The Widows of Eden (22 page)

By the time Jenny McCallum played “Rock of Ages,” the pews were packed cheek-to-jowl, little children were sitting on their mothers' laps, and young men were slouching against the wall the way they always do. As the last bar echoed across the multitude, Pastor Hooper appeared before the altar in his finest purple raiment. He held his arms up to the sky and said, “Ho, everyone that thirsteth, come ye to the waters. Let us sing to the Lord.”

The first hymn was “A Brighter Dawn Is Breaking,” which gave me the impression that Pastor Hooper was aware of the time of day. After we had finished singing, he walked up and down the aisle welcoming parishioners by name, including Clara, which gave me the impression that he was up to date on the Tucker situation, too. Then he returned to the pulpit and addressed the congregation.

“This is day one hundred and twenty-one of the worst drought in three generations,” he declared as he opened his Bible. “We will not keep our light under a bushel; we have gathered together to pray for rain. Let's begin with a scripture from the Epistle of James, chapter five, verse seven: ‘Be patient therefore, brethren, unto the coming of the Lord. Behold, the husbandmen waiteth for the fruit of the earth, and hath long patience for it, until he receive early and latter rain.'”

As the pastor closed his Bible, the strangest thing happened: Pearline O'Connor stood up, all by herself, with no warning whatsoever. Like a child in fifth grade, she raised her hand timidly and said, “Can I testify, father?”

“You'd like to testify?” the pastor asked from the pulpit. “It's been years since anyone testified in my church. Of course you may.”

“The Scripture says we should be patient for the coming of the Lord. Isn't that what you just said?”

“Yes, child, I did.”

“But what if a man says we don't have to wait? What if a man says he can make it rain? Isn't that a blasphemy?”

Everyone in the congregation leaned forward at once, as if the floor had been titled toward the altar, except for Mr. Moore. He sat back with a finger to his lips, as if he was contemplating the question himself.

“Do you believe that only God can make it rain, child?” the pastor asked.

“Yes, I do.”

“Have you read your Numbers? Do you recall it?”

“Uh, not all of it.”

He paged to the front of his Bible. “I'm speaking of chapter twenty, when the children of Israel were lost in the desert. A few of them went to Moses on a particularly bad day and said, ‘Why have ye brought the congregation of the Lord into this wilderness, that we and our cattle should die?' Does that sound familiar?”

Somewhere in the pews, a man remarked, “It sounds real familiar, Reverend.”

“It does, doesn't it? But Moses was a conscientious leader, so he called up God. Allow me to read from verses seven and eight: ‘And the Lord spake unto Moses, saying, Take the rod, and gather thou the assembly together, thou, and Aaron thy brother, and speak ye unto the rock, before their eyes; and it shall give forth his water, and thou shalt bring forth to them water out of the rock; so thou shalt give the congregation and their beasts drink.'”

Pastor Hooper looked up and winked at Pearline. “Here's the clincher: ‘And Moses lifted up his hand, and with his rod he smote the rock twice; and the water came out abundantly. And the congregation drank, and their beasts also.'

“So, who made the water pour from rock, child? Was it God, or was it Moses acting on His behalf?” When Pearl didn't reply, he continued, “The Almighty says to judge not. But, if you absolutely must, then at least give the man a fair chance to smite the rock, with God's blessing, of course. Shall we all pray for rain?”

Before the pastor could put in a word to the Lord on our behalf, Dinky Cater jumped up from his pew, holding a beet-red BlackBerry high in his left hand. “Praise God,” he shouted. “It's raining in Minot! The weather service has raised the odds of rain to fifty percent for southeast Nebraska, come Saturday!”

For the second time that morning, the congregation stood and applauded. Mothers cried, men shook hands, little children jumped up and down, and everybody within arm's reach touched Mr. Moore on his sleeve or his back. That was the happiest, most grateful bunch of people I have ever seen in the House of the Lord.

