The Widows of Eden

by George Shaffner

  Both bathrooms are for women now, although we left a urinal for the janitor. For all their hunting prowess, some men cannot hit a toilet from two feet. Old Man Jenkins’s corner office was converted into our boardroom, complete with an elliptical, oak-veneered conference table, eight matching chairs, and a sideboard made of genuine, aged oak. In my opinion, the sideboard makes the other furniture look cheap, but I wasn’t on the decorating committee when it was acquired.

  Hail Mary Wade, the Queen Bee, and Dottie Hrnicek were already seated when I arrived. Mary is a diminutive, fast-talking woman who dresses in expensive Ann Taylor suits and high heels. She took a quick glimpse at my limp hair and sweat-soaked armpits and said, “There’s a new invention, Wilma. It’s called a horseless carriage. These days, they come with another cool invention called air conditioning. I recommend both this time of year.”

  “You drove here from the county courthouse? It can’t be five blocks.”

  “It’s more like ten when you factor in the heat index, and I’m in heels. I rode over with Dottie. Hang on; Lily is bringing lemonade.” Lily Park Pickett is Buford’s wife. She has been the treasurer of the Quilting Circle for eight years running, and she represents the Circle on the board of Millet’s Department Store along with Hail Mary.

  “Where are Loretta and Bebe?” I asked. Bebe Palouse is the general manager of Millet’s and the best-dressed woman in the Circle, Hail Mary included.

  “They’re on the way,” Dot answered. “While we’re twiddling our thumbs, what’s this I hear about some acquaintances of Vernon’s coming to town? I thought he worked alone.”

  “They’re widows. Mr. Moore says they want to meet his friends.”

  “Widows, huh? No disrespect intended, but they’ll be able to meet his friends in a phone booth if he prays for Clem instead of rain. I heard that your fiancé told Buford Pickett to look into your lodger’s identity. Is Mr. Moore aware of that?”

  “He didn’t mention it, but Clem has been to that well twice before. Mr. Moore even tried to help him, but he came up dry anyway.”

  “So his identity is still a mystery.”

  “Either that, or he is who he says he is.”

  “Which is what, exactly?” Dottie asked.

  “A retired salesman.”

  “Uh huh, and I’m Shania Twain. I wonder: where’d I put my diamond-encrusted guitar?”

  A tick or two later, the three missing board members filed into the room. Lily had a country-sized pitcher of iced lemonade in one hand and a stack of red plastic tumblers in the other, Loretta was carrying sliced zucchini bread on a red plastic platter, and Bebe had paper plates, paper napkins, and plastic forks.

  Loretta looked me over from head to foot. “You walked, didn’t you?”

  “I like to walk. It’s the best exercise a woman can get, and I wore a hat.”

  “That nasty old hat won’t do you a bit of good when it’s four hundred degrees outside, darlin’.”

  Lily handed me a glass of iced lemonade, which I chugged part way. While she and Loretta served everybody else, Hail Mary called the meeting to order. “This is an emergency session of the Quilting Circle board of governors,” she declared. “According to the bylaws, we’re required to dispense with normal business and cut to the case at hand.”

  Lily raised her hand. “I’d like to bring another matter before the board if I may.”

  “That’s against the rules, Lily. What’s it about?”

  “Buford.”

  “Your husband? That can’t be good. Is it urgent?”

  “Sorta. It’s about the Bowe place.”

  “The Bowe place? I’d love to talk about it now, but it’s one farm and we have the makings of a countywide catastrophe on our hands. Can we put Buford on the back burner for now?”

  “Sure,” Lily pouted. “It can wait, I guess.”

  “You’re a dear. Now, just to make sure that we’re all on the same page, would you please repeat what Mr. Moore said to Clem Tucker this morning.”

  “I don’t see any way to sugarcoat the situation. Pearline O’Connor says that he’s going to ask for rain or Clem’s life at the end of the week.”

  “And what did he say to you at lunch, Wilma?”

  I swallowed a bite of zucchini bread and wiped the corners of my mouth. “The same exact thing.”

  “You’re sure he used the word ‘or,’ not ‘and’?”

