The Widows of Eden

by George Shaffner

  “Are you sure you wouldn’t like a tuna salad sandwich first? I can make more.”

  “I already ate,” I lied, “but don’t go anyplace. The first of Mr. Moore’s widow friends arrived at the Come Again an hour ago. You’ll want to hear about how she travels.”

  “It’s old news,” Louise remarked. “We picked up the story on the grapevine half an hour ago. Even Mr. Tucker was interested.”

  “You told Clem?”

  “While I was taking his vitals. It’s not like I could bring up the seventy-five million dollars, could I?”

  Clem was sleeping soundly when I entered his room. A dinner plate with a few specks of yellow lay on a tray at the foot of his bed, which led me to believe that he had enjoyed his eggs on toast. He can be crankier than a teething baby when he is awakened from a deep sleep, so I picked up a copy of the Economist from the bedside table and took the cane chair. Clem swears by that magazine. He says it’s his bible, but it isn’t even written by Americans. Come to think of it, I guess the real Bible wasn’t either.

  It’s hard to believe sometimes, but people in other parts of the world must have their problems, too. I was reading an article about this economic calamity or that when Clem awoke. As near as I could tell, every single one of them was caused by evilhearted men.

  My fiancé opened his eyes and squinted into the lamplight. “Wilma? Is that you?”

  “It is, honeypot. How are you feeling?”

  “I’d feel a hell of a lot better if you were to slide in here with me. How about a snuggle? Are you in the mood?”

  “Clement Tucker! You’re in a fragile state. We’ll cuddle all you want when you’re better, but not till then. Can I bring you anything; a glass of iced water maybe?” Involuntarily, the idea of crushed glass entered my mind. Wasn’t that awful?

  “Naw, not right now. What time is it?”

  “Just a tick after one p.m.”

  “Is it hot outside?”

  “The citizens of Ebb are grilling steaks on manhole covers. Automobile tires are melting in the streets. Chickens are dropping in the henhouse, already fried. Wouldn’t we be in a pickle if Mr. Moore hadn’t come to save us from the conflagration?”

  Clem paused for a second, like he was thinking about fried chicken, then he turned the tables on me. “What the hell is going on with your son-in-law? Did you hear? He quit on me this morning, without a day’s goddamned notice.”

  “Um hmm. I did hear. I heard the reason, too.”

  “You did?”

  “He’s married to my daughter, Clement. In my opinion, you need to call off the dogs. Excuse me; I meant Buford.”

  “That’s business, Wilma. We never discuss business. That’s the rule.”

  I hate rules, especially men’s rules. “Well, we have to discuss business this morning, honeypot. Things have gotten terribly mixed up, but you can help.”

  Clem belched. A person could never tell if his belches were involuntary or not, even when he was healthy.

  “Are you okay?” I asked.

  “Actually, I think so,” he replied. “When you say things have gotten mixed up, I assume you’re referring to a certain lodger of yours.”

  “He’s part of it,” I sighed. “You’re the other part. We need you to change the deal.”

  “You want me to change a deal? What deal?”

  “Last night, Mr. Moore told me that he’s going to ask for rain or your life at the end of the week; not both. Is that right?”

  All of a sudden, Clem’s countenance became darker. It was as if someone had cast a shadow over the bed. “That agreement is between Vernon and me, Wilma. It’s highly confidential. I’m damned disappointed that he even mentioned it to you.”

  “He wouldn’t have, but Loretta and I cornered him over dinner. He either had to lie or he had to tell us about the deal.”

  “Then he should have lied. It’s business.”

  I had heard that tone a jillion times. It was his “CEO tone,” and I wasn’t in a humor for it. “Just listen to me for a darned minute. This deal isn’t just between you and Mr. Moore. It affects the whole county.”

  After a moment of reflection, my fiancé seemed to have a change of heart. I know what you’re thinking: when did Clem Tucker get a heart he could change? “Okay,” he said. “You wanted a minute. For one minute, lets pretend that discussing a business deal with a third party isn’t a blatant breach of protocol.”

  “I’m not a third party; I’m your fiancée.”

