I closed my eyes and drew a breath, glad she couldn't see me. "I represent a small but growing religious community," I said. "We want a property that we can repair ourselves, and modify to suit our needs. We'll be doing some farming, but mostly we want the extra land for privacy." "Well," Mrs. Bishop said, "you're not Moonies, are you? Or those Druvidians?"
Druids? Branch Davidians?
"Gosh, no," I said firmly. "We're Christian pacifists. We don't believe in drinking or smoking. We don't dress funny, or ask for donations on street corners, or preