The Widows of Eden Read Free Page B

friends. Why?”
    â€œWhy? The last time you blessed us with your presence, Mr. Vernon Moore, I had to run double shifts, call in reinforcements from Gage County on two separate occasions, fib aboutyour whereabouts to the same state police who just bought you lunch, and coordinate an arson investigation with the fire department — in one week. If you’re planning to save us again, I’d like to warn my superiors.”
    â€œDoes Ebb need to be saved again, Sheriff?”
    I blurted out, “Clem does! He has cancer!”
    Mr. Moore and my Clement have a history that dates back to his first visit four years ago. It was like they were joined at the hip from the get-go, but nobody could tell whether they were working together or against each other from one trip to the next.
    â€œI heard, and I’m so terribly, terribly sorry,” he said mournfully. “What are his chances?”
    I hung my head. “The odds are not in his favor, Mr. Moore. He’s resting at the River House for now while the chemotherapy does its work, but he has to return to Omaha at the end of the week for a big operation. I’m driving down to see him after dinner tonight. Could you come along?”
    â€œI’d love to, but I’m due at Loretta’s after dinner. Would you ask Clem if I can drop by in the morning, say ten o’clock?”
    Maybe I shouldn’t have, but I felt like a ton of bricks had been lifted off my chest. I answered, “Oh, I don’t have to do that. He’s been expecting you.”
    Dottie chimed in, “Half the town’s been expecting you, but it has nothing to do with Wilma’s Fiancé in Perpetuity. It’s because of this godforsaken drought.”
    Mr. Moore frowned, and then he looked at me like I was the local news expert and asked, “Is it as bad as the papers say?”
    â€œMy Aunt Delphie once told me that Nebraska was the Pawnee word for bad weather,” I reported, “and now I know why. We haven’t seen a drop of rain for a hundred and seventeen days running, the corn stalks are knee high and half dead, nobody’sgot any beans to speak of, and there isn’t enough alfalfa in the entire county to make up a hayride. A few weeks ago, Winnie and Rufus Bowe pulled up stakes and left without a word of warning. Winnie was a founder of the Quilting Circle, for heaven’s sakes! They left behind their farm and all their friends …” My voice trailed off. I didn’t want to think about it.
    â€œHas the governor declared the state a disaster area?”
    â€œHe must’ve forgot,” Dottie said. “He left Friday on a trade mission to China. I hear he plans to sell them some USDA prime Nebraska steak. If they like it, maybe they’ll buy a heifer and a bull and we’ll get cheap, rice-fed beef in five years. Won’t that be tasty?”
    â€œNo doubt. What’s the weather forecast?”
    â€œHotter ’n hell and clear as a bell for as far out as anybody can see. Water is being rationed in thirty eastern counties including ours, plus most of Iowa and northwest Missouri. Surface water irrigation has been flat-out banned; half the water was evaporating before it hit the ground. You can’t barbecue on the grill or water your lawn, and don’t wash that car of yours either; that’s banned, too. But the Ogallala Aquifer, which has supplied this state with water since the Ice Age, is disappearing anyway, and faster than free booze at a Marine reunion.”
    â€œThat fast?”
    â€œThis fast.” Dottie chugged the last of her beer, and then she peered down the neck and observed, “Another dead soldier. May he rest in peace.”
    D OT SAW A FEW too many dead soldiers that night, so Mr. Moore bundled her into the cruiser after dinner and drove her home. She lives with Shelby Eisenhart, her partner of the past eleven years, on a little spread southwest of town. It