Black Widows

by Cate Quinn

“There are records,” says Dakota, “death records. Well kept by all accounts. Police went through them with a fine-tooth comb and matched most of the deceased to a large cemetery plot toward the front of the compound. However…” He takes a breath, lets it out. “Some of the deceased were listed as being buried in a secondary cemetery on the compound. A place kept secret, even from the record keepers.” He shrugs. “Problem is, the Homestead is a big parcel of land. Three thousand acres and a good part of that just wilderness. Take you months, maybe years, to dig through all that plot.”

  Just as we’re reeling from what Dakota is tellin’ us, a phone in the outer office starts ringing.

  Shit. Maybe the downstairs receptionist has worked out that we never showed at the legal offices.

  I put the thought to one side. Return my attention to Dakota.

  “So you’re tellin’ us Blake was interested in buyin’ this land?”

  “Well, he mighta had special circumstances,” explained Dakota. “Former residents are entitled to purchase it without exhuming the remains. And Blake believed he had access to that category by marriage.”

  Rachel’s face does something funny.

  “On account of the laws about Indian graveyards, right?” I say. “I work in real estate,” I add, seeing Dakota’s expression. “Okay.” I close my eyes. “So lemme see. Blake is married to Rachel. He still has to involve her, though, right?”

  “Well…” Dakota adjusts his glasses. “He would need his wife’s birth certificate. Probably a signature too. These things can be somewhat of a gray area.”

  We both consider this. I remember somethin’.

  “Do you know who this lady is?” I take out the folded, grainy picture. “This paper had your name and number on the back,” I explain. “In actual fact, we assumed she was you.”

  Beside me, I feel Rachel stiffen. Dakota looks at it.

  “Yes, this is the person we were all trying to find,” he says. “All the former Homestead folk swore right hand to God they knew nothing about a cemetery. But someone told us this lady might know about some graves. Problem was no one knew her real name.” He frowns. “They only knew her as Aunt Meg. She was something to do with health care.”

  “The nurse,” says Rachel in a weird, flat voice. “Aunt Meg was the nurse.”

  “That was it.” Dakota clicks his fingers. “Well, clinician, they told us, but I guess it was the same thing out there. Self-appointed, we assume, likely zero qualifications. Make of that what you will.” He glances at Rachel, realizing he’s talking to a former member, and puts a strong focus on rooting in his desk. “A colleague did compile a file on that, and I think I have the original picture of her someplace here… Ah!”

  He lifts free a glossy photograph—almost like a high-school picture. Only the students are all young women, in pastel-colored prairie dresses buttoned high to the neck and falling at the ankle. Every last one has swooped-up crown hair, with variations on braids at the back. Many wear pastel pink lipstick that looks too old for them, and they’re all beaming smiles as though their lives depended on it.

  At their center is a radiantly smiling guy with brown hair, in a sharp suit.

  “The prophet and his wives,” says Dakota, looking at the image. “There are pictures like this pasted all over the compound. Guess the idea was his followers couldn’t hardly move without his eyes on them.” He shakes his head sadly, then glances up at Rachel.

  “Are you alright, ma’am? Would you like a glass of water?”

  Rachel looks like she’s been hit by a truck.

  “That’s him,” she says. “That’s my father.”

  She reaches out a finger and taps a face to the right of him.

  “And that’s her. Aunt Meg. She was his wife.”

  Chapter Sixty-Five

  Emily, Sister-Wife

  They take me to a special room for my psychiatric evaluation, all soft couches and tables made of wood instead of Formica. Plugged into a low-down socket is this ancient air freshener thing, all brittle yellow, that makes the room smell like burning flowers.

  The psychological lady is very nicely dressed, with gold-and-black-rimmed glasses and a neat mouth of lipstick. She introduces herself as Miss Truman.

  “Hi.” I shoot out a hand, smiling.

  “You seem pleased to be here, Miss Martinelli,” she says.

