The Widows of Eden (9 page)

It couldn't have been an hour after sunup on day one hundred and nineteen, but Mr. Moore's car was already gone by the time I got downstairs. After I fixed myself a cup of coffee and read the same-old, same-old weather report in the newspaper, I moseyed into the den fearing the worst. For the second day in a row, I had
more e-mails than spam, which is a mite depressing when the spammers only want to steal you blind but the e-mailers want miracles. I found the official Buzzword from Hail Mary Wade about halfway down the screen. It read:

Dear Bees:

As you have no doubt heard, Mr. Vernon Moore is visiting us in Ebb this week. I want everyone to know that he is aware of the drought and working closely with your board of governors. You can help by routing any requests for a visit with Mr. Moore to Wilma Porter, but by e-mail
only
.

You can also show our support for Mr. Moore by stopping at Millet's after noon today to pick up a free umbrella, courtesy of the Quilting Circle. Please carry your official Quilting Circle umbrella everywhere you go. It could rain at any time.

Mary Wade, Queen Bee

I thought it was well written, all in all, and it gave me hope that I could turn on my telephone again some day. Just as I was beginning to feel better about our prospects, I noticed a second Buzzword at the bottom of the screen:

Dear Bees:

On a day when we have so many reasons to be hopeful, I'm sorry to report that Herb and Barb Knepper disappeared from their farm last night. They will be sorely missed. Let's keep them in our prayers.

Mary Wade, Queen Bee

The Kneppers owned a small bean and alfalfa spread that had been in the family for more than a century, and Barb had been a member of the Circle for fifteen years. She must have gotten
the word that Mr. Moore was in town, but they didn't try to stick it out.

Maybe they were worn out; maybe the Bowes were, too. A lot of farmers in this neck of the woods were on the brink long before the drought — from year after year of being battered by dry weather, deaf banks, dumb government, greedy commodities traders, and bottom-dollar foreign competition, all at once. Even when they succeeded in getting a crop to market, only a few made more than a living wage. That's not much upside for backbreaking, fifteen-hour days, especially when the downside is next door to poor.

I'm all for capitalism, I really am, but I will never understand why we pay the people who feed us so little and the people who entertain us so much. That can't be smart in the long run.

Chapter 10

 

T
HE
S
COREKEEPER
'
S
L
OT

L
OUISE
N
ELSON
,
THE
TOWN
NURSE
, met Mr. Moore at the door of the River House that morning. She's a perky gal who hails from a small town in Tennessee. “Welcome back,” she announced with a big smile. “Pearline's off today, so it's my shift, and I am so glad to see you! Now everything's going to be okay.”

“The pleasure is mine, Louise, and congratulations on your marriage to Deputy Samoa. I'm sorry I couldn't be there.” Luther Salevasaosamoa, who is Louise's husband and Dot's chief of county corrections, is normally referred to as Deputy Samoa when he's in earshot and Deputy Giant when he's not. He is six foot seven and used to play football for the Cornhuskers, but Louise has since slimmed him down to a reedy three hundred pounds, plus or minus.

“I guess you didn't get the memo, Mr. Moore. We eloped to Samoa and got married on a beach in front of four hundred of Luther's looniest relatives. His father roasted a pig in a sandpit and we danced until dawn. It was so pretty and everyone was so sweet, and so large. My Lord, they were large. I didn't want to come back, but Luther said we had a duty to the county.

“How are you?” she continued, barely taking a breath. “Are
you well? You look like you haven't aged a day. Have you been watching your diet and getting plenty of exercise?”

“I'm fine, Louise, thank you.”

“Well, you certainly look fine, and I have to thank you. Luther is terrible at cards but he just loves to play. I've never been tempted to use those special skills you taught me. Speaking of skills, I got an e-mail from Hail Mary Wade last night. It says I'm not supposed to talk to you about the weather, so I won't. If you need my help, though, all you have to do is give a holler. Would you like to see Clem now?”

“How's the old man feeling?”

“Not well, I'm sorry to say. He's been vomiting off and on since daybreak and he got bad news to boot.”

“Bad news?”

“He should tell you himself.”

Clem was asleep when they entered his room. Louise turned on the bedside light and touched his shoulder. “Mr. Tucker. You have a visitor.”

Mr. Moore took a seat on the chair near the head of the bed.

Clem was still groggy when he rolled over. “What? Who is it?”

“It's Vernon Moore. He's come to see you.” Louise wiped a drop of spittle off Clem's chin with a hanky and helped him sit up. “Is there anything I can bring you, Mr. Tucker?”

“Yeah. You can fetch the Japanese sword set from my office. Give Vernon the long sword; I'll take the short one. If I throw up one more time, I'm cutting my goddamned guts out. Vernon will behead me once the deed is done.”

Mr. Moore put his hand on Clem's forearm. “Give yourself a little time. You should feel better later today.”

Clem jerked his arm away. “What was that, the laying on of hands? Did I just get an early dose?”

“No, but your color is better and you look rested. It could be a better day.”

“Bullshit! The day has already been crap. Would you excuse us please, Louise? Vernon and I have business to discuss.”

She nodded and took up the nurse's station just outside the door. Meanwhile, Clem continued, “I guess you haven't heard the news. John Smith walked into my bedroom this morning and resigned, just like that.”

“I'm sorry to hear it. Why?”

“Because I asked him to help Buford Pickett look into your background again, that's why. I told him you wouldn't mind but he quit anyway. He thinks you're a goddamned saint.”

Louise couldn't see what was going on, but she could hear every word. She said Mr. Moore sounded almost sarcastic when he replied, “How unfortunate.”

“I can't afford to lose a man of that caliber, Vernon; not now. I don't suppose you could get him to reconsider. Tell him it could be an extremely short mission. Maybe that'll help.”

“No problem. I'll drop by and have a word.”

“You're a gentleman and a scholar. I suppose that brings us to the business of the day. Would you like some iced tea or lemonade? Louise would be happy to get it.”

“I'm okay, Clem. How about you? I know you're hurting, but how are your spirits?”

“My spirits? Screw my goddamned spirits! Did you ever meet Buzz Busby, my golfing buddy? He fell off a ladder back in the nineties and had to have back surgery. Do you know what he said when I visited him a few days later?”

“No.”

“He said he felt better than two dead men. I thought it was funny at the time, but I sure as hell don't now. I feel better than
two dead men myself, and barely at that. When I can muster up the energy, I get mad. When I can't, I'm just scared shitless.”

“Everyone who faces death is scared, Clem. Everyone.”

“Maybe, but I have a helluva lot more to lose than everybody else.”

“You do? That's quite a statement, even from you. Why?”

“Was I the only person in the room yesterday? I had the perfect life until I took over that goddamned bank up in Omaha. Now I want it back. It's that simple.”

“Then let's discuss it. How much does a perfect life cost these days?”

“What? Why do you give a rat's ass what my life costs?”

“You've offered me an unspecified sum to extend your life. In order to price myself fairly, I need to get an idea of how much your perfect life costs. I can make an educated guess, but I'd be surprised if you didn't have it down to the decimal point.”

“Confidentially?”

“Not a word will pass my lips.”

Louise could hear Clem squirming around in his bed, like he was trying to get comfortable. “I won't bother you with all the grimy details. You've seen the staff, the plant, et cetera. It costs me upwards of a million per year, after taxes.”

“You pay taxes?”

“Move on, Vernon.”

“Fair enough. If you retired tomorrow on a million per year, you'd need what — twenty million dollars in the bank? Twenty-five million at the most?”

“I suppose I could scrape by.”

“Good. We've established a baseline. Now, how much are you worth?”

“What did you say?”

“It's a simple question, Clem. How much money are you worth? I don't need a precise number; round figures will do.”