The rest of the service was upbeat but otherwise uneventful, which was a blessing in itself. After the benediction, Mr. Moore hustled Clara and me out a side door, probably to avoid any more spontaneous touching. As we pulled out of the parking lot, I could see the farmers beginning to mill around by the front entrance, backslapping, high-fiving, and congratulating each other all over again because of the imminent arrival of rain.

My sweet, compassionate side couldn't have been happier for them and their families, but my dour, cynical side was reminded of the high school football games I attended as a Pep Squad parent. After each game was over, a bunch of shirtless males from
the winning school would inevitably jump out of the stands and run around the field yelling, “We won! We won!” — while generally behaving as if they had just stopped the Huns at the city gate with their personal derring-do. Myself, I never understood a whit of it, especially the “we” part. It was not like they were on the field when the game was being played, and it was not like we, the humble citizens of Hayes County, were calling in the rain.

That was up to God, or Mr. Moore acting on His behalf, and the game wasn't even over yet. The odds of winning were still only fifty-fifty.

Chapter 25

 

I
T
'
S
THE
T
HOUGHT
T
HAT
C
OUNTS

L
ATER
THAT
MORNING
, Hail Mary Wade and Dot Hrnicek welcomed Mr. Moore into the county attorney's office at the courthouse. Once he and Dot had taken hard-backed chairs and Mary had made herself comfortable, she puckered up and said, “It's a pleasure to see you again, Vernon. I was afraid that you were avoiding me, and after all we've been through together.”

“Forgive me. I would have been by sooner, but it's been an extraordinarily busy week.”

“So I've heard. We saw you at church this morning with Clara Tucker, but you spirited her away before we could catch up and say hello.”

“It was her first contact with the public in years. I didn't want to risk overexposure.”

“Just her, or maybe yourself, too.”

Mr. Moore smiled. “A little of both, perhaps.”

“Well, that was probably wise on both counts. Clara didn't seem upset by the attention, though. Did she say anything about the service afterwards?”

“No.”

Dot remarked, “So her vocabulary is still limited to ‘yes' and ‘no.'”

“Yes.”

“That's a pity. We're all hoping that poor woman will release herself from solitary confinement some day.”

“I hope so, too, Sheriff, but she's kept to herself for a very long time. We should expect that her return to public life will be gradual at best.”

“You're right, of course,” Hail Mary added. “She's a county treasure; we all need to be patient with her. Have you had the occasion this week to meet Pearline O'Connor, Clem's practical nurse?”

“Several times, at the River House.”

“What did you think of her little stunt at church this morning? Did it make you uncomfortable in any way?”

“Not a bit. Why?”

“Because everyone in the congregation knew precisely who she was talking about.”

“Perhaps, but I thought the reverend handled it remarkably well. Didn't you?”

Mary half-smiled. “If I was a suspicious person, I might suspect that he had been prepared for the eventuality. Am I mistaken, or wasn't one of your widow friends sitting next to Pearline?”

“Eloise Richardson. She's also been to the River House.”

“I thought so. It seems to me that you and your associates have been wearing a path to Lord Clem's door. I suppose you've heard the rumor.”

“The rumor?”

“That Clem has offered you a king's ransom for his life.”

Mr. Moore sighed. “Ah,
that
rumor. Why do you ask?”

“Because we, meaning Dottie and I, don't want you to tarnish your legendary reputation by running afoul of the law. In
this state, a single count of fraud, extortion, or deceptive trade practices can be punishable by up to twenty years in jail, plus fines.”

“Deceptive trade practices? That's a new one. What's a deceptive trade practice?”

“A false representation. For instance, extorting seventy-five million dollars from a terminally ill man in return for an empty promise to save his life.”

“Wow! That's a serious charge. Do either of you honestly believe that I could do such a thing?”

“No,” Dottie replied. “For a fact, we don't, but we've been wrong before. Be advised, Vernon: we will have to put you in jail if you deceive Clem Tucker into paying you that kind of money. The law doesn't give us a choice.”

Mr. Moore thought her words over for a minute, then he said, “I appreciate the advice, Sheriff. Whatever I do or don't do while I'm in Ebb, I promise that I won't extort seventy-five million dollars from Clem Tucker.”