  “They put candy in the room,” I explain, nodding to a dish of M&M’s. “See?” I reach out and take a scoop, pushing them into my mouth fast in case she complains.

  Instead, she says, “Help yourself.”

  My smile widens.

  “So, Miss Martinelli,” she says, “can I call you Emily?”

  “Sure.” I crunch the candy, settling back onto the couch. In the holding cell, there’s, like, this hard bed thing. It gets so boring I want to scream.

  She asks me a few questions, about life on the ranch and my reasons for killing my husband. Wants to know about the discipline side to things. How often, how hard. Questions I don’t really care to answer. I figure she’s getting bored with one-word answers, ’cause she switches topic to the sexual dynamic as she calls it.

  “So you’d all line up, waiting to be picked?” I can tell she’s trying to sound neutral and struggling with it.

  “Yeah.” I eat more M&M’s. “Mostly he chose Tina though.”

  “Did that bother you?”

  “No.” I roll my eyes, crunch more candy. “I think it bothered Rachel a lot.”

  Miss Truman nods in an understanding way.

  “Was there jealousy between you women? Over Blake?”

  “Well, we fought a lot,” I say. “But no one was ever gonna win against Rachel.”

  This seems to surprise her. “Can you tell me what you mean by that?”

  I crinkle my nose. “I just mean… Blake and Rachel. That’s who the whole marriage was about. Us other wives were just a little color for them.” She doesn’t say anything, so I explain some more. “Blake liked to prod at Rachel, and she did the same to him. They kinda brought out the worst in each other. Love does that sometimes, I guess.”

  “What things did Blake like to prod at?”

  I shrug. “I don’t know. He wanted Rachel’s approval. But then it was like he couldn’t forgive her for something either. Like those two things were fighting it out.”

  The therapist lady sits back, taps hers mouth with her pen.

  “That’s very insightful,” she says. “Can I ask, how did Blake feel about children? Having them, I mean to say.”

  “Well, we all wanted children…so…”

  “About that.” The therapist sits a little forward. “Did it ever strike you as strange that none of you wives conceived. Got pregnant, I mean?”

  “Well, it doesn’t always happen right away,” I tell her. “You gotta be pure of heart before God blesses you with a baby.”

  “That’s what your husband told you?”

  “Yes.” I feel a little uncomfortable now. Like when I wasn’t following the teacher in class.

  “Do you understand how babies are made?” she asks. “About sexual intercourse?”

  I feel my cheeks get hot.

  “That’s not something that’s nice to talk about.” I’m kinda writhing in my seat.

  “You know for pregnancy to take place, a man has to ejaculate inside a woman?”

  “Yes.” I’m looking up at the ceiling. “I knew that.”

  When I look down, she’s writing. I’m pretty relieved she’s not talking about dirty stuff anymore. That’s when my brain kinda hops across to what we were talking about earlier. The bedroom lineup.

  If Rachel didn’t get picked to sleep in the master bedroom, she used to have bad dreams, sleepwalk even. One time at night when Tina and Blake were making all these loud noises, I went outside for some air.

 
I found Rachel digging a hole by her storehouse, moonlight glinting off her shovel.

  I think I asked her what I was doing. Got the shock of my life when she turned to look at me. Something was really wrong with her eyes—all flat like a dead person.

  “I need to dig,” Rachel told me. “Before he sees.”

  “What do you need to dig?” I whispered it. Like we were on the same side. I figured she was hiding something from Blake.

  Rachel had wiped her brow.

  “I need to bury her in the red graveyard,” she whispered back. “Or they’ll find out what I’ve done.”

  “Did Rachel talk to you about it?” the therapist lady is asking.

  I stare at her in shock.

  “The bedroom problems,” she clarifies. “With Blake.”

  “Um. Well. It’s not like she really knew what to say. But I could tell she was trying. And she felt real sorry for me too.” I’m fiddling with the bottom of my shirt. “She just said, uh… Rachel said it seemed real scary to her, too, in the beginning. But you get used to it, and then it gets nicer.”

