going to find my prints. They are going to arrest me for killing me.”
Henry was silent, staring at the younger man sitting in front of him, drained of life. The story was wild, far too wild to be true. No one in his right mind would ever believe this could happen. No one could accept it was possible. Yet, knowing this young man as he did, after working with him and talking to him, Henry could not believe he would make up such a wild story to explain away his problems. He was a writer. He could easily come up with a more believable story than that.
Henry reached out and put a hand on Allan’s shoulder. He squeezed the flesh firmly. He inhaled deeply and nodded. “We need to get you a lawyer. Before they come back for you.”
“I can’t afford an attorney,” Allan said. “And I don’t know what good it’ll do. They have my prints.”
“Are you guilty?” Henry asked.
“I don’t know,” Allan said. “I hit the man. I could have killed him.”
“Then why is your wife telling everybody you are the one who died?” Henry asked. “Why not tell them you killed this guy and have you arrested? No. There’s something wrong with that, something she’s hiding. We need a lawyer to help keep you out of jail. Then we worry about who the man is and how he died.”
“I told you I can’t afford an attorney,” Allan insisted.
“I didn’t ask,” Henry said. “I’ve got no kids and more money than I need. So, if I don’t spend it, the government gets it. And I don’t want them to have it.”
“But . . . “
“Hush,” he said. “I know just the man for the job. Go get some sleep. I’ll call him first thing tomorrow.”
“I don’t think I’ll be able to sleep,” Allan said.
“That was twenty year old scotch,” Henry smiled. “You’ll sleep like a baby.”
Allan grinned and started to stand. The room spun became a merry-go-round and he stepped to counteract the spin. His foot did not find the ground. He reached out to grab something. Nothing was there. Luckily for him, he was out before he hit the floor.
Henry laughed for a long time before he could compose himself, followed by continuous fits of giggles. He stammered down the hall towards his room. His progress was slow and several times he stopped to hold the wall. He finally staggered into his room and collapsed on the bed sound asleep.
Mrs. Cutter tucked him in and went back down the hall to where Allan lay in a heap on the floor. She took a blanket from a closet and spread it over his body. She gently lifted his head and slid a pillow underneath. She took a swig from the scotch bottle before returning it to its place in the cabinet. Turning out the lights as she went, she walked to the room she shared with her husband and went to bed.
Chapter 40
(Pasta)
Gary Rivers told Sarah to trust him and be patient. To be told by a stranger, who held the rest of her life in his hands, to be patient was like telling an energetic child to sit still. She felt like climbing the walls. In an effort to take her mind off everything that was going on, she decided to get out of the house for a while.
She did not have a destination in mind; she simply got into the car and started driving. She followed the traffic where it took her, turning when the streets became too congested. She drove for an hour before she started taking note of where she was and where she might want to go. Shopping was out of the question. No point in buying things she might have to leave behind. Entertainment was also out because she didn't think she could stay focused. Instead she looked for someplace she could stop and try to relax.
Quite unexpectedly she saw The Silver Spoon, the restaurant owned by Dave’s ex-in-laws. Without thinking she pulled into the parking lot and parked the car. She sat looking at the neon sign for a few minutes thinking back to the night she had dinner with the detective. It had been a nice evening all things considered. A little awkward but nice.
She shut off the engine and went inside. She needed to eat and this was as good a place as any. The waitress who seated her was not the same as the night Sarah had been before. The perky young woman handed Sarah a menu and went over the daily specials. Sarah took the menu and absorbed herself in making her selection. Although she was hungry, nothing really struck her as being what she wanted. Twice she sent the waitress away to allow herself more time to decide.
“I recommend the fettuccini with the creamy garlic sauce and grilled chicken.”
Sarah raised her eyes just far enough to see over the top of her menu. Standing in the aisle was Detective Dave Parker. She smiled and he grinned back sheepishly. She glanced around to see if he was alone, scanning the tabletops for a half-eaten plate of food. There was nothing to see.
“Last time you recommended the Manicotti,” she said.
“Did I?”
“Yes you did,” she smiled. “Did you just get here?”
“I was in the back talking to Lilly and Matthew,” he said.
“Have you eaten?”
“No.”
“Care to join me?” she asked.
“I’d like that,” he said, pulling the chair opposite her out far enough to sit. “You came back. You must have liked the food.”
“Oh, yes,” she nodded. “I couldn’t wait to come back.”
“Yea, well that’s how Shelly got her claws in me.”
“Shel . . .? Oh, the ex,” Sarah remembered. “She was a good cook?”
“Lord no,” Dave laughed. “Grew up around it and refused to learn. She brought me here and I couldn’t stay away.”
“You’re kidding,” Sarah laughed with him. “You married her for her parent’s cooking?”
“Well, there was more to it than that,” Dave blushed. “We got along pretty well in the beginning. It was years later that things started to turn. Once it started, it snowballed. One day she was gone.”
“She left you?”
“So,” Dave shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “You having the pasta or what?”
“Touchy subject?”
“Let’s just say I save that kind of information for the third or fourth dinner.”
“Fair enough,” she
said. “Assuming there will be a third or fourth dinner.”
“Let’s just get through this one,” Dave said. “Then we’ll see.”
They both ordered the pasta. The waitress took the order, disappearing into the back. She returned with fresh baked bread before moving on to her other tables. Sarah watched the waitress move away before reaching for the steaming basket of dinner rolls.
“Isn’t it odd coming to the ex-in-laws’ restaurant?” Sarah asked.
Dave swallowed and nodded. “That’s why I don’t come as much as I used to. But every once in a while I just have to come. They are good people. And if their daughter were normal I would be glad to call them family. Still do actually.”
“What do they think about you eating with me?”
“It’s not like we’re dating or anything,” he pointed out. “Of course they don’t know that. I think they’re okay with me moving on with my life. Shelly has. And they know there’s no going back. So, they probably wonder, but don’t really care.”
As if on cue, the door leading to the kitchen swung open and Lilly walked out with two large pasta bowls. She missed a step seeing the two of them sitting at the table. Recovering quickly she covered the distance between them. She set a bowl in front of each of them.
“Thought you left, Dave,” she smiled. “You bring your friend again? You didn’t mention her.”
“She came on her own,” Dave said. “Just thought I would join her.”
“Oh,” Lilly said with a hint of doubt. “Well, you kids enjoy your meal. Call if you need anything.”
“Thanks, Lilly,” Dave said.
They watched the older woman disappear through the same door through which she had appeared. Sarah raised her eyebrows and took a bite of the pasta.
The Widow's Husband Page 21