“So the rumor is wrong. You deny everything.”

“I'm unaware of the full extent of the rumor, Mary. How can I know whether I denied ‘everything'?”

“Okay. The same rumor says you're going to ask for Clem's life instead of rain, not both. Do you deny that, too?”

“Forgive me, but didn't you discuss the same issue with Marion yesterday?”

“Yes.”

“And what did she say?”

“She evaded the question, just like you are. She said we all should have faith — in you.”

“I take it that was the wrong answer.”

“I'm the county attorney, Vernon, and the Queen Bee of the
Quilting Circle. I can't just sit on my hands if there's a chance, any chance at all, that you're about to sell us down the river for Clem Tucker's money.”

“You can't? Why not? What's your alternative?”

Hail Mary was never at her best when the tables were turned against her. She replied, “Excuse me?”

“I repeat: what else can you do? Should you warn Clem of my intentions? If you do, I believe you'll find that he's already very well informed, but he may not be enthused to learn that rumors of his private business dealings have reached your office.”

“So the rumors are true. You and Clem do have a deal.”

“We have a contingent business agreement. Like all such agreements, the terms and conditions are confidential.”

“Privacy won't get you a pass, Vernon. I don't need a complaint to get a conviction. If you extort money from Clem Tucker for a prayer, I will throw you in jail.”

Mr. Moore smiled calmly and replied, “The last time I checked, Counselor, the rain was on its way. Are we done?”

Hail Mary cleared her throat. “I have one other item on my agenda, if you don't mind. What can you tell us about Lohengrin's Children, or is that confidential, too?”

“It's a travel club, as you know. I'm a member in good standing.”

“I gather it's not-for-profit.”

“It's a club, Mary.”

“So I understand, but we were unable to find any incorporation or tax records for this ‘club' as you call it, either in this state or any other.”

“You investigated the tax status of a travel club? How thorough! Do you check up on reading groups and bridge clubs, too? Is it a matter of routine?”

“You're dodging the question, Vernon. We were unable to
locate any sort of filing for Lohengrin's Children anywhere, not even a mailing address. Why is that?”

“It's conjecture, but my suspicion is that you forgot to check England.”

“England?”

“Our headquarters are in Winchester, southwest of London. I believe you'll find whatever you need over there.”

“I'll be damned!” Dottie remarked. “Thanks for the tip. We'll get on it.”

Mr. Moore gathered himself and stood up. “I'd love to stay and chat but extortion has a schedule, or is it deceptive trade practice? I'm due at the River House shortly.”

My friend the county attorney looked up from her big mahogany desk and said, “Why do I get the impression that you're not taking this predicament seriously, Vernon?”

“I have no idea, Counselor. Like you, I take all of my predicaments very seriously. Have a lovely day. You too, Sheriff.”

After he had gone, Hail Mary asked, “Do you think he got the message, Dot?”

“Oh, there's no doubt about that. Did you get his message?”

“What do you mean?”

“Were you reading his body language when you threatened him with jail? He didn't flinch; he didn't look away; he didn't twitch or tap his foot or start to perspire. A normal man gets more panicky than that when he is asked to dance.”

“A normal man can't ask for directions, Dottie.”

“That's what I mean, Mary. Vernon Moore is not your normal man. Hell, he may not even be a man, and he is not the least bit worried about being thrown in my jail.”

“Then he underestimates me …”

“Or you underestimate him.” Dottie looked up at the ceiling and asked, “I wonder: which is more likely?”

P
EARLINE
MET
M
R
. M
OORE
at the door that morning, then the two of them disappeared into the bowels of the household. She reappeared in the kitchen by herself afterwards, crying a torrent of tears.

Marie grabbed a paper towel off the rack and handed it to her. “Are you okay, Pearl? Is there something I can do?”

Clem's practical nurse sat down at the table and wiped her eyes. “I'm perfectly fine. I had a talk with Mr. Moore, that's all.”