Black Widows

by Cate Quinn

  “That could push someone with a background of trauma over the edge. And luckily for you, the acting district attorney will entertain reasoning of that nature. Psychological justifications.” Steven mimes a turning action, finger against his skull. “But”—his voice goes singsong—“I have to tell you, it’s complicated for your average jury. Folks ’round here see things more black and white. They’re less open to factors of mental health than people might be in, say, California. Last few cases of spousal abuse I’ve seen, juries all sided with the husband.”

  “My marriage wasn’t abusive.”

  He shakes his head sadly.

  “We don’t want you before a court, Mrs. Nelson, do we? I’m going to come right and out say it. You risk the death penalty.”

  Hot fear sweeps through me.

  “Not to mention,” he says, wagging a finger, “if you act difficult, it’s within the power of the state to prosecute your sister-wives.”

  “What?” I feel sick.

  “Bigamy is a crime. Salt Lake City is tired of being associated with polygamy. Your friends broke the law, and the state will throw the book at ’em. Full sentence could be as much as five years in prison apiece.”

  I feel I’m in a narrow corridor, with doors clanging shut.

  “What do you suggest?” I ask in a meek little voice.

  “Let me handle things,” says Steven. “I’ll tell the DA you’re prepared to consider compromises.”

  Be reasonable, I think. Stay sweet. I have an image of the important men deciding my fate. They wouldn’t like it if I started being disagreeable.

  I nod my head, twisting my wedding ring. Steven beams.

  “Good girl,” he says, sounding a lot like the young men on the Homestead. “This whole thing will be a lot easier if you’re reasonable.”

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Emily, Sister-Wife

  Tina drives a little distance away and sits for the longest time, resting her elbows on the steering wheel, staring out the windshield.

  The phone number Marsha gave her is folded up in her hand.

  We sit there for a moment, with the bugs and birds loudly chittering away outside. People never tell you that about the desert. You’d think it would be quiet and still. But between the blue jays and cicadas in the day and the bullfrogs and coyotes at night, there are lizards every ten paces that bolt and scare the life out of you and these enormous crows that croak at about a thousand decibels with no warning.

  “You know,” Tina says finally, “I really thought Blake had gone out there for a wife.”

  She starts making these choking noises. For a moment, I think maybe she’s got a Tic Tac stuck or something. Then I realize she’s crying. I pat her shoulder. I don’t really know what else to do.

  She wipes makeup where it’s run under her eyes. Sniffs.

  “Him taking another wife wouldn’t have bothered you,” Tina says. “Would it?”

  I shake my head. Anyone to take the heat off me was good.

  “I don’t think I felt the same way about him that you did,” I say, remembering how Tina and Blake would look at each other when they were first married. All lovey-dovey and adoring. “Some marriages are more practical. I guess.”

  She sniffs again. “Did you ever love him?” she asks.

  I think about this. When Blake first took me out to the Wendy’s near where I worked, he made me feel like I was the most interesting person on the planet.

  As a girl, I used to imagine a hero who could ride me off into the sunset, where nothing would hurt me ever again. I don’t know quite how it happened, but somewhere, Blake’s face wound up in the picture.

  “I was maybe a little in awe at the beginning,” I decide. “But it wore off.”

  I want Tina to call the number, but I have a feeling it wouldn’t be appropriate to suggest it.

  She frowns, then looks down at the paper in her hand.

  I eye it hopefully. She sorta shakes her head when she sees that and unfolds it.

  A Xerox picture of a lady’s face is revealed. Blown-up and grainy, crisscrossed with grubby lines where it’s been folded. She looks like the old-style Mormons. The fundamental ones. Her hair is crowned above her head, and her collar is prairie-dress-style buttoned to the neck. There’s a real creepy smile on her face.

  Tina turns it over. A name and number are scrawled on the back in Blake’s heavy handwriting.

  “Dakota Jessop,” reads Tina, flipping back to the image side. “I guess this is her.”

