Husband and Wives

by Susan Rogers Cooper

  ‘How many do you think there are?’ Jean asked me.

  I shrugged. ‘The guy from the church that I met, that Andrew Schmidt, Mr Paranoid, said it was a “small congregation,”’ I told her. ‘What constitutes a small congregation, I don’t know.’

  ‘What’s the name of the church?’ Jean asked.

  ‘New Saints Tabernacle,’ I said.

  ‘I’ll check into it tomorrow,’ she said.

  ‘Think it’ll be on the Internet?’ I asked, because that’s what Jean meant when she said she’d ‘check into it.’

  She nodded. ‘If not, I’ll find another way,’ she said, and by the look on her face, I think she meant it.

  Jean McDonnell – Wednesday

  I checked the Internet the next day, Googling my brains out – nothing at all on a New Saints Tabernacle anywhere in Oklahoma. There was one in Utah, so I looked that up. There were no names associated with the website, since polygamy is against the law, but there was some information. New Saints Tabernacle was started in the late 1950s in a valley in Utah where there was no electricity and the only water was a creek that ran through the valley. Wells were dug and homes sprang up and a small church house was built for the nine families (forty-two men, women, and children) that now lived in the small village they named New Saints. New Saints, Utah was never recorded with the post office, it being a plural community, so whoever made this website had to be a citizen or former citizen of the small town.

  By 2007, the date of the last entry on this website, the community now had seventy-five families, totaling almost 900 people, including children. According to the website, New Saints was still ‘off the grid,’ with the only electricity supplied by generators that were used sparingly, the water by wells. The children were taught in a communal school with various parents teaching them, mostly lessons they would need to live in their own community, such as sewing, cooking, making and using cleaning agents, how to plant a house garden, and child-rearing for the girls, and carpentry, mechanics, animal husbandry, and soil retention and farming for the boys. According to the author of the website, some children did go off to college, but the ‘majority’ came back to New Saints afterwards to offer what they learned to the community and to raise their own families.

  I couldn’t help but wonder what any of these people would say if someone were to mention to them how close their community was to the original idea of communism? It tickled me to think of it.

  All of this Googled information was fine, but it still didn’t answer the question of how many families in Prophesy County were plural. So I got off the computer and picked up the telephone off my desk. My next client wasn’t due for another half hour, and this was official business, even if I was enjoying myself. Research has always been my secret love.

  There was no listing in any of the small towns in our area code for New Saints Tabernacle, and the only listing I got from directory assistance for Andrew Schmidt, the man from the church Milt had met the night before, was unlisted. Milt did mention he was a little paranoid. I wondered about the straight-ahead approach, looked at my notes and called Rene Hudson. She seemed to be the one most likely to blab.

  ‘Hello?’ she said in a sing-song voice when she picked up the phone.

  ‘Rene? Hi, it’s Jean McDonnell,’ I said.

  ‘Who?’ she asked.

  ‘Dr McDonnell? The sheriff’s wife?’ I tried.

  ‘Oh, yeah! Hey, how you doing?’ she asked.

  ‘I’m just fine, Rene, how are you?’ I asked.

  ‘Oh, OK, I guess. Me and Carol Anne have to get everything ready for the funeral and it’s a real bummer,’ she said.

  ‘Have they released the body yet?’ I asked, surprised.

  ‘No, I don’t think so,’ she said. ‘Carol Anne just said we need to be ready when they do.’

  ‘That makes sense,’ I said. ‘The reason I’m calling, Rene, is about your church.’

  ‘The New Saints Tabernacle?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes,’ I answered. ‘How many people go to your church?’

  ‘I dunno. I never counted,’ she said.

  ‘Approximately,’ I encouraged.

  ‘Well, there’s like maybe ten on the men’s side – bunch more on the women’s side, of course.’

  ‘So men and women are separated during the service?’ I asked.

  ‘Of course,’ she said. ‘How else would the men be able to concentrate?’

  ‘Right,’ I said. ‘So maybe about ten families all together?’

  ‘I guess,’ she answered, ‘although some of the men might not come to service all the time. So there might be more than that.’

  ‘Can you give me some of the names of the families? I need to talk to them,’ I told her.

