The Widow's Husband

by William Coleman

  “Well it makes a big difference to Allan Tuttle,” Henry said. “The murder victim was named Allan Tuttle. So, if Jack Bolder is really Allan Tuttle . . .”

  “He couldn’t have killed himself and still be going to jail for it,” Larry finished.

  “Right,” Henry said. “So, I need to find a way to prove he’s really Allan Tuttle. It has to be positive proof. Not just someone saying it’s him.”

  “Who identified the body?” Larry asked. “Someone always has to go down to the morgue.”

  “Mrs. Tuttle,” Henry said.

  “Wait a minute,” Larry said. “The man’s own wife says he’s dead and you want me to believe otherwise. You think she don’t know her own husband?”

  “All I know is they have a body,” Henry said. “I don’t think Jack, or Allan, or whatever his name is . . . I don’t think he killed the guy. And I know he didn’t kill the other guy.”

  “How you know that?”

  “The night the cabin burned down,” Henry said, “he was staying with us. There was no way he left the house. I had the alarm set and it did not go off.”

  “That a good alarm system?” Larry asked.

  “Top of the line,” Henry said.

  “How much did it set you back?”

  “What does that matter?”

  “I need one for the store,” Larry said.

  “We’re talking about a man’s life and you want to check prices on alarm systems?” Henry rolled his eyes. “I can’t believe you.”

  “Hey,” Larry said. “It came up in conversation so I asked. I wasn’t trying to change the subject. Besides, it’s only common sense what you need to do next.”

  “It is?” Henry asked.

  “It is?” a man’s voice echoed.

  The two men turned and saw a tall man in a wrinkled suit standing at the end of the counter. The man smiled at them and stepped forward with his hand extended.

  “Who’re you?” Larry asked without accepting the man’s offered hand.

  The man looked at Larry and then to Henry who also declined the greeting. He withdrew his hand and looked at it, making a show of sniffing the palm before shrugging and putting it in a pocket.

  “Asked who you are,” Larry said.

  “Oh, yes,” the man said. “Forgot my manners about the time the two of you forgot yours.”

  The men glanced at one another and narrowed their eyes to the man. Larry clinched his fists. He said, “Believe it was you who lost your manners first. When you were listening in on our private conversation.”

  “Maybe you’re right,” the man said. “But a private conversation isn’t really private when it’s held in a public place. The name’s Carlton Hicks. You can call me Carl. Everyone does.”

  “You’re not from around here,” Henry observed. “You look like a city boy. What business do you have here?”

  “I’m a private investigator,” Carl said. “Checking on the identity of Allan Tuttle.”

  “Why is that?” Larry asked.

  “It's in my client’s best interest to know if the man is dead or not,” Carl said. “Up ‘til now I was only finding evidence that he was dead. Now, you,” he pointed to Henry, “seem to be saying he isn’t.” He turned and pointed to Larry. “And you seem to think you know how to pursue the issue further. I’m curious what you have to say.”

  Henry looked at Larry. Larry looked at Carl. The old grocer shrugged, saying, “Well all I was going to say was you have two bodies. One of them is or isn’t Allan Tuttle. The other was or wasn’t killed by Jack Bolder. So, I was wondering if the first isn’t Allan Tuttle, why would his wife say he was? And who is he? And second, if Jack Bolder didn’t kill the second guy, who did? And why did they burn down the cabin?”

  There was a long pause while the men just stood staring at one another. A shopping cart hitting the counter broke the silence. They turned in unison to see Mrs. Cutter looking back at them.

  “Are you boys just going to stand there?” she said. “Or are you going to get these things bagged up?”

  Larry and Henry jumped to life and started scanning the merchandise into the register and bagging them. They worked quickly as they had grown accustomed over the years. Neither man noticed Carl slip out the door.

  Chapter 55

  (Birdie Login)

  The authorities found Birdie Login’s body in a closet. The woman had been dragged and crammed inside, yet the person who put her there took the time to take a pillow from the couch in the living room to put under her head. Detectives Parker and Smalls stood looking at the scene taking it all in. Monte was told to wait outside. His protests went unheard as officers kept him at bay.

  “Who does that?” Philip asked.

  “You mean the pillow?” Dave looked up to his partner.

  “Yeah,” Philip said. “You crack the woman’s skull open and shove her in a closet. Then you put a pillow under her head. What for? To be sure she’s comfortable all of a sudden?”

  “That’s exactly it,” Dave said. “The killer knew her. That explains why there was no forced entry. The woman invited the killer into her home. Something went wrong. Login ends up dead. The killer panics and hides the body, feels guilty and puts a pillow under her head because she looks uncomfortable. I’ve seen it dozens of times. Mothers who kill their kids almost always try to make them comfortable after the act.”

  “This woman has no family,” Philip said.

  “Then it was a friend or something,” Dave said. “Like Bolder.”

  “You think Bolder would send us to her house after he killed her?” Philip asked. “Not the smartest move.”

  “The man thinks he’s Allan Tuttle,” Dave said. “He isn’t playing with a full deck and you know it. We just have to hope they keep that out of his defense. They may make the case he's schizophrenic.”