  “He was very clear, Mary, and he said a deal is a deal. He can’t go back on it.”

  Lily added, “That’s not the worst of it. Clem offered to pay Mr. Moore for his life. Is that what he said to you, Wilma?”

  “More or less. He told me that money was mentioned but no figures were discussed.”

  I finished my lemonade and motioned to Lily to pass me the pitcher. While I refilled my glass, she said, “You’re Clem’s fiancée, Wilma. How much can he afford to pay Mr. Moore?”

  “A zillion dollars, give or take, but I don’t see why it matters. Mr. Moore has never been interested in money. He seems to have plenty of his own. Isn’t that so, Loretta?”

  Dottie interrupted, “I’d have to agree. The man won’t even file a missing vehicle report when his brand-new car disappears. But before we get into Vernon’s motives — whatever they may be — we need to address a more pressing problem.”

  “A more pressing problem? What in the world could that be?”

  “Think about it, Mary. What will happen if information about this deal leaks to the general membership? We’ll have a revolt on our hands. The mob will take to the streets. The Come Again will become the Bastille of the Plains.”

  “Aren’t you letting your imagination go a little overboard?” Lo said. “As I recall, no political prisoners were left in the Bastille when the crowd arrived. The jailer invited them in for tea.”

  “Uh huh, and as I recall, the mob wasn’t placated,” Dot retorted. “I would’ve offered them beer myself. That would’ve done the trick.”

  In my mind’s eye, the double-wide line from my door to Main Street was converted from a column of patient, mild-mannered petitioners into a swarm of angry French peasants waving pitchforks and teensy cups of espresso. The irony of a tea offering was instantly obvious.

  Hail Mary intervened. “Dottie’s right. As of now, only Pearline, Marie, and the six of us know what Vernon and Lord Clem are talking about. Is that true?”

  Everybody nodded in the affirmative so she continued, “From this moment forward, every aspect of this deal must remain confidential to the board. That means no gossip, girls, and I mean no gossip. Zero. Lily, you need to call Marie and make sure that nothing leaks out of the River House. Wilma, you need to make sure that Vernon doesn’t tell anybody else, especially Louise Nelson. That woman will talk the ears off a cornstalk.”

  “She’s at the River House every day, Mary. She’s going to find out anyway.”

  “Then tell her yourself, and make sure she keeps her mouth shut. Tell Mona to keep an eye on John, too. If there’s a problem …”

  Lily looked at the rest of us like she was about to blow a gasket. “If there’s a problem? If there’s a problem? Am I the only one who’s suspicious here? I never got close to Mr. Moore like some of you did, but my alarm bells went off the day that man walked into Millet’s. What if he’s a crook? What if this is some sort of swindle?”

  Loretta smiled sweetly. “You have me, Lily. I faked a coma for six weeks while the evil Vernon Moore plotted the second phase of his plan, which was to deprive the town of a vicious religious sect. And don’t forget the dastardly Wilma. She has to be in on it, too.”

  “Fine! But nobody knows diddly-squat about the man except that he shows up out of nowhere every two years, he stays for exactly six days, and somebody dies or doesn’t. We also know that Clem Tucker is about to cross swords with the Angel of Death — which can’t be a coincidence — and he has more money than Kuwait. Doesn’t that sound like motive, means, and opportunity, Mary?”

  “Maybe, but no
crime has been committed, so they’re irrelevant, at least for now. The bottom line is that we have no idea what Mr. Moore intends to do this week.”

  “That’s not so,” I replied. “He’s going to sell Clem some faith.”

  “He’s going to do what?” Hail Mary demanded.

  “He’s going to sell Clem some faith. He said we need to have faith in him, too.”

  “Faith in him — because he’s asking for rain or Clement Tucker’s life at the end of the week? That’s the strangest thing I ever heard.”

  I opened my mouth to differ but Loretta was faster on the draw. “You’re right, Mary. When it comes to Vernon Moore, the word ‘stranger’ takes on an entirely new aspect. Nevertheless, we all believe that he might be able to make it rain, don’t we?”

  Under her breath, Lily muttered, “Bullshit.” I interpreted that as a dissenting vote.