  “In perpetuity, and a board member of that infernal Quilting Circle, apparently for the same term. Even though it’s an obvious conflict of interest, I just agreed to discuss the damned deal — for one minute. Now, what in God’s name do you want?”

  “Mr. Moore said you offered him money to ask for your life instead of rain.”

  Clem sat up. “Run that by me again,” he demanded.

  “Okay, that wasn’t exactly what he said, but he admitted that money might change hands.”

  “Did he mention a figure? Did he say how much?”

  “No, but it’s your life and you have a lot of money, so we put two and two together and guessed that you might be offering him a lot of it.”

  “What’s your preference, Wilma? Would you rather that I paid him ten dollars? Exactly how much is my life worth to you?”

  “It’s not the money, honeypot; it’s the either/or part. That’s what has people so scared. Can’t you think of a way to pay Mr. Moore for both? That would be a win-win, wouldn’t it?”

  Clem pursed his lips, then said, “When you were a little girl, did you ever want something that would cost your parents a lot of money? A bicycle maybe?”

  “Sure. I can remember asking my daddy for one like it was yesterday.”

  “Did you ask for a bicycle, or did you ask for a bicycle and a color TV?”

  “Clement Tucker. I would never …”

  “Why? What would have happened if you’d asked for both?”

  “I don’t …”

  Clem didn’t wait for me to finish. “The county will be here after the drought, Wilma. I may not see another Sunday, and Vernon Moore is the only hedge I’ve got. I’m not changing the deal; I don’t care if hell freezes over.” After a second, he added, “And don’t be fooled by all that win-win crap. Every business deal is a competition: somebody wins and somebody loses. One guy gets a fat wallet, and the other gets a fat lip.”

  That is just what I needed: another manly lecture! I was about to excuse myself to go sulk in the john when Louise came into the room carrying the telephone. “I apologize for interrupting, Mr. Tucker, but you have a call. I thought you’d want to take it.”

  “Who is it?” Clem growled.

  “John Smith.”

  “Fine,” he groused. “Leave the phone but take the tray. You can stay, Wilma.”

  As usual, I only heard Clem’s half of the conversation, but I managed to reconstruct the balance later on. My newest and most favorite son-in-law said, “Vernon Moore just stopped by and asked me to reconsider my resignation. Is that what you want?”

  “You’re a good man, John; a pain in the ass, but a good man. I’ll make you a deal: don’t hold me up for a raise, and I won’t ask you to investigate Mr. Moore. How’s that?”

  “It’s not enough, Mr. Tucker. I won’t split my loyalties. If you want me back, then you have to scrub the mission.”

  “You’re firm on that?”

  “Yessir.”

  “But that’s it? That’s all you want?”

  “Yessir.”

  Clem didn’t hesitate. “It’s a bargain.”

  John was caught off guard. “I’m serious, Mr. Tucker.”

  “You think I’m not? How long have you been working for me?”

  “Three years, sir.”

  “Have you ever seen me break a promise? Can you name one instance?”

  “No, sir.”

  “That’s because I keep my word, John. In return, I expect you to keep to yours. Do we
have a deal?”

  After a second or two, John said, “Yessir.”

  “Good. Will you do me a favor, please? Will you stop at the bank on the way down and tell Buford to give me a call? I’ll need to talk to him, too.”

  “No problem, sir.”

  Clem hung up the phone and announced triumphantly, “John is back in the fold. And you can tell your friends at the Circle that I’m calling Buford off, just like you wanted. The investigation into Vernon’s identity will cease and desist as of today.”

  “Are you feeling okay?” I asked. “You never give in like that.”

  “I’ve seen the Reaper, Wilma, and I’m a smarter man for it. I have no problem sacrificing a pawn here or there — so long as the king is still standing at the end.”

  Chapter 13

  THE MULTITUDE

  I RECEIVED A CALL from Loretta while Louise was giving Clem his afternoon medications. At the time, he was choking down twenty-three pills per day, but he never complained, not even once. He said his grievance was with the disease, not the cure.

  Loretta asked, “How’s your dark-hearted fiancé this morning?”