  The therapist lady looks real thoughtful.

  “Rachel used the word ‘scary’?”

  I nod. She taps her pen again.

  “Did Rachel know that Blake had taken to punishing you physically?”

  A strange ball swells in my chest. Like feelings about Rachel and waiting for my father to come home have gotten all knotted together.

  “I think…” I consider my answer for a second. “I think Rachel is real good at not seeing things she isn’t supposed to see.”

  Chapter Sixty-Six

  Rachel, First Wife

  It’s the strangest feeling, seeing that picture.

  “It’s a photograph of the prophet and his wives,” I explain to Tina.

  “What. All of ’em?” Tina is staring. “That is so gross. They look adolescent.”

  “Youngest was fourteen, I think.” I peer closer. It’s a glossy color image of the Prophet, with his sixty wives arranged around him. My father. His hair is swept across his forehead, and he wears square outdated glasses. Seeing his smiling face makes me want to tear up the picture. Hurt him so bad he can never smile again.

  “That’s my mother,” I say quietly, pressing my finger on a woman right at the back. “She was second-tier. The Prophet married wives of men he excommunicated, and she was one of those women.”

  “I don’t get it.” Tina frowns at me. “So Aunt Meg was like…your stepmom?”

  I can see what she’s thinking. How is it you didn’t know who she was?

  “It wasn’t like that,” I explain. “The Prophet had over sixty wives. Only ten or so lived in the big house with him. They were the favorites. Lived in luxury. All the latest modern conveniences. Us regular people had a much harder life, so we didn’t associate with them much. Only saw them at prayers in the Homestead temple. From my understanding, the Prophet wanted to avoid jealousy.”

  Dakota takes a step back from us, as if he’s trying to be polite and not listen in. But of course in this small office, that’s impossible.

  My eyes move down to the Prophet. Aunt Meg is maybe late twenties in this picture. A good few decades younger than my father. Her hair is coiffed in the regulation claw shape, curled high above her forehead and braided extensively around the ears. I try to imagine what she might look like with regular hair and clothes. I left the Homestead over a decade ago. Aunt Meg would be around forty now, I calculate.

  “So…Aunt Meg was one of his wives?” asks Tina.

  “The first,” I say. She must have been the first. The first wife sits on the Prophet’s right-hand side. “I kind of remember the first wife did things for the Prophet,” I say. “Lied for him. She used to say she’d seen him levitating while he slept, junk like that. Things to make her the favorite. I guess she had a hard job competing with all those young girls. When it all went to court,” I add, “I think the first wife was accused of holding some of the girls down during the marriage ceremonies.”

  “Are you sure you’re okay?” asks Tina.

  “I’m fine.” I shake my head. “It’s just… The Prophet’s wives tended to go one of two ways.” I glance up at Tina. “They either left the Homestead, maybe even testified in court if they were brave, and tried to lead regular lives.” Like me, I think, wondering how I wound up so far from this intention. “Or,” I continue, “they got kind of radicalized. Like they interpreted the Prophet’s imprisonment as the persecution of their living saint.”

  Thoughts are wheeling through my mind. Out loud, I say, “Why would Blake have her picture?” I look at Dakota.

  “I’m afraid I have no idea,” he says with a shrug.

  “I guess Blake was looking for her at Waynard’s Creek,” suggests Tina. “Hoped he could ask her the location of the secret graveyard. Then used the paper to scribble the real estate firm number on the back.”

  Relief floods through me. Of course that makes sense. They never met. Please God let that be true.

  The image of Aunt Meg, naked beneath my panting husband, flashes up.

  You’re not real, I tell it savagely. Get back in your box.

  Something else strikes me at the same point as Tina says it out loud.

  “Why would Blake be looking for the secret graveyard?” she asks. “If he wanted to buy the land, he has a legal entitlement because of his marriage to a former resident. Why go hunting for dirty secrets?”

  “Blake was very devout,” I say. “Perhaps he wanted to make sure there was nothing on that land that could endanger our souls.”

