The Widows of Eden (11 page)

He removed the bandana when he got to the doorway. “My name is Raymond,” he said. “I'm s'posed to greet the lady of the house for my boss, the Widow Marion Meanwell. Would one of you be Ms. Wilma Porter?”

With a tinge of anxiety, I said, “I would, and this is Mary Wade, the
county attorney
.” I admit it; I emphasized the “county attorney” part for my own safety. “Mr. Moore told us you were coming. Welcome to the Come Again. Would you care for a drink?”

“Thank you, but I'm not allowed. Maybe you'd like to meet Ms. Meanwell on board the coach. Most folks wanna see inside.”

Hail Mary, who was late for a meeting, replied instantly, “We'd love to.”

“Follow me, ladies.”

When we got to the bus, Raymond retrieved a little metal footstool and assisted us up the steps. It was air-conditioned inside and the dashboard looked like an airplane cockpit. You have never seen so many dials and gauges. Behind the driver's seat, there was a beautiful booth trimmed in blue leather with an expensive burled table. A stainless-steel refrigerator and range
were opposite the dining area, then the aisleway arced around a bathroom into what I can only describe as an expanse of deep-blue carpet, light-blue leather furniture of the sort you might see on an expensive yacht, and another half acre of burled maple polished to a high sheen.

“Have a seat,” Raymond suggested. “Ms. Meanwell will join you in a minute.”

While Mary walked around the room inspecting the decor, I plopped down in a captain's chair and prepared myself to greet anything from a biker's moll to a baroness. The Widow Meanwell came sweeping into the room moments later in a glossy green knee-length frock, heels, and a matching flat-topped hat with blue feathers and a fishnet veil that covered an inch or so of her forehead. The ensemble was styled after the fifties, but she looked fifty-odd herself, which struck me as a tad incongruous.

I felt compelled to stand. She came straight over, held out her hand, and gave me a smile that would melt an iceberg, assuming there are any left. “I'm Marion Meanwell,” she announced in a voice that sounded a smidge like Angela Lansbury in
Murder, She Wrote
. “You must be Wilma. Vernon has told us so much about you.”

I resisted an impulse to curtsy. “It's a pleasure. This is my good friend Mary Wade.”

You'd have thought she was meeting Perry Mason. “Hail Mary Wade? Why, I've heard about you, too. It's so nice to meet you. Can you stay?”

“I'd love to, but I have an appointment at the office. How long will you be in town?”

“Oh, I never know for sure. A few days, if it's okay with Wilma. Perhaps I can stop by later in the week.”

“That would be lovely, Ms. …”

“And please call me Marion; everyone does.”

Hail Mary made her apologies and Raymond led her out. In the meanwhile, the Widow Meanwell took a chair opposite mine. “This is unlike any bus I've ever seen,” I observed. “It must be a wonderful way to see the country.” In my mind, I was wondering where the heck it came from, how much it cost, and what kind of miles per gallon it got.

“It's a lovely coach, isn't it?” she replied. “Vernon had one built for each of us.”

“For each of you?”

“One for me and one each for Birdie and Eloise. It was the sweetest gift. I have no idea how much he spent, but they have one downside: the mileage isn't very good. Vernon says it's like pushing a giant brick into the wind. Next year, he's going to have them refitted with more efficient, low-sulfur diesel engines. Won't that be nice?”

I knew nothing about diesel engines except that they could run on biofuel, which would be good for the farming community. “Are Birdie and Eloise your widow friends?” I asked.

“Yes. They're arriving later in the day. By chance, is Vernon here?”

“He isn't. I believe he's at the River House seeing Clem Tucker.”

“Clement Tucker? Your fiancé? I'm so sorry to hear that he's ill, Wilma. How are you? Are you holding up?”

I was holding up fine, more or less, but I was getting a mite fidgety in my chair. “Clem is the one who's sick, not me, and half the state is in the grip of a dreadful drought. I have nothing to complain about.”

“It never seems to do any good anyway, does it? Do you have any idea when Vernon will return?”

“None whatsoever. I never do.”

Marion clapped her hands together. “Me either. Isn't he a scamp? Would it be an imposition if I asked for a tour of the Come Again? Vernon says it's such a lovely place. I understand that your fiancé's sister lives on the top floor. Does she receive guests?”

“Not since Bush senior was in the White House, but I can ask.”

“Would you, please? I'd love to meet her.”

The phrase “home invasion” flashed before my eyes. “Has Mr. Moore told you about Clara? She isn't much of a conversationalist.”

“Oh, don't worry about that, Wilma. She probably won't agree to see me anyway.”

For one split second, I felt like I was talking to Vernon Moore in drag. That was exactly what he would've said.

Just as we were about to exit the motor coach, Hail Mary came running up to the steps and said breathlessly, “Wilma, we have to talk. In private.”

“Right now?”

“This second. Alone.”

“But I was about to give Marion a tour of the Come Again.”

Hail Mary looked up at the Widow Meanwell. “I'm very sorry. We have an emergency and I need Wilma right away. Will you forgive us?”

“Of course, dear. I can tour your house at another time.”

“That's very gracious. Thank you.”

I stepped down and Mary practically dragged me past her Buick, which was still running under the porte-cochere with the driver's side door open. When we got into the parlor, I said, “Has the sky fallen? Has something happened to Mr. Moore?”

“The sky has fallen on us, Wilma. Your Fiancé in Perpetuity
just offered your famous lodger seventy-five million dollars to save his life!”

All of a sudden, I could see myself drowning in a teal and turquoise sea, and I wasn't even putting up a struggle. My eyes were wide open and tiny little bubbles of air trailed out of my nostrils as I sank listlessly into the murky depths. “How much?” I burbled when I hit bottom.

