The Widows of Eden

by George Shaffner

  On the edge of the kitchen, right next to the gym, there is an everyday, garden-variety wood picnic table where Clara likes to take her meals. Don’t ask me why; every other piece of furniture she owns is top of the line. Did I mention the flat-screened televisions? Clara has no less than six of them sprinkled here and there, which gives the place the ambience of a sports bar or an airport waiting area.

  A Fred Astaire movie was playing on every TV screen in sight when Hail Mary Wade and yours truly arrived for our afternoon appointment. Clara was watching from the picnic table, sipping a smoothie of one variety or another, and dressed in her usual uniform: a red tee shirt under a black leotard, white kneepads over shiny hose, plus running shoes. Her gray hair was in a ponytail, and she was sporting a red sweatband that was a mite pinkish and sweaty.

  Any woman who was not raised in a barn would have offered us something to drink, but Clara’s hospitality was hindered by her vocabulary. Instead, she muted the TVs with a clicker — all at once, I might add — and motioned us to join her at the picnic table.

  Did I ever tell you that Hail Mary Wade can get a little gushy? Well, she can, especially around folks with money. I’m not familiar with the circumstances of her upbringing, but a lot of people who were born poor seem to have the same affliction. She began by saying, “Thanks so much for agreeing to visit with us this afternoon, Clara.” Then she waited, as if she expected a two paragraph response.

  Clara smiled. It was a tolerant smile in my opinion; the kind a wife gives a retired husband after he has passed gas at the kitchen table.

  Mary figured out that a smile was all she was going to get, so she moved on. “I was so glad to see you at church this morning. Did you enjoy it?”

  That was the sort of yes-no question that could have put Clara into the conversation, but she chose to nod, just a smidgeon. In my experience, that meant that she found the service tolerable, which Hail Mary seemed to divine.

  “You have a lovely home,” Mary said. “It’s so athletic, so leading edge. Wilma tells me that you decorated it yourself. Is that so?”

  Clara loosened up. “Yes.”

  “You must exercise a lot. You’re in excellent shape.”

  Instead of answering, Clara smiled and took a sip of her drink.

  “Did Wilma mention why I asked to see you today?”

  “No.”

  “I just requested a meeting, Mary,” I interjected.

  “Do you hear that Mr. Moore is in town?”

  Clara nodded. I guess she needed to give her voice a rest.

  “He’s been up to see her several times,” I said on her behalf. “Isn’t that so?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you aware that he’s been visiting your brother every morning?” Mary asked.

  Clara nodded again.

  “Did Mr. Moore tell you what he and Clem are talking about?”

  “Yes.”

  By then, Mary’s eyes were the size of boiled eggs. I had no idea that such a small person could have such large eyeballs. “He did? You’re completely up-to-date?”

  “Yes.”

  My lawyer friend was unable to keep a lid on her emotions. “Really? Did you know that your brother has offered to pay Vernon the sum of seventy-five million dollars — for a prayer! Are you aware of that little detail, too?”

  “Yes.” It was a flat, emotionless answer. There was no stress or excitement in it whatsoever.

  “So you’re not worried about Clem.”

  “No.”

  “What about the drought? How worried are you about that?”

  I couldn’t tell whether Mary had forgotten my lodger’s two-word limit or whether she was trying to trap her into a sentence-long response. For her part, Clara just looked at me again, like it was my job to get it all sorted out. I said, “We were hoping you could help us persuade Mr. Moore to ask for rain and Clem’s life. Are we on a fool’s errand?”

  “Yes,” she replied instantly.

  Hail Mary put her hands on top of her head, like she was a prisoner of war. “We can’t take ‘yes’ for an answer, Wilma. Clara has to help us. We have to find a way.”

  “It sounds to me like we’re tardy to the party, Mary. I think her dance card is already full. Is that so, Clara?”

  She said “yes,” and then she picked up the clicker and turned up the volume on the TVs. Fred and Ginger were twirling across a stage to a brassy, big band number, but I don’t believe that Hail Mary was captured by the moment like I was.

  “What can we do?” she pleaded. “What can we do?”

  “We can say thank you and leave.”

  “But we can’t …”

  “Yes we can, Mary. We’ve done our song and dance; now we’re done. I have no intention of wearing out my welcome here.” I said to Clara, “Thank you so much for allowing us to intrude on your busy day. We both appreciate it, very much.”

  She nodded, and then she walked over to a step machine and mounted up. I stood, too, leaving Mary by herself at the picnic table. After a second, she looked up at me and asked, “What’s going on, Wilma?”

  I had a little giggle to myself. “Are you kidding? Vernon Moore is what’s going on. I was a fool to think for a minute that we could get in his way. So were you.”

  “Then I am not done being a fool. When you hear what Pokie has to say, you won’t be done either.”

  Chapter 29

  S-E-X

  A GUARDIAN PASTRY ANGEL must have been perched on my shoulder that afternoon. I had forgotten my blueberry pies, but they were baked to a golden brown when I got back to my kitchen. I received a call on my police phone from Loretta while I was putting them on the rack to cool.

  Have you ever tried to answer a cell phone with oven mittens on? Here’s a piece of advice: don’t.

  “It’s official,” Lo moaned after I got the gloves off. “Lovey’s gifted. Vern said so.”

  “I thought it was official yesterday,” I replied. “Or were you hoping that the widows were blowing smoke up your nether reaches?”

  “I don’t know what I was hoping, Wilma. All I know is that I have an abnormal child.”

  “Welcome to parenthood, Lo. There’s no such thing as a normal child. They all have their abnormalities; every one of them. It’s what makes the little sweeties so lovable.”

  “But Lovey can read minds!”

  “Okay, so that’s an abnormal abnormality, but we both saw it coming. Besides, I thought you were worried that she would have to spend the rest of her life in a bus.”

  “I was, but Vern says there’s no chance. He might lie to me about something else, but he would never lie about his daughter.”

  “Well, that’s a relief. Now we can quit worrying about Laverne and get back to worrying about the drought. And Clem. And Buford and Beryl and Hail Mary. Did I leave anyone out?”

  “Don’t you change the subject on me, Wilma Porter. I’m still concerned about Lovey. She can read minds. What am I going to do?”

  “Here’s a strategy: when you’re around Laverne, think nice thoughts.”

  “That’s what the widows said, but what about s-e-x? How can I think about that if my daughter is listening in?”

  “You’ll probably have to give it up,” I advised dolefully. “Come to think of it, she can probably read her father’s mind, too. I’d say you’re both done.”

  “I’m serious, Wilma! What am I supposed to do?”

  “If you want, you and Calvin can come over here every once in a while to do the dirty deed.”

  “It’ll be too late. We’ll have already thought about it.”

  “Then you ought to talk to Marion tonight. Maybe she has some good advice.”

  “No way. I don’t trust her; I don’t care what Vern says.”

  “That’s not you speaking, Lo; that’s a mother’s concern for her child. It’s healthy, like broccoli. But don’t overcook it; then it’s not. Who else are you going to pester? Mr. Moore?”

  “Vern, about s-e-x? How awkward
would that be?”

  “In that case, it seems to me that you have three choices: you can pervert the mind of my innocent little goddaughter, which isn’t my first choice; or you can give up having sex with your husband, which likely isn’t his first choice; or you can talk to a widow tonight and see if there’s a way out of this mess.”

  “Okay. Fine! I’ll talk to Marion.”

  “That’s a good idea. Hail Mary and I just went upstairs to see Clara.”

  “Oh crap! I’d forgotten. How did that go? Was she talkative?”

  “No more than usual, but Mr. Moore must’ve found some way to get through. He’s bringing her to the River House tonight.”

  “Are you serious? That’s two road trips in one day — for a recluse! Come to think of it, I guess I’m not all that surprised. That man is way, way ahead of us, Wilma.”

  It’s not like I didn’t agree, but the way Lo said it sparked my curiosity. “What do you mean?” I asked.

  “You can’t tell anybody. Not Clem, not Hail Mary; not anybody.”

  “I understand the rules, Lo; I invented the darned things. Now cough it up! Spill the beans. What did he do that’s so darned earth shattering?”

  “It’s not what he did; it’s what he said. He’s going to give the money to the farmers.”

  “He is? Lordy, lordy! Of course, he is. I should have thought of it myself. It makes perfect sense, knowing Mr. Moore anyway. But Clem is Clem, whether he’s on Death’s Doorstep or not. What if he won’t pay the money in the first place?”

  “Then Vern will make it rain, or maybe he’ll turn Clem into a pillar of salt. There’s no telling what he’ll do.”

  “Not so, Lo. We know two things for sure: come Friday night, Mr. Moore will be off to the hither and yon, and we’ll still be here, holding the bag.”

  Now, why in heaven did I have to say that? The first image that crept into my mind wasn’t a handbag, or a trash bag, or even a grocery bag, it was a body bag.

  Chapter 30

  THE IRISH CONNECTION

  IT WAS CLOSE to five o’clock when I left home for the Abattoir. My dead old oak had begun to cast the nub of a shadow across the parking lot, but the tarmac was still soft like cookie dough and the breeze reminded me of my ex: slight, shifty, and never there when I needed it most. In case you haven’t guessed, my ex-husband was a devotee of the notion that “it’s the thought that counts” — possibly because he rarely had one.

  I was running a few minutes late, so I was the last girl to arrive at the meeting. Hail Mary checked her watch and said, “Thanks for coming, Wilma. Let the minutes show that the full board is present and accounted for, finally. Pokie Melhuse is also in attendance as my guest. She has some important information to impart to us all.”

  Pokie’s head was resting on her forearms on the table, like she was catching a nap, but she looked up and nodded when Hail Mary mentioned her name. The poor girl’s eyes were bloodshot, her lipstick was smudged, and her hair was in a state. If I hadn’t known better, I would have thought that she had been in a bar fight. As it was, she had only been up all night.

  “I’d like to dispense with the small talk …”

  Loretta interrupted, “You always dispense with the small talk, Mary. Why can’t we have a little small talk for a change?”

  “Did you have something small to bring before the board, Loretta? I’d be happy to put it on the agenda.”

  “That’s very sweet of you, Mary. My TV’s been off all day. Has the forecast changed?”

  Dot answered, “I checked with the National Weather Service just before we drove over. A high pressure area is building up west of the Rockies. There’s a possibility that it’ll push the rainstorm off to the east before it gets to us, so the odds of rain are still at fifty-fifty.”

  I remarked, “Well, being stuck on fifty percent is a lot better than being stuck on zero, which was where we were for months. I haven’t seen a Buzzword for two days running. Does that mean that our members have stopped disappearing in the middle of the night?”

  “My deputies are on the lookout. We’d know if they had.”

  “Well, then; that’s good news, too. Maybe we should quit while we’re ahead.”

  “I don’t think we should adjourn just yet,” Dottie suggested. “Don’t you want to hear what Pokie has to say? It’ll curdle your cottage cheese; I can promise you that.”

  I admit it; I have a weakness for cottage cheese. I like the medium curd with cling peaches straight from the can, but that’s another item I can never serve my guests. Canned fruit doesn’t cut it in the hospitality business nowadays. It has to be fresh, even in the wintertime.

  Loretta responded, “By all means, Dot. Let’s not quit while we’re ahead. What has Pokie found out?”

  “Are you ready?” Mary asked.

  “Yes, ma’am.” Pokie stifled a yawn and opened up a small notepad that had been hidden under her forearms. “As you all know, Mr. Moore and the widows belong to a travel club called Lohengrin’s Children, so Sheriff Hrnicek asked me to look into it. I didn’t have any luck with the law-enforcement data bases we’re allowed to access at the office, so I went over to the library to see if Tulip Orbison could help. We were hard at it till five a.m. this morning.”