  “He has cancer,” I reminded us both, “but he’s better than he’s been in weeks, almost frisky. Maybe Louise slipped some Viagra into his chemo.”

  “You don’t suppose that Vern …”

  “Who knows? Either way, he’s been running on at the mouth like his old self.”

  “Did you ask him about changing the deal?”

  “I did, and straight out. Here’s a shocker: he’d have none of it.”

  “You’re right, Wilma. He is his ornery old self.”

  “You’re not worried?”

  “Heck no. Clem is Clem, which means money, and Vern is Vern, which means miracles. In a contest, I’ll take miracles every time. When should I tell everybody you’ll be home?”

  That caught me by surprise. “Everybody?”

  “I’m at your place, darlin’. The other two widows have arrived and Vern was right: they have a gift for making an entrance. Side-by-side, those are three of the biggest vehicles I’ve ever seen. A multitude is forming out front.”

  “A what?”

  “There’s maybe twenty people milling around in your driveway. Most are Circle girls, and every one is sporting a red umbrella. Pokie’s keeping the crowd at a respectful distance and Dottie’s in the kitchen making lemonade with Virgie.” Pokie Melhuse is Dot’s right-hand man. She runs the watch desk at the county sheriff’s office, and she knows Mr. Moore. Besides yours truly and John Smith, she was the other eyewitness. She saw him stand in the pouring rain and call in the lightning bolt that brought Loretta back to life.

  “Where’s my famous lodger?” I asked, following my own train of thought.

  “He and Lovey went for ice cream. He didn’t say where, but I’m guessing Texas. He should’ve been back by now to greet his friends.”

  “Have you introduced yourself?”

  “To the widows? Nope. They haven’t seen fit to appear before the throng as of yet. Maybe they’re awaiting their hostess. When can we expect you?”

  “I’ll be there just as soon as I can make my apologies to Clem. Hold the fort.”

  “That man should be apologizing to you, Wilma, and to everybody else in the county. He better be careful if he comes into my salon. We keep sharp instruments in our drawers, and we’re not afraid to use them.”

  DUSTY CARS AND pickup trucks were parked cheek-to-jowl in my driveway when I got home, and there was wasn’t enough space in the parking lot for a shopping cart. The three giant motor coaches used it all. One of the new arrivals was bright white and had a mural on the side of seagulls frolicking over frothy ocean waves. It reminded me of some Japanese art I had seen once in a museum. The other was candy-apple red with twin-winged dragonflies drawn in thin, smooth strokes of silver and gold, like filigree.

  Mysteriously, there were no umbrella-toting onlookers to be seen, so I parked behind the house and went in the rear door, where I discovered that the multitude had not dispersed; it had relocated. Half a dozen women were gabbing and drinking lemonade in my kitchen, and red umbrellas were strewn everywhere: on the table; on the counters; on the stairs; leaning up against the wall.

  Dottie yelled from beside the sink, “Come on in, Wilma. You’re throwing a reception. Grab a cold drink and I’ll usher you into the parlor.”

  Virgie Allen handed me a glass and slurred. “You were running low on lemonade mix, so we added a little zing to it. We’re in great shape now.”

  Jenny McCallum walked up to me while I was eying the three empty bottles of vodka on my counter. Jenny is the town piano teacher and the organist at the Protestant church, but she broke her neck in a car crash and never quite recovered. She has to wear a foam brace to prop up her chin now and then, and she rarely teaches anymore. She says her lust for music was shattered in the wreck.

  “Did you get my e-mail, Wilma?” she asked.

  “Uh huh.”

  “Have a lot of people requested an audience with Mr. Moore? I get the impression from talking to the other girls that they have.”

  “We’ve received fifty e-mails so far, maybe more.”

  “Oh my! That’s what I was afraid of. Their problems must be worse than mine.”

  “Don’t sell yourself short, Jen. You’d be surprised at what some of these girls think they need.”

  “Thank you for saying so, Wilma, but I’ll understand if Mr. Moore can’t stop by.”