Hail Mary repeated the number slowly. “Seventy-five million dollars.”

“That much? It can't be!”

“Dottie just got the word from Louise Nelson. We're screwed to the friggin' wall, Wilma. Again, and by you-know-who.”

“Dear Lord! My dear, dear Lord. Are you calling an emergency session of the board?”

“One's already scheduled for tomorrow. We'll need confirmation between now and then. When can you get down to the River House?”

“I'll grab my pocketbook.” I started toward the den, then stopped. “We can't tell Clem what we just learned; Mr. Moore either. They'll clam up and that will be the end of it.”

“That's right, Wilma, but find out what you can, and make sure that everybody keeps this deal under wraps. If we thought we were going to have a revolt on our hands before …” Hail Mary gave me a hug. She had never given me a hug before. “Call me as soon as you hear something,” she added. “Please?”

“Please” wasn't in her normal lexicon either, but women tend to become more solicitous under stress. The same cannot be said for men!

Chapter 12

 

T
HE
W
IN
-W
IN
I
LLUSION

I
BOUGHT
MYSELF
a brand new Oldsmobile station wagon years ago, but the windshield wipers refused to budge the first time I tried to drive in the rain. Safety-conscious woman that I am, I took my brand-new car back to the dealership in Lincoln as soon as the rain stopped. But when the serviceman turned the little knob next to the steering wheel, the darned things worked just fine. After I received a mannish lecture on the care and operation of modern windshield wipers, I drove all the way home to Ebb, only to discover that the wipers didn't work the next time it rained. I went straight back to the dealership as soon as it stopped, but you know what happened: the little doodads swept across my windshield in perfect rhythm, like they were hooked up to a metronome. I explained to the serviceman that they worked fine in the dry but never in the wet, so he kindly suggested that I drive the sixty miles back to Lincoln the next time it rained, as if I could navigate my way there by radar.

That old Oldsmobile was on my mind when I drove down to see Clement that morning, and not because I was thinking about buying a new car. It was because I would have gladly taken it in trade for the very weather that had caused me so much grief.
Isn't it funny how a different perspective will change your way of thinking?

As usual, I checked in at the kitchen when I arrived. Marie, who eats under duress, was sitting at the big, butcher-block table, whipping up a two-gallon bowl of tuna salad. Louise was standing in the corner next to the freezer, doing knee bends and muttering to herself.

With as much cheer as I could muster I said, “Afternoon, y'all. How is my affianced today?”

Marie replied, “He's healthier but poorer. Didn't you get the news?”

“If you mean about the seventy-five million …”

When Nurse Nelson is upset, the monosyllables fly out of her mouth at machine-gun speed. She stopped moving and said to me, “You have to talk to Clem. You have to talk to Vernon. You have to stop the deal. We have to stop the deal. We have to stop it right now.”

“Settle down, Louise. First off, that information has to stay in this room until the Circle decides what to do. If it leaks, we'll have panic on our hands. Do you understand?”

She began to pull her knees up to her chest, one at a time, then let them down. “I understand,” she exhaled after a few reps. “I won't say a word.”

“Good. Before I see Clem, I need you to sit down in a chair and tell me every little detail of Clem's meeting with Mr. Moore. Don't leave a syllable out. If I know my fiancé, there's more to this arrangement than meets the eye.”

Louise sat at the butcher-block table and reported every word she heard, and then I had her repeat it all. Meanwhile, Marie ate tuna fish salad straight from the bowl. She makes a memorable tuna salad, but I turned down a heaping, wooden spoonful on two occasions.

After Louise was done, I said, “So Mr. Moore has to convince Clem that God is going to help him. That's a tall order. As far as I'm aware, Clem has been to church three times in the last twenty years — for funerals. What happens if Mr. Moore fails?”

“He has to reduce the price for his services.”

“By how much?”

“He didn't say, Wilma.”

“So that's the ace up Clement's sleeve. On Friday, he's going to say that he still doesn't believe, and that will force Mr. Moore to cut the price.”

“But if he tries to cut too much, Mr. Moore will just ask for rain.”

All I could do was shake my head. “So the deal is contingent both ways. Can you imagine? They'll be trying to outfox each other for the next three days. If I wasn't a civil woman, I'd snatch them both bald-headed.”

With a half-full mouth, Marie commented, “Clem's already bald, from the chemo. What's Plan B?”

“I was speaking metaphorically. How's Old Baldy feeling today? Better? Worse?”

“We'll get an indication in a bit,” Louise answered.

It had never occurred to me that cancer kept a timetable. “What the heck does that mean?” I asked.

“Vernon told your scurrilous but deathly ill fiancé that he would feel better this morning, and then he touched his arm. Clem said it was the laying on of hands; like a down payment. He had Marie fix him a plate of scrambled eggs on toast. If he holds it down, he'll be better.”

“What did you put in it, Marie?”

“Salt and pepper, plus a pinch of havarti to make it smooth and tasty.”

“No cyanide; no crushed glass?”

“Good heavens no!”

“Don't be so defensive. If he wasn't so sick … Oh, never mind! When did you take it in?”

“Half an hour ago,” Louise answered. “He should be getting pretty close if he's going to puke it up. Do you want me to check?”

Marie stopped chewing long enough to ask, “Is ‘puke' a medical term, Louise?”

I replied, “It's a lay term, like gizzard or pea-shooter. You all enjoy your lunch; I'll check in on the dark-hearted scourge myself. If I need assistance, I'll call.”

“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.