The Widows of Eden Read Free Page A

Then she looked at me and added, “What the hell’s wrong with you, Wilma?”
    I was slack-mouthed, but Mr. Moore acted like he had been in that sort of fix before. “Who dropped the dime on me, Sheriff?”
    â€œHow many folks in Ebb drive a three-hundred-horse Mustang with custom wheels and Ohio plates? I got half a dozen calls.” Dottie checked her watch. “What I’d like to know is how you got past my deputies …”
    â€œYour deputies?”
    â€œI got a tip from the state police that you were coming. They were posted at the county line.”
    â€œOh, sorry. I took a detour through Nebraska City to see some friends. Perhaps your deputies weren’t expecting me to come in from the east.”
    â€œApparently not. I was just kidding about the arrest, by the way. You all can go back to hugging and crying now. I’ll see what’s cookin’ on the stove.”
    She strode past us both with a big grin on her face and headed toward my kitchen. Once she was out of sight, my infrequent lodger inquired, “Is there room at the inn?”
    Instead of answering like a grown-up woman, I started to cry again. Maybe it was “the change,” but I don’t believe it was.

Chapter 3
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    P AWNEE W ISDOM
    B Y THE TIME I had dried my eyes and gotten back to the kitchen, Dot was nursing a bottle of cold beer at the table and reading the Lincoln paper. I was about to suggest that she make herself at home when the phone rang.
    She was closer than I was, so she grabbed it and chatted for a minute, then she hung up and said, “That was Mary. Her nose is a little bent out of joint.”
    Hail Mary Wade is the county attorney and the Queen Bee of the Quilting Circle, which has had the effect of making her nose double-jointed.
    â€œDoes she know that Mr. Moore is in … ?”
    Dot held her hand up like a traffic cop. “Of course she does, but don’t worry yourself for a minute. She’s just got a bee under her bonnet, that’s all, a jealous little bee.”
    The phone rang again and Dottie took a message. It was Dana Yelm, Clifford’s wife, who had also gotten the news of Mr. Moore’s arrival. She wanted to make sure that I told him about the drought and the Bowes’ disappearance, as if I needed a reminder. Two shakes later, I got a call from Billie Cater, who had the same identical concern.
    When the telephone rang the fourth time, Dottie said, “ForGod’s sake, Wilma. Turn the damned thing off! If you don’t, we’ll never have a moment’s peace.”
    The proprietor of a B & B cannot unplug the telephone. It’s in the manual. While I was putting it on auto-answer, I heard a faint, electronic rendition of “There Is No Place Like Nebraska” coming from another room.
    â€œGoldarnit!” I exclaimed.
    â€œIs that your cell phone?”
    â€œIt sure is.”
    â€œWhere is it?”
    â€œOn the settee in the den, inside my pocketbook.”
    â€œYou cook; I’ll shut it off.”
    Dot was back at the table and into her second beer when Mr. Moore came down the kitchen stairs. His outfit — a white oxford shirt with a button-down collar, creased blue jeans, and running shoes — reminded me of what the hip boys wore at Hayes High in the sixties, when I was too young to have a boyfriend but old enough to have a fresh crush every week.
    My brief reverie was interrupted by a peck on the cheek. “You must be the woman of the hour,” he said. “The phone’s been ringing off the hook.”
    Dot took a swig and replied, “It’s not us, hon. Everyone’s calling about you, and they’ve all got the same question I have. They want to know whose lives you plan to rearrange while you’re in Ebb.”
    â€œExcuse me?”
    â€œI’m sorry; that was the beer talking. Who do you plan to see this trip?”
    â€œMy daughter and her mother, Wilma, old