  “Still,” Philip said. “He denies killing Tuttle. He denies even knowing Morrison. Why lead us to his third victim?”

  “Maybe he didn’t think we would find her,” Dave suggested. “I don’t know.”

  The coroner rose from his position next to the dead woman. He was making notes in his pad and the two detectives waited impatiently for the man’s attention. He put the note pad away and grinned.

  “This woman has been dead less than twelve hours,” he announced.

  “Leaves Bolder out,” Philip said. “He’s been in our custody.”

  “I don’t see any trauma on the woman other than the blow to the head that killed her,” the coroner said. “I’ll know more when I get her back to the lab. The head wound was almost definitely caused by the frog statue you showed me. So, if the killer had left the woman where she fell, it would have looked like an accident. The only evidence she had contact with another person, other than being moved, is a few strands of black thread in the woman’s hand.”

  “Black threads?” Dave asked. “Can you tell what they came from?”

  “Not until I get them to the lab,” the man said. “I’ll let you know.”

  The coroner packed his equipment as the woman’s body was being bagged for the lab. The detectives stood back and waited for the crime scene investigators to leave with the body. Alone in the quiet house the two men looked for clues the investigators might have missed, until they were standing in the hall next to where the bloodstained frog was found.

  “So let’s run through this,” Dave walked to the front door. “The woman answers the door. She knows the person and lets them in. They argue and the woman is pushed. She falls backward clutching for support and grabs the attackers black shirt or jacket. She lands on the floor, hits her head and dies. The attacker panics and hides the body in the closet. He feels bad and puts a pillow under her head.”

  “Or she opens the door and doesn’t know the person,” Philip said. “The attacker pushes his way in and the woman falls. She lands on the frog and is hurt. The attacker hides her in the closet and gives the woman a pillow to lay down on. The woman dies.”

  “In
the closet?”

  “Why not?”

  “Not much blood in the closet,” Dave points out.

  “Internal bleeding,” Philip said. “Brain swelling.”

  “If the attacker didn't know the woman," Dave asked, "why was he here? The place isn’t tossed. There is over three hundred dollars in her purse, not ten feet away. Why come in the house if not to rob the place?”

  “To kill her?”

  “Then why put her in the closet with a pillow?” Dave asked.

  “Okay,” Philip said. “Even if the man knew her, what was his motive?”

  “I say it was an accident,” Dave said. “They argued. The perp shoves her, she falls and she dies. No motive, because there was no intent.”

  “Answer this,” Philip said. “If this was all an accident, why did it happen on the same day we came to talk to her? We’re talking about a big coincidence.”

  "And when it comes to murder, there are no coincidences," Dave said.

  “That's what you taught me,” Philip said.

  "That I did," Dave said.

  “When you want to question a gang member and you find him dead you aren’t surprised,” Philip said. “We’re talking about an old woman. She didn’t live on the edge of violence. Someone came to this house and killed her before we could talk to her.”

  “You still think the intent was to kill her?”

  “I do,” Philip said.

  “But why?” Dave said. “Who would want her dead? If she were going to collaborate Bolder’s story he wouldn’t want her dead. And if she wasn’t he wouldn’t have sent us to talk to her.”

  “You think she was going to collaborate Bolder’s story?” Philip asked. “You're kidding me? You’re the one so positive he’s guilty.”

  “Oh, I still think he’s guilty,” Dave said. “Just hear me out. Let’s say this Mrs. Login isn’t the sweet grandmotherly type we think she is. What if Bolder paid her, let’s say the three hundred dollars in her purse, to say he’s Allan Tuttle. That would mess up the whole case. So, Bolder pays her to lie to us. Only, let’s say she figures out what is at stake and thinks three hundred bucks is an awfully small price for his life. She wants more. So, Bolder sends someone over to take care of her.”

  “Except Bolder had no contact with anyone besides us and his lawyer since we picked him up,” Philip said. “There’s no way he could have sent someone over to take care of her.”

  “He did have one visitor,” Dave said.

  “Are you’re suggesting Bolder has an accomplice?” Philip said.

  “An accomplice who killed Morrison and Login,” Dave said.

  “And who is this accomplice?” Philip asked.

  “It could only be one man,” Dave said. “Henry Cutter.”

  Chapter 56

  (The Contract)

  The contract arrived and Sarah felt a tingle in her spine. She tore the envelope open, pulling the contents out and spreading the pages on the table. It was thick. She started reading the legalese and quickly lost the thrill she felt only moments before. She flipped page after page of the document and became frustrated trying to determine what it was actually saying. She had seen several contracts of Allan’s in the past and none of them were anything like this. She was struck by an overwhelming distrust of Gary Rivers.

  She knew she couldn’t just sign the contract and send it back without having an idea of what it said. She would have to find someone who could review it and give her a rundown of what it was she was getting into. For that she would need a lawyer. She wasn’t sure where she would find a lawyer who would be willing to read over a contract on such short notice. She took the phone book off the shelf and searched its pages until she found the attorney heading. She picked an ad and dialed the number. The phone was answered on the third ring.

  “Bradley, Hunter and Finch,” a cheery young woman greeted her.