  “I take it you found something,” Loretta observed.

  “It wasn’t easy; that’s for sure. We found thousands of Internet entries for some opera, but we couldn’t find a single reference to any kind of group or club called Lohengrin’s Children. But Dottie said the club is headquartered in Winchester, England, so Tulip called Edith Pickerel, a librarian at Oxford College that she met at a conference one time. Edith gave us the URLs for some private catalogs they have and we both started poking around. We were getting nowhere at all until we started diggin’ into the letters of an English baron named William Cecil, who lived from 1521 to 1598.”

  “Who lived when?” Loretta asked.

  “In the sixteenth century,” Mary answered. “You might want to hold your disbelief until the end. There’s more to come, isn’t there, Pokie?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Mr. Cecil was secretary of state during the reign of Queen Elizabeth the First, and later the lord high treasurer. He also wrote a lot of letters, which makes him an important historical source.”

  “You’re going to tell us that this Cecil character knew Vern, aren’t you?”

  “It wouldn’t have surprised me, Lo, but no. The baron had a close advisor named John Warren. He was a favorite in the court of Henry the Eighth, but he got thrown in jail in 1542 for opposing the Witchcraft Act. That same year, Henry razed a chantry at Winchester Cathedral called the Chapel of Lohengrin’s Children.”

  “In the same Winchester?” Lily asked. “What’s a chantry?”

  “Edith said it’s a place where people go to chant.”

  “Okay,” Loretta commented. “Chanting, chantry; I can see how that works. But how is the razing of a chantry connected to John Warren?”

  Pokie referred to her notes again. “For one reason or another, Mr. Warren was eventually released from jail. Edith figures the queen gave him a pardon after Henry passed. Anyway, Mr. Warren became a confidante to the baron, who later referred him to an Irish judge named Nicholas White. Apparently, Mr. Warren was good with numbers …”

  “He was good with numbers?”

  “Uh huh, but he got into some kind of trouble with Queen Elizabeth, so the baron wanted to ship him over to Ireland until things cooled off.”

  “When was that?”

  “In 1568 or 1569. Mr. Cecil didn’t say why.”

  “Okay, but I still don’t see the connection.”

  “In two of his letters to the judge, the baron described Mr. Warren as a disciple of ‘Lohengrin’s Children.’”

  I was starting to get the heebie-jeebies, but Loretta kept her cool. “Really? What else did the letters say?”

  “The baron described Mr. Warren as a smart man and a loyal adviser, but a bit contrary in his thinking.”
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  “Contrary?”

  “Those were his words, Lo, and it struck me as a coincidence, too.”

  “Did any of the judge’s letters survive?”

  “Not a one, but we do know that he fell out of favor with the queen a few years later. Edith figured it was Mr. Warren’s fault. Anyway, Judge White was arrested and eventually died in the Tower of London.”

  “So that was the end of John Warren.”

  “Not quite,” Hail Mary countered.

  Pokie continued, “Edith and I started rooting around in Irish history after that, and we found one last connection to Lohengrin’s Children. A man named ‘John Warren, Lohengrin’s Childe’ — which was spelled with an ‘e’ on the end — was listed among the battlefield casualties at a place called Drogheda Castle.”

  “It appears that Mr. Warren made a habit of being on the wrong side,” Loretta observed.

  “No kidding. When did Drogheda Castle fall?”

  “In 1649, Mary.”

  “Would you repeat that for everyone?”

  “In 1649. Even if John Warren was a child in the court of Henry the Eighth, he would’ve been one hundred and twenty years old when he died, on the field of battle.”

  “No shit!” Lily remarked. “That makes perfect sense! Wait till I tell you what Buford found out about the widows.”

  That piqued my curiosity, but the ever-officious Mary beat me to the punch. “You’re next on the docket, Lily, but let’s close this item first. Is that all, Pokie?”