  Dot grumbled, “We all believe it’s a possibility, Lo, or we wouldn’t be here. But if we don’t quit beating around the damned bush, it’ll die of thirst. Why don’t I invite Vernon over to the courthouse for an interview? He won’t have any trouble finding the way.”

  “That’s a good idea,” Loretta said. “While you’re at it, throw him in jail. That should get him to open up.”

  “I was thinkin’ about a little chat in my office, that’s all. Do you have a better idea?”

  “I do. He’s always been willing to talk to Wilma and me. Instead of beating on him with a rubber hose, I propose that we invite him to dinner.”

  “He’s not your beau any more, Loretta.”

  “You’re uncommonly observant today, Lily, but Vern and I are still friends and I’m still the mother of his child. He’s sitting for Laverne as we speak.”

  The realization that Mr. Moore and Loretta were still close seemed to take the wind out of Lily’s sails. I said, “Would it be possible to put an official Buzzword out to the membership? My phone won’t stop ringing, I’m getting a thousand e-mails an hour, and Mr. Moore can’t go anywhere without being accosted by the membership. Beryl Williams came by my house this morning, for heaven’s sake, and I hadn’t seen her since the Christmas fete. If we don’t do something, half of Ebb will be lined up outside my door by tomorrow morning.”

  “Wilma’s not the only one. I had to turn my phone off last night because Laverne couldn’t get to sleep. That’s not right.”

  “Why isn’t it?” Lily protested. “All they want is what you got.”

  Loretta and Lily had a little frowning contest. Hail Mary said, “I’ve had a few calls myself. It seems like half the families in the county have a problem requiring Vernon’s special talents. What can we do?”

  “Why not have an old-fashioned revival right here in the Abat­toir?” Lily quipped. “If we do it tomorrow, Vernon can cure the sick and the stricken in one fell swoop and we can be back to complaining about the drought by sundown.”

  “He won’t even admit he saved Loretta,” I replied. “He would never agree to such a thing.”

  “Put a cork in it, you two,” Mary commanded, using her district attorney’s voice. “We need to get this situation under control. The question is how.”

  “I have an idea,” Bebe announced. “Let’s send a message to the membership and Mr. Moore at the same time.” In case you haven’t noticed, Bebe is the least talkative woman on the board. Given the company, that is not a media-worthy achievement.

  “What?” I asked.

  “Mr. Moore wants us to have faith. Okay; let’s show him we have faith — in his ability to call in the rain. Let’s send an umbrella to every member in the Circle.”

  “You’re talking two-hundred-plus umbrellas, Bebe. Do you have that many in the store?”

  “No, but here’s a surprise: there’s a surplus in this part of the country. I can’t be sure, but I believe it’s related to the lack of rain. I can have two hundred trucked in from Lincoln by noon tomorrow, as long as they’re Cornhusker red.”

  “That’s unbudgeted overhead,” Lily grumbled. “How much will it cost?”

  “Five dollars each in quantity, six tops. I’ll sell them to the Circle at my cost.”

  Loretta chimed in, “I second Bebe’s proposal. Considering the return on investment, I think the purchase of an umbrella policy is dirt cheap.”

  After we voted four to two in favor of Bebe’s proposal, Hail Mary reckoned, “We still have to decide what to do with all the people who want Vernon’s personal attention.”

  “Send out a Buzzword, Mary,” Dottie said. “Tell the girls to pipe down or Vernon will head for the hills. That’s what I’d do if half the county wanted me to cure their irritable bowel syndrome or whatever.”

  “Okay. If that’s what it takes, I’ll send out a Buzzword. Maybe it’ll buy us enough time to find a real solution. I have one last matter to table before we adjourn …”

  “What about Buford?”

  “Just hang on a minute, Lily. As I recall, the board convened about one emergency meeting per day the last time Vernon was in town. I’d like to avoid repeating that mistake. Let’s schedule the next one in advance. I suggest Wednesday morning, early, say seven thirty. That’s a day and a half from now. Can Buford’s latest scheme wait until then?”

  It took some cajoling, but Lily caved in. After we adjourned, she huddled in the corner with Mary, Dottie, and Bebe to talk about e-mails, budgets, and umbrellas. Meanwhile, I lost at rock, scissors, paper to Loretta, which meant that dinner would be at my house.