  Taking my request quite casually, Rene said, ‘Well, there’s the Schmidts, Andrew and his wives . . .’

  ‘Someone other than Andrew,’ I suggested.

  ‘Ah, David Bollinger and his wives. You need their address?’ she asked.

  I said, ‘Yes,’ and she read it out to me.

  ‘Oh, and here’s another. Sarie Whitman. She’s the second wife of Thomas Whitman. She’s got two little girls. Here’s their address.’

  And she read that one off, along with three others. Altogether, including the Schmidts and the Hudsons, that was seven out of maybe ten plural families in Prophesy and Tejas Counties.

  ‘Well, thanks so much, Rene,’ I said to her, and really meant it.

  ‘Hey, you’re welcome! You should come see the burial dress we’re making for Mary. It’s gorgeous!’

  ‘Thanks. Maybe I’ll come by,’ I said and hung up.

  FOUR

  Dalton Pettigrew – Wednesday

  ‘Milt?’ Dalton said timidly, not wanting to disturb the sheriff right now, since he already seemed disturbed enough.

  Milt slammed some papers down on his desk and said, real testy-like, ‘What is it, Dalton?’

  ‘Ah, you wanted me to tell you about that dead body?’

  ‘What about it?’ Milt said, looking back at his desk.

  ‘Ah, I don’t have a cause of death yet—’

  ‘Then why are you bothering me with it?’ Milt demanded.

  ‘Well, he sorta looked like he’d been strangled . . .’

  Milt’s shoulders drooped and he hung his head for a minute, then looked up and sighed. ‘Sorry, Dalton. I’m worrying about this other case and being ornery. The ME’ll let us know if you’re right. You ID him?’

  ‘No sir, nothing on him but some change and a Swiss army knife.’

  ‘Get his prints from the ME’s office and have Holly help you get on the right stuff with the computer.’ Milt waved him away. ‘Just talk to Holly. She knows all about that shit.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Dalton said and headed slowly for the bullpen. Before disturbing Holly, however, he needed to get the prints. He called the ME’s office and Terry answered the phone. ‘Hey, Terry, it’s Dalton Pettigrew from the sheriff’s office?’

  ‘Hey, Dalton. How are you?’

  ‘I’m just fine, Terry. Thanks for asking. Ah, I need to get the fingerprints on that dead body you picked up yesterday?’

  ‘Sure, we already took ’em. Want me to fax ’em over or would you rather we email ’em?’

  Dalton thought about it. ‘Ah, hold on.’ He put Terry on hold and got up slowly, checking out Holly as he did. He’d noticed this morning that she had on something new – at least, new to him. It was a dress, like a sundress, mostly pink but with big yellow flowers on it, with those skinny shoulder straps and all, but with it being late fall she had a long-sleeved yellow T-shirt underneath it. The dress was real short, but she had on black tights without feet, the ones that look like really tight stretch pants – he didn’t know what they called them – and yellow shoes with lots of straps. He thought she looked really pretty, especially since her hair was down. He walked to her desk and waited until she was off the phone.

  ‘Hey, Holly?’ he said quietly behind her.
/>
  Holly jumped and turned around. She laughed nervously. ‘Oh, Dalton! I didn’t hear you come up. Can I help you?’

  ‘Ah, yeah. I need to check out some fingerprints and Milt said you knew how to do that.’

  ‘Sure! Let me see the prints,’ Holly said, smiling at him.

  ‘Ah, I’ve got Terry from the ME’s office on the phone and he’s got the prints. He wants to know if we want them faxed over here or emailed?’ he said, letting out a breath. He’d rehearsed that speech all the way over to her desk, and he was glad it was over with.

  ‘Have him email them to me, OK? Then come over here and I’ll show you how it’s done!’ she said, all smiles.

  Dalton tried to smile back but was afraid it came out as more of a sneer. He went back to his desk to talk to Terry, but he’d hung up. So Dalton called the ME’s office again, got Terry and asked him to email the prints. ‘What’s the addy?’ Terry asked.

  Dalton hung his head. This was getting way too complicated. What in the world was an addy? He took a chance and called out to Holly, ‘Terry wants to know the addy!’