“Jesus! I'm not telling you that. It's highly confidential.”

“Okay. Let's try a different approach. My guess is that you're worth between three hundred and four hundred million dollars.”

“That's ridiculous!”

“Save your strength for an argument you can win. I did my homework. I know how much stock you own in the National Bank of the Plains, how much you've divested since the takeover, and at what price. Thanks to the SEC, it's public information.”

“Your calculations aren't worth a tinker's damn, Vernon. That isn't my stock and it's not my money. They belong to the Tucker Trust.”

“Your sister reviewed my figures.”

“What? You saw Clara? When?”

“Last night. She couldn't tell me how much of the trust you own, but she confirmed that you hold a bit more than she does, and her share is thirty-one percent.”

“How could you talk to Clara? She only says yes and no, and that's on a windy day.”

“It's amazing how much you can learn from a friend if you ask the right questions, regardless of the limits of their vocabulary. Now, if I peg your trust ownership at thirty-three percent and value your holding in the National Bank of the Plains, inclusive of disposals over the last two years, I get a net worth in excess of two hundred and sixty million dollars, before accounting for any personal holdings outside the trust. How am I doing so far?”

“If you're headed down the path I think you are, you can forget it.”

“I can? Great! I'm perfectly happy to forget the whole deal. In fact, I'm relieved. Everyone else in the county is desperate for rain.”

“So I heard. How much are you going to charge them?”

“How witty, Clem! As you know, the majority of farmers in this county are already deeply in debt. How much do you think they can come up with? By the way, I noticed that NBP's stock price is down a third in the last sixty days. Is the drop attributable to the drought?”

“We're still profitable as hell. What do you think?”

“So, how much has the drought cost the Tucker Trust so far? Oops! I happen to have that number on hand. Your end of the loss is around sixty million dollars, isn't it? That's a million per day and counting. From where I sit, you should be paying me to make it rain — but you aren't. Why not?”

When my Fiancé in Perpetuity didn't reply, Mr. Moore said, “It's because you're dying, isn't it? Therefore, we can conclude that you value your life more than your portion of the Tucker Trust's sixty million dollars in losses. So, what's the present value of thirty million dollars per month?”

“I never put any stock in that present value bullshit, Vernon. It's all funny money, and the goddamned drought isn't going to last forever.”

“Probably not. What's your theory about death? How long does it last?”

After another pause, Clem said, “How much do you want?”

Mr. Moore answered instantly, “One hundred million dollars.” For the second day in a row, a Circle girl nearly peed in her pants in Clem Tucker's hallway.

“A hundred million? You call that a fair price? You're a thief and a goddamned charlatan. I'll dial 1-800-Kevorkian before I'll pay you a tenth of that!”

“Make the call. After you're done, tell me what you're going to do with all the money you saved. You won't need it to support your rustic, million-dollar-per-year lifestyle. You've got that covered by a factor of ten — assuming you beat the odds and survive. If you die, the money will go where, to the heir of the Tucker Throne? How is your daughter, by the way?”

“I have no idea. I haven't seen her in years.”

“I'm so sorry, Clem. I had hoped …”

“Save it. She ran out on me just like her mother did. End of story.”

“Then who will inherit your fortune?”

“That's none of your goddamned business, and I'm not writing you a check for a hundred million bucks. You can forget it.”

“I won't need a check. A promissory note will do, but I'll have to have it by the end of the week.”

“You expect me to sign a hundred million over to you
before
I go under the knife?”

“I leave Friday noon, and you still haven't answered my question. What are you going to do with all that money if you don't give it to me?”

No response was forthcoming, so Mr. Moore said, “It's hubris, isn't it? It's pride.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“How many animal heads are mounted on the wall in the dining room?”

“Twenty. Why?”

“How many did you put there?”

“Eight. It would've been more, but I've been under the weather lately.”

“Is that more or less than your father?”

“My father preferred waitresses to big game, but my granddaddy put six heads on that wall. I put him in second place.”