  It was my turn to clean up after the meeting — with Lily, who wasn’t in her chattiest mood. As we were heading down the hall toward the exit, I asked, “Is everything okay?”

  “My husband runs the local bank,” she replied. “I have two wonderful sons, a Nicaraguan nanny, and a new SUV with a DVD player. My life is picture damned perfect.”

  “Do you want to talk about it?”

  “No. It’s the last thing I want to talk about.” That may have been a sincere answer, but it was impermanent. When we got to the front door, Lily stopped and said, “If you had to do it all over, would you marry your first husband again?”

  “I would if it was the only way to have my daughters.”

  “What if you could’ve picked them up at Kmart or a place like that?”

  “Then I would have kicked the bastard in the jewels and fled to Idaho.”

  “Is that why you never married Clem?”

  “Indirectly. I learned from my first go-round that a fiancé is sweet and surprising, but a husband is dour and disappointing. I’ll take a fiancé every time, thank you very much. Even now, after four years of engagement, Clem still surprises me sometimes …”

  “No shit,” Lily said abruptly, then she pushed open the door and walked out by herself.

  I’ve seen so many marriages go down the chute over the years, including my own and my eldest daughter’s, that I’ve become an expert on the indicators. Lily tried to put Buford on the agenda, even though it was against the rules. Since nominations for Drone of the Year — excuse me, I meant Spouse of the Year — weren’t due for three months, that was probably an indicator. Lily was also testy throughout the meeting, particularly toward Loretta, the woman who married her former boss. Lily had a crush on Calvin for years, so that was an indicator, too.

  Then she asked about my failed marriage. That was indicator number three.

  Chapter 8

  LADY BE GOOD

  MR. MOORE WALKED BACK to the Come Again from the Angles House despite the scorching heat. He should have been sweating like a cigar thief in a Cuban jail when he arrived, but he was as dry as desert sand. I looked up from my cutting board, where I was preparing vegetables for a pot roast, and observed, “You have a high tolerance for the swelter, Mr. Moore.”

  “It’s hot, Wilma, but I’ve been in worse, and for a lot longer. Loretta told me about dinner. I’m sorry that Calvin and Laverne can’t come.”

  “They have a night to themselves every week,” I fibbed. “It’s a bonding t
hing.” Calvin had called to say that he would be late, so Lo was dropping Laverne off at Virginia Allen’s until he got home. “How was your afternoon with my perfect goddaughter?”

  “Wonderful! We played checkers; we watched cartoons on TV; we shared some cookies and juice — but don’t tell Loretta about the cookies. Laverne is very good at checkers.”

  Mr. Moore is a renowned game player himself. “Did you let her win?” I asked.

  “No, but she grasped the principles quickly. Is that a pot roast?”

  “It is.” I pointed to the two apple pies sitting on a grate at the other end of the counter and added, “You can do me a favor, though. One of those pies is for dessert; the other is for Beryl Williams. It should be delivered while it’s fresh, but I don’t have any time. Would it be a terrible imposition if you took it over?”

  Asking a lodger to take care of a chore is a violation of B & B protocol, but Mr. Moore is not your average, everyday lodger, is he? “I have to warn you,” I added. “Beryl knows you by reputation. She dropped by earlier today to see if you might help her son.”

  Mr. Moore eyed my pies, which were in clear glass dishes and stacked high with apple slices and my mother’s crumbly crust. “What kind of help does he need?”

  I stopped chopping carrots long enough to recount the whole sorry tale about Beryl and her boy. When I was done, he said, “I’d be happy to deliver an apple pie for you, Wilma. Where do they live?”

  I gave him directions to her house, which is on the south end of town near the old railroad tracks. It may be a cliché, but that’s where it is. I thought he would come straight home but he was gone for hours. At first, I figured that he had been waylaid by townsfolk wanting rain and whatnot, but the usual reports of Mr. Moore sightings failed to accumulate in my voicemail. Later on, I learned that he had spent the rest of the afternoon with Beryl and Flathead. I suppose I shouldn’t have been surprised, but I was.