  We both stare at the claw-haired lady.

  “She looks kinda evil,” I say. I’m feeling nervous now, but I couldn’t really say why.

  Tina is looking real hard at the face.

  “You don’t think… I mean…Blake told Marsha to call this number, right?” says Tina. “If she remembered anything about a secret cemetery.” She puts a finger on the claw-haired lady’s grainy face. “Who d’ya think she could be?”

  “Maybe someone from the Homestead looking for the burial place herself,” I suggest. “Got a loved one buried there or something.”

  This only raises more questions, and we both sit silently for a good while, thinking it over.

  Tina opens her mouth to speak, shuts it again. Clears her throat.

  “You don’t imagine there was anything romantic between Blake and this lady?” Tina sounds like she wouldn’t believe it, even if someone told her it was true.

  I shake my head. “I think there’s something bigger goin’ on,” I say, putting on my best Detective Cagney voice. “Something to do with that land.”

  Tina looks relieved.

  “Guess we should call the number,” she decides, taking out the phone the police gave her when they set us up in Salt Lake City.

  I’m secretly delighted. This is just like a police show.

  “It’s a Vegas code,” says Tina, pressing buttons. “Don’t know what that could mean.” She turns the claw-haired lady’s face as she taps numbers. “There’s no one who looks like her in Vegas.”

  Tina says it like a joke, but I can tell she’s upset because her hands shake a little. She presses the phone to her ear for a long while.

  “No answer,” she says eventually. “Voicemail for Vegas Real Estate. Guess Dakota works for them.” Her face twists. “Vegas Real Estate,” she mutters to herself. “Why do I feel like I’ve heard of that firm?”

  I don’t answer, since I don’t know.

  Tina dials again. A third time. We sit waiting, but no one picks up.

  Tina looks relieved. “We can try later. Maybe she’s busy.” She looks out the window and drums her fingers on the wheel.

  “I really owe Rachel an apology,” she says, looking thoughtful. “I really thought…” She wipes more makeup. “Doesn’t matter now, I guess.” Tina shakes her head. “It’s all so creepy,” she says. “A secret cemetery. A clinic for chrissakes. What in the world was that about?”

  “You’re not allowed to swear,” I point out.

  “Yeah, well.” Tina forks a hand through her long, black hair. “I’m just lettin’ off a little steam. Seems to me,” she concludes, “it all comes down to Rachel.”

  “We should go ask Rachel about the secret places,” I say. “The clinic.”

  “I don’t think she would say anything about the Homestead in front of the cops,” says Tina. “From how I understand it, her people kinda go into lockdown with authority figures.”

  Tina’s getting into it now. Being a detective. I knew she would.

  We sit in silence for a little while. I’m enjoying being out in the big, wide world, not cooped up in the little ranch with nothing to do. It feels like an adventure.

  “We can’t get Rachel out unless she’s proved innocent,” I say. “But the only way to prove her innocent is to get her out. That’s a regular catch-22.”r />
  Tina bangs her hands on the steering wheel suddenly, making me jump. Then she puts the car into Drive.

  “Where are we going?” I ask as we speed along the highway.

  “I’m goin’ back to the police station,” says Tina. “I got a plan. Kinda.” She has a real determined look about her. “I might have a way to get Rachel out.”

  Chapter Forty

  Emily, Sister-Wife

  Tina was not making any sense, trying to explain how she was going to help Rachel. In the end, she got frustrated and dropped me back at the safe house. So she’s at the police station now, trying to do some lawyer things for Rachel. It all sounds a little crazy to me. I know Tina has her Realtor’s license and all, but she was talking about legal papers, and that’s something different.

  So. Rachel is in the police station. Tina has gone to try to get her. That just leaves me. Home all alone. For some reason, that makes me giggle. I walk around for a while, just, I don’t know, humming a little tune, looking around.

  I pick up the TV remote, flick through some channels. Go to the bathroom, wash my hands using Rachel’s special soap. Each little thing I do, something sorta pings in my brain.