  ‘I’ll take it! Which line?’ Holly asked. Dalton gratefully told her then sat back and tried to breathe calmly. If he didn’t watch it, his asthma was going to come back, that’s what his mama was always telling him.

  Holly hung up the phone and called out to Dalton. ‘Come on over and I’ll show you what to do,’ she said.

  Dalton levered himself to an upright position – he still worked out enough that his linebacker’s body hadn’t turned to fat, but he’d strained his back last weekend helping his mama move furniture – and moved to Holly’s desk.

  She pulled up a nearby chair next to hers. ‘Have a seat,’ she said.

  Dalton sat down, fully aware of how close he was to Holly. He could smell her, and it was nice. Kind of fruity, a little flowery, but mostly just real nice. He was aware of her voice, telling him this or that as she hit keys on the key pad of her computer, changing the screen from this to that. He saw the fingerprints up on the screen and then something else happened, but he wasn’t really listening to the words. He didn’t really like computers, afraid they were smarter than him. He just liked listening to Holly’s voice. It was a pretty voice, almost musical.

  ‘Sorry,’ Holly said. ‘He’s not in any of the databases.’

  Finally realizing she was speaking directly to him, Dalton said, ‘Huh?’

  ‘Your guy’s not in any of the regular databases,’ she repeated. ‘I’ll keep looking in the not so regular ones, but it doesn’t look hopeful.’

  ‘OK then, thanks,’ Dalton said, reluctantly standing up.

  ‘You’re welcome,’ Holly said, again smiling at him. ‘Any time.’

  He nodded his head and moved on. He sorta wondered if his dead body had anything to do with the sheriff’s dead body, but he figured Milt would know more about that than him. It wasn’t like they had a whole lot of dead bodies in the county, but they’d been known to have a few. As close as Vern’s shop was to the highway, it could have been just a dump job, as far as Dalton knew.

  Milt Kovak – Wednesday

  The next morning I told Anthony to go to Bishop with Nita and talk to the troop leaders about setting up the Boy Scouts. We’d still have almost three hours of sunlight once they got out of school. We got a lot of Boy Scouts in Prophesy County: two troops in Longbranch, another two in Bishop, and one in Harrellville, which always surprises me ’cause it’s a small place, but the boys are all brothers or cousins, or related in some way, so we had plenty of kids to comb the whole cul-de-sac for the suspected murder weapon.

  Jean called me around ten and gave me the addresses of five other plural families in Prophesy County. I was flabbergasted.

  ‘There are at least ten families in the church, according to Rene,’ Jean said. Then added, ‘But of course, you’ll have to take that with a grain of salt.’

  ‘Why are you so hard on poor little Rene?’ I asked.

  ‘Maybe because you call her “poor little Rene,”’ she answered. Then laughed. ‘No, dear, I’m not jealous.’ There was a silence, then she said, ‘There’s just something about her. She’s so different from the other two—’

  ‘You never met Mary,’ I reminded her.

  ‘Not in person, but have you been around her children? Have you heard the way they talk about her? The kids, Jerry, Carol Anne, hell, even Rene? She was a saint. Carol Anne is––’

  ‘Your secret crush,’ I said.

  ‘Stop it. She’s a stand-up woman. She’s trustworthy. Rene . . . isn’t.’

  ‘You know, honey, I’ve never seen you go this much on instinct with patients—’

  ‘These people aren’t patients.’

  ‘Well, yeah they are. You had Rene in your office.’

  ‘Interviewing her for the case. Not as a patient,’ my wife said.

  ‘Still. You seem to be going more by the seat of your pants than usual. That’s my territory, honey.’

  Jean sighed. ‘I don’t know, babe,’ she said. ‘These people are getting under my skin. Part of it is I have strong opinions on this lifestyle, and these people . . .’

  Her voice drifted off. I said into the silence, ‘These people are changing your opinions?’

  Again, she sighed. ‘I don’t know. But they are certainly putting a strain on my certainty.’

