The Widows of Eden by George Shaffner Page A

metal footstool and assisted us up the steps. It was air-conditioned inside and the dashboard looked like an airplane cockpit. You have never seen so many dials and gauges. Behind the driver’s seat, there was a beautiful booth trimmed in blue leather with an expensive burled table. A stainless-steel refrigerator and rangewere opposite the dining area, then the aisleway arced around a bathroom into what I can only describe as an expanse of deep-blue carpet, light-blue leather furniture of the sort you might see on an expensive yacht, and another half acre of burled maple polished to a high sheen.
    â€œHave a seat,” Raymond suggested. “Ms. Meanwell will join you in a minute.”
    While Mary walked around the room inspecting the decor, I plopped down in a captain’s chair and prepared myself to greet anything from a biker’s moll to a baroness. The Widow Meanwell came sweeping into the room moments later in a glossy green knee-length frock, heels, and a matching flat-topped hat with blue feathers and a fishnet veil that covered an inch or so of her forehead. The ensemble was styled after the fifties, but she looked fifty-odd herself, which struck me as a tad incongruous.
    I felt compelled to stand. She came straight over, held out her hand, and gave me a smile that would melt an iceberg, assuming there are any left. “I’m Marion Meanwell,” she announced in a voice that sounded a smidge like Angela Lansbury in Murder, She Wrote . “You must be Wilma. Vernon has told us so much about you.”
    I resisted an impulse to curtsy. “It’s a pleasure. This is my good friend Mary Wade.”
    You’d have thought she was meeting Perry Mason. “Hail Mary Wade? Why, I’ve heard about you, too. It’s so nice to meet you. Can you stay?”
    â€œI’d love to, but I have an appointment at the office. How long will you be in town?”
    â€œOh, I never know for sure. A few days, if it’s okay with Wilma. Perhaps I can stop by later in the week.”
    â€œThat would be lovely, Ms. …”
    â€œAnd please call me Marion; everyone does.”
    Hail Mary made her apologies and Raymond led her out. In the meanwhile, the Widow Meanwell took a chair opposite mine. “This is unlike any bus I’ve ever seen,” I observed. “It must be a wonderful way to see the country.” In my mind, I was wondering where the heck it came from, how much it cost, and what kind of miles per gallon it got.
    â€œIt’s a lovely coach, isn’t it?” she replied. “Vernon had one built for each of us.”
    â€œFor each of you?”
    â€œOne for me and one each for Birdie and Eloise. It was the sweetest gift. I have no idea how much he spent, but they have one downside: the mileage isn’t very good. Vernon says it’s like pushing a giant brick into the wind. Next year, he’s going to have them refitted with more efficient, low-sulfur diesel engines. Won’t that be nice?”
    I knew nothing about diesel engines except that they could run on biofuel, which would be good for the farming community. “Are Birdie and Eloise your widow friends?” I asked.
    â€œYes. They’re arriving later in the day. By chance, is Vernon here?”
    â€œHe isn’t. I believe he’s at the River House seeing Clem Tucker.”
    â€œClement Tucker? Your fiancé? I’m so sorry to hear that he’s ill, Wilma. How are you? Are you holding up?”
    I was holding up fine, more or less, but I was getting a mite fidgety in my chair. “Clem is the one who’s sick, not me, and half the state is in the grip of a dreadful drought. I have nothing to complain about.”
    â€œIt never seems to do any good anyway, does it? Do you have any idea when Vernon will return?”
    â€œNone whatsoever. I never do.”
    Marion clapped her hands together. “Me either. Isn’t he a scamp? Would it be an imposition if