  You can’t hurt me now.

  I open the medicine cabinet. The police must have cleared out a few supplies from the ranch, because mixed in with our toothbrushes and hair sprays and so forth is Blake’s cologne. Guess they must have mistaken it for perfume.

  I pick up the bottle, pull off the stopper, raise it to my nose.

  Blake wore this scent on sales trips. I always associated the smell of it with freedom. Knowing he was going to be gone for a few days at least.

  I tip the glass container and pour it all down the sink. Oily liquid swirls away with a gurgle.

  I catch my face in the mirror. I’m grinning like a crazy person. I look a little scary. This makes me grin harder.

  You can’t hurt me now. You can’t hurt me now.

  I start to sing it, waltzing around the little house the police have allocated us.

  I’m still holding the cologne bottle as I go to my temporary bedroom and open the closet. A faint waft of Rachel’s favorite laundry detergent rolls out. She never did get it out of her head that’s she’s not in a large family any longer and likes to buy the bulk kind, in ten-kilo boxes.

  Inside are my clothes. The ones he liked me to wear.

  Long skirts. Modest shirts. A few pioneer-style dresses in pastel colors, ironed flat. Courtesy of Rachel, since Blake never did like another wife to do the laundry, not even Tina.

  Right at the back is my old waitressing uniform. Short. Low-cut. I always had to put it on in the bathroom at the diner, because if Momma had seen me leave the house in it, she would have screamed fit to burst.

  I don’t recall when Blake took to coming in the diner, but he always took the same spot, right at the bar where I waited on customers. He seemed very confident, but I didn’t think he was cute or anything, on account of him being twenty-seven and a lot too old for me. But he was always very sympathetic about my strict home life. Mostly, though, I remember he wasn’t a very good tipper.

  Then my section got changed, and wouldn’t you know? He moved his seat. I mentioned that to my boss, Marcie, like it was kinda strange, since honestly, it doesn’t really matter so much who serves your bacon and scramble.

  Marcie just shook her head and said, Honey, did you ever think that maybe he keeps coming back here because he likes you?

  And I just thought…He likes me? I felt all fluttery.

  “You be careful of him,” Marcie added, pointing her notepad when she thought Blake wasn’t looking. “He lives out in the desert. Cute as a button, but he’ll have you livin’ barefoot out in the wilds with ten other wives, fixin’ his morning grits.”

  I was surprised Marcie thought Blake was cute. It kind of upped his stock. I also thought escaping to the wilderness with a bunch of other women didn’t sound so bad. Maybe even a little romantic. Didn’t turn out that way at all though.

  I put my uniform back with the modest clothes. Then I clutch a handful on their hangers and pull. Dresses and shirts slip half-free untidily. I push up a batch of hangers so they unhook and clatter noisily to the floor.

  There are still a good lot left inside the wardrobe, and I sorta scream at them. Don’t ask me why. I couldn’t even really tell you what I was saying. Only I enjoyed saying it loud. I’m not one for even raising my voice as a rule. Girls are seen but not heard, the way I was raised.

  One time, when I was a little girl, my momma told me, there was an episode where I was speaking in tongues. It happened right after Papa came back from a work trip. The excitement had gotten to me, Momma said, on account of him having been away so long. Momma and Papa had a whispered argument about it. I’m not too sure of the details. But it was something about my momma making him discipline us kids when he got back from his trips. What I could make out was my momma saying, “She’s a born liar, a born little liar. If you don’t do something, she’ll end up a whore.”

  Don’t know why I’m thinking about that now. Anyway, I screamed and screamed into the closet, and it sure felt good.

  I realized, somewhere along the way, that I was still holding the empty cologne bottle, so I threw it into the corner of the bedroom. It smashed into a great pool of glass.

  I looked at that for a while. Then went into the kitchen. Usually, we wait for mealtimes. This is a house rule, mostly enforced for Rachel, since she cooks.