  With that she said goodbye and hung up, and I looked at the list set before me. The church house, according to what I’d found out, was in Tejas County, which was the next county over, where my amigo Bill Williams was sheriff. Checking out the six names given to me, all except Andrew Schmidt were in Prophesy County. Schmidt was in Tejas County. I wasn’t sure how this church worked, if it was like a lot of Protestant sects, where there was a preacher and a board of elders or whatever that oversaw paying him and the bills of the church, or what. But if I had to guess, I’d guess that the other person who lived in Tejas County, where the church house was, would be the person in charge.

  I called Bill Williams, found him at his desk like he should be, and told him what had been going on over here with our plural family.

  ‘Ah, hell, I’ve been keeping quiet about old Earl Mayhew and his wives and kids,’ Bill said. ‘He’s a nice enough old bird and his wives seem happy enough. Kids keep out of trouble. But yeah, he’s the preacher or whatever it is at that church. It’s way back in the piney woods and I try not to disturb ’em or let anybody else do so. I think to each his own, ya know?’

  ‘Yeah, I know,’ I said. ‘I haven’t arrested the husband over here either. Figure he’s got enough trouble. How many wives the preacher got?’ I asked.

  ‘Only two that I know of. Ha!’ Bill said, letting out a laugh. ‘Who’da thought I’d ever say that about wives, huh?’

  I laughed back. ‘Know what you mean. This kinda thing gets your thoughts all twisted up.’

  ‘Yeah, I know. When I first met Earl, I came home, looked at my wife, and thought, ‘‘now what would she think about us bringing in a cute little twenty-two-year-old?’’’

  ‘Whoo, don’t I know it. Had the same kinda thought myself. But seriously, Bill, I need to talk to this Earl fella. Find out what I can about Hudson and his three wives.’

  ‘Woodoggies,’ Bill said, ‘three of ’em. Don’t that beat all?’

  ‘I’m tellin’ ya,’ I said.

  ‘Well, you come on over here and I’ll take you out yonder where the church is. He’s got a trailer set up right next to it. Church is one of them metal buildings you see, but it’s got a big ol’ cross on top of it.’

  ‘I’ll be there in about twenty,’ I told him, and hung up.

  It takes about thirty minutes to get to the county seat of Tejas County where Bill Williams’ office is, but I drive fast. Me and Bill chewed the fat for a while then he headed out to a four-wheel-drive vehicle.

  ‘Seriously?’ I said.

  ‘Hey, wouldn’t you go where no one could see you, if you were breaking the law?’ Bill asked.r />
  ‘Never thought about it much, but I guess you’re right. Of course, I rarely, if ever, contemplate things criminal,’ I said.

  Bill hooted with laughter. ‘Yeah, just things immoral, anti-social, and bad for the complexion.’

  ‘Drive,’ I suggested.

  Now we don’t have a lot of piny woods in Oklahoma, but there’s a little hidden dab of ’em on the east side of Tejas County – Tejas County is just to the west of us, so this was close. The trees reached the sky, all skinny and tall, not the Christmas tree kind at all. And they had big ol’ pine cones falling off of ’em. Just getting out of the car I spied half a dozen pristine cones, the middle of ’em bigger than my two hands cupped together. I picked up a bunch and threw them in the back of Bill’s car.

  ‘What?’ he whined on seeing me do it.

  ‘My wife’ll do something creative with these come Christmas. Just wait and see.’

  ‘I’d rather not,’ he said.

  I could spy the church through the trees, and it was exactly what Bill had said it was: a manufactured metal building with a cross on top. There was another building to the right of it, I think for Sunday school, or whatever it is these Mormon offshoots liked to call their indoctrination of children. We Baptists call it Sunday school. To the left of the church building was a double-wide trailer, what we Baptists would call a parsonage. Getting closer, I could see a single-wide one scrunched up to the back of it.

  Pointing, I asked Bill, ‘What’s that?’

  He shrugged. ‘Dunno.’

  He walked up the aluminum steps of the double-wide and rapped sharply on the door. In less than a minute a woman opened it. Even from where I was standing at the bottom of the steps, I could tell she was short, maybe five feet even, with graying brown hair pulled back and clipped at the nape of her neck. She was wearing a long skirt that touched the tops of her sensible-looking shoes and a blouse that started at her throat with sleeves that went to her wrists. This whole ensemble was covered with a handmade apron displaying Noah and his animals.