  Dottie grabbed me by the arm while I was trying to think of something nice to say and started pulling me toward the dining room. “You can’t hide in here all day, Wilma,” she said. “You have to meet the widows.” Then, just before we passed through the swinging door, she stopped and whispered, “I need to fill you in on a few items before we go any further.”

  “What?”

  “First off, Hail Mary told me to run a quick check on the Widow Marion’s chauffeur. For your edification, his name is Raymond ‘Road Rage’ Duke. He used to ride with a biker gang in Flagstaff, but he had a problem with drivers who wouldn’t get out of the left-hand lane so he could pass. The boy has eleven convictions for assault, vandalism, and property destruction.”

  “Eleven! Remind me to pull over if I see him in the rearview mirror.”

  “The other two chauffeurs don’t look real savory either. Pokie’s at the office checking their records as we speak.” I started to turn, but Dottie grabbed my arm and stuck a cell phone in my hand.

  “What’s this?” I asked.

  “A phone. I thought you might have seen one before.”

  “I have, but …”

  “Hail Mary’s tired of not being able to reach you. Me, too. Nobody has the number to this phone except Mary, me, Pokie, and the board. You can give the number to Mona, but nobody else. Okay?”

  “That’s very nice, thank you.”

  “You’re welcome. Let’s meet the widows.”

  I pushed through the door and was greeted by a gaggle of lubricated Circle girls, each sporting a furled red umbrella. Loretta jumped up from a side chair and grabbed my free elbow. “Come with me,” she said. “The widows are waiting.”

  Dottie refused to release her hold on the other arm, so they marched me into my parlor like I was a disobedient student being hauled before the school principal. Two women I didn’t recognize were sitting at opposite ends of my antique, purple-and-white striped sofa and Marion was in the center. She stood as I approached and said, “Hello again, Wilma. Loretta invited us in for refreshments. I hope you don’t mind.”

  Every girl in the room stopped gabbing at once and turned an ear in our direction, just like in that old E. F. Hutton ad. “Not a bit,” I replied. “You’re all welcome in my house.”

  “Thank you for being so kind. Allow me to introduce my very best friends and traveling companions, Eloise Richardson and Bertha Fabian.”

  Eloise was the youngest and tallest of the three widows. She wore a plain tan dress wit
h brass buttons down the bodice and a wide, black patent belt at the waist. “We’ve looked forward to meeting you for such a long time.”

  I jerked my arm away from Dottie so I could take her hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you,” I answered.

  The third widow was short and portly with white hair. She wore coarse wool slacks and a white, long-sleeved blouse that didn’t fit quite right, like it was a hand-me-down. “And call me Birdie,” she said. “What happened to the big tree out front? Did it catch on fire?”

  “Two years ago, the poor thing. It was a town landmark. I can hardly remember a sadder day.”

  “My, my. What an awful shame.”

  Ever the sheriff, Dottie testified, “It wasn’t a shame; it was arson. Thanks to Vernon, we brought the miscreants to justice.”

  Marion smiled. “Isn’t that just like him? I’ve never met a man who could get so involved in so many people’s affairs so quickly. Have you?”

  I shook my head. As far as I knew, Mr. Moore was the champ. He beat everybody I’ve ever met, and I have the acquaintance of some world-class busybodies. I know what you’re thinking, but I don’t want to hear about it. It’s my job.

  The Widow Marion sighed audibly and added, “Return visits can be so difficult for that poor man. He has a tendency to get in over his head. He can’t cope.”

  “Can’t cope with what?”

  She turned and waved her hand slowly around the room in a semicircle, directing our attention to the throng in my parlor and dining room. “With all of this, Sheriff. That’s why he calls us.”

  “He calls you?” Loretta asked.

  “Not always, but yes. That reminds me: Vernon phoned to say that you and Wilma were preparing a list. By chance, is it finished?”

  “What list?” Dottie demanded.

  Lo said, “Vern asked Wilma and me to make a list of all the people who want to see him.” She turned to Marion and continued, “It’ll be finished this afternoon.”

  “Would you be kind enough to give it to Vernon when you’re done? He can review it with us later this evening.”

  “Sure,” I answered, “but do you mind if I ask what you’re going to do with it?”