  “Yes,” Sarah said. “I need a lawyer.”

  “What type of legal assistance do you need?” the woman asked.

  “I need a contract reviewed,” Sarah said. “I need to be sure it’s okay before I sign it.”

  “Mr. Finch has an opening next Tuesday at three,” the woman said.

  “Next Tuesday?” Sarah said. “I kind of need to know by tomorrow.”

  “Please hold,” the woman said. The phone became silent for a while and Sarah waited. A moment later the woman said, “Mr. Bradley can see you first thing in the morning. Eight o’clock sharp.”

  “Okay,” Sarah said. “I’ll be there. Thank you.”

  Sarah smiled and placed the contract on the table next to the door. The thought of what it would cost her to have a lawyer look it over couldn’t bring her down from her excited state. At the rate things were progressing, Sarah was hoping in a month, maybe two, everything would be taken care of and she could move forward with her life.

  No one could blame a grieving widow for wanting to move away. There would be too many memories to deal with at the house. There would be the need to move closer to her own family where she could benefit from their support. And once the moving van pulled away from the house, no one would know where she was actually going, or care. And at her new home, no one would know her history. She could start fresh as a widow, or possibly just a single woman still looking for the right guy.

  Yes, everything would be better as soon as this whole business was behind her. She was even beginning to see the advantages to not having Mike, Jimmy and Ray around. She missed their company, although not them in particular. She just missed having a man’s attention. Once she settled into her new life, she could start exploring new men. Maybe, if she was lucky, she would find a man who met all of her needs and she could settle down with just him. Not likely, she would be the first to admit. But right now the possibilities seemed endless.

  Morning came before she knew it. Finding the law office took longer than she expected. By the time she walked into the office it was already five after eight. She walked up to the receptionist’s desk and smiled broadly.

  “I’m so sorry I’m late,” she said as cheerily as she could. “I had trouble finding you.”

  “You must be Ms. Tuttle,” the receptionist said. She paused, tilted her head and said, “Have you been here before?”

  “No,” Sarah answered. “First time.”

  “Okay,” the receptionist said. “Mr. Bradley is ready to see you. Right this way.”

  The receptionist stood and led Sarah down a hallway to a large wooden door. There was no nameplate or identifying markings on the door. The receptionist knocked and opened the door to reveal an enormous office with tall bookshelves. In the center of the office was a desk almost as long as Sarah’s car with a number of brass decorations arranged in the corners. A brass lamp on a swing arm and weighted base sat to one side of the center, the brilliant light from its bulb illuminating the papers on the blotter and the face of the lawyer sitting behind it. He looked up as the two women walked in. He rose to his feet before they reached the desk and he extended his hand to Sarah, leaning over the desk in order to reach her.

  “Ms. Tuttle,” the man said. “Good to meet you. I am Winston Bradley. I understand you have a contract you need reviewed.”

  “Yes,” Sarah said handing the papers to him. “I’m sorry for the short notice. It just arrived yesterday and they want it back as soon as possible.”

  “No trouble,” Winston said. “It’s always wise to have contracts reviewed before you sign them. Especially if the originating participant is in a hurry.”

  “That’s what I thought,” Sarah smiled. “Which is why I called you. I’m so glad you had time to take a look.”

  “I always leave a little time in my mornings for emergencies,” he smiled back at her. “If you’ll have a seat I’ll read through this quickly and get you on your way.”

  Sarah sat in the high back chair opposite Winston and sank into the soft leather. Winston sat back in his own chair and rested a pair of bifocals on the end of his nose. Sarah w
atched his eyes scanning the pages he held in his lap. He made an occasional grunt as he read and placed a yellow tab on a page or two. He glanced up at Sarah once while he read, only long enough to see that she was looking at him. He signaled that he was finished by stacking the pages neatly on his desk and laying his glasses on top.

  “This is a very interesting contract,” Winston said.

  “Is it okay?” Sarah asked. “Are they trying to cheat me?”

  “No. They aren’t trying to cheat you,” Winston rested his elbows on the arms of his chair and clasped his hands together in front of him. “From the wording of the contract it seems clear they are concerned you might be trying to cheat them.”

  “How do you mean?” Sarah furrowed his brow.

  “They dedicated a lot of the contract to clear themselves of liability if you turn out to be someone other than the author of the book in question,” Winston said. “For all the good it will do them.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Well, they want you to swear without a doubt you are the author of the book and that no one will show up at a later date to claim otherwise,” Winston said. “Problem is, by spending so much time on the subject they appear to have a reason to doubt your validity. If another author emerges and gets a copy of the contract, all they have to do is say the wording proves they knew you weren’t the author. Not to mention the obvious danger of having a contract signed by someone who would steal another writer’s manuscript. How much could you trust someone like that? Not very.”

  “Are you saying I shouldn’t sign the contract?” Sarah asked.

  “No. I didn’t say that,” Winston said. “I’m just saying they are asking for proof you are the author in the form of a signed agreement. So are you?”

  “What?” Sarah seemed disoriented. “You mean the author?”

  “Yes.”

  “Yes, I am,” She said.