  Or perhaps he wanted to have a hold over you. Something to make you a supplicant for the rest of your life.

  Tina is looking at me like something doesn’t add up. I move my eyes back to the picture. Dakota shuffles his feet like he wishes he were somewhere else.

  “Where is the Prophet now?” asks Tina. I get the sense she doesn’t want to use the word father. I think Tina probably hadn’t really absorbed how twisted my childhood was until this moment.

  “In prison,” I say. “He’s in prison now. Fifteen counts of underage rape. He’s there until he dies.”

  I turn to Dakota. “Your colleagues ever find this Aunt Meg person?”

  “Nope.” He shakes his head. “Not to my knowledge.”

  Just like that, the old fear comes flooding back in.

  If Aunt Meg is still out there. If she got in contact with Blake…

  I close my eyes, but it’s no good. There are no more boxes left.

  Chapter Sixty-Seven

  Tina, Sister-Wife

  Rachel is steadying herself on a desk. She looks like she might puke.

  “Sir,” I say in my best voice. “Did Blake agree a deal with you to buy that land?”

  “I’m not allowed to tell you that,” says Dakota. “Our records are confidential.”

  “We have his certificate of death,” I say. “Nevada law states that you have to release any documents relating to a deceased individual on presentation of a death certificate, either to a legal relative making the request or to a police officer.”

  Rachel manages to cast me a little look of admiration. She’s rallying.

  “We’ve come all the way from Salt Lake City,” says Rachel. “That’s a long drive.”

  Dakota hesitates. His gaze falls to the picture on his desk.

  “I can’t help you,” he says, casting a glance toward the door. “But it so happens I’m gonna step out to get myself a sandwich. I’ll be gone for twenty minutes or so. You can make your own way out, and please don’t look in that big green cabinet over there, ’Kay?”

  Rachel and I nod silently, hardly able to believe our luck.

  “Heaven bless you,” whispers Rachel as he leaves, and this time, I don’t correct her.

  As the door clicks gentl
y shut, we race to the filing cabinet.

  “Why do you think he’s helping us?” asks Rachel as we locate the drawer labeled “M-N.”

  “He’s plural married,” I say. “Did you notice how he’s got a picture on his desk only he can see? I got a glimpse of it when we came in. The women are arranged so they could be aunts or what have you. But I’ll bet those ladies are his wives. He has four.”

  “But it’s not illegal in Nevada to cohabit with spiritual wives,” says Rachel. “So long as you don’t have more than one legal wedding certificate. It’s only Utah that makes it a crime to live with more than one wife.”

  “Just ’cause it’s not illegal doesn’t mean people don’t judge,” I say.

  I pull open the drawer. Rachel and I exchange glances. I don’t know what I’m hoping to find, but I’m suddenly determined to leave with something.

  “Here,” I say, feeling cold. “Blake Nelson.”

  It’s a plain manila file. Rachel flips it open and lifts free a little stack of papers. Realtor-type things.

  Relief registers on her face.

  “Not what you were expecting to see?” I’m eyeballing her.

  “Oh, I just…didn’t want any more bad memories,” she says. “I’m relieved it’s just Realtor stuff. No more family portraits.” She manages a dry laugh.

  “Here,” Rachel says, pushing me the notes. “You can take a look. You’re better with these documents than I am.”

  “Is that supposed to be a compliment?”

  “Sure.”

  “Okay.” I leaf through. “Well…it looks as though Vegas Real Estate was offering Blake a deal. They’d front the money to buy the Homestead, and Blake would purchase it using his, uh, connections.” I snatch a look at Rachel. Her face is expressionless. “On completion of purchase, Vegas Real Estate would pay Blake a fee for his involvement…ten thousand bucks.”

  “But he wouldn’t have gotten any part of the land?”

  “No.”

  We’re both quiet.

  “Doesn’t sound like Blake, does it?” says Rachel eventually. “Casinos, mob firms giving him payouts. For all his faults, Blake had conviction.”