  But Rachel isn’t here.

  So I walk right on in, like it’s my very own place, and pull open the freezer. Inside, all neatly stacked are the cartons of ice cream Rachel picked out from the store.

  I take out a large carton and rip off the top. Then I push my fingers right into the vanilla-fudge ice cream. It’s cold enough to hurt. I eat a big glob, filling my mouth until my head throbs.

  There are five grooves cut into the perfect whipped surface now. I look at them for a long time.

  That’s when I hear a knock on the front door. More like hammering, in actual fact. As though someone has been there a good while and gotten themselves worked up.

  I walk to open the door, still holding the vanilla-fudge carton. Two police officers stand on the other side. Two men. I don’t recognize them.

  I lick ice cream from my fingers.

  “Hello?” I say. “Can I help you?”

  One of them looks down at my bare feet. I follow his gaze and realize I’m bleeding. There’s a gash right between two of my toes.

  “Is everything okay, ma’am?” he says. “Someone called about a disturbance.”

  “Everything is fine,” I say. “There’s no disturbance.”

  I look at my foot. A great deal of blood is pooling on the floor now.

  “Was someone shouting?” asks the other officer uncertainly.

  “Oh, well.” I give them my best smile. “I stepped on some glass. Musta been that.”

  “Real colorful language was reported to us,” says the first officer. He reddens. “Sacrilegious things. Also, um, noises. Sounds folk usually prefer to keep private, if you catch my meaning.”

  I don’t, so I just look at him.

  “Is anyone else here with you, ma’am? Your husband?”

  “It’s only me,” I say. “My husband is away on a work trip.”

  “Would you mind if we confirmed that, ma’am? We had a very concerned neighbor contact us. They were fairly certain there was some kind of domestic abuse taking place.”

  “You’re not allowed in without a warrant,” I say, a feeling of elation surging in my chest. “I don’t want you to come in.”

  The words come out, just like that.

  I can choose now. I am free to choose.

  The first officer rubs the back of his neck. He glances at my foot again. A lake of red blood is pooli
ng on the fake-wood vinyl floor.

  “I think we’d better give you a ride to the hospital,” he says finally.

  That idea makes me feel tight all over.

  “Do you know a police lady by the name of Officer Brewer?” I ask the men.

  They exchange glances.

  “I have some information for her,” I tell them.

  “We can certainly help you with that, ma’am,” says one politely. “Maybe we can make a call on the way to getting your foot fixed.”

  “I need to speak with her personally.”

  “I don’t think…” says the same policeman.

  “It’s real important,” I tell him. “Someone was murdered recently. A man named Blake Nelson.” I look at both of them in turn. “I know who did it.”

  Chapter Forty-One

  Rachel, First Wife

  Detective Carlson looks less intimidating now that he’s not wearing all his guns and whatnot. Still got that cocksure air about him, though, all bad language and posturing.

  “We think we’ve got a pretty good deal,” Carlson is telling me, rubbing the back of his shaved head. “It won’t be there for very long. Plead guilty to murder, and we can take the death penalty right off the table. We can also petition for at least part of your sentence to be in a psychological facility.”

  “What about the others?” I ask. “The other wives?”

  “They’ll get immunity from prosecution for bigamy, like you wanted.”

  The door opens and we all turn. It’s the last person I expect to see. Tina is standing in the doorway, and Officer Brewer is at her side.

  “What do you think this is, a meet and greet?” growls Carlson. “Get her outta here.”

  “I’m afraid I can’t do that,” says Brewer with a faint smile on her face. “Miss Keidis has asked to represent Mrs. Nelson.”

  “What the…? Is this a joke?” Carlson’s eyes narrow. “Miss Keidis. You got no legal training. Not to mention you’re a suspect.”

  “So long as Mrs. Nelson agrees, she can be represented by a friend,” says Tina. “An’ I may be a suspect in your mind, but no charges have been filed, which makes me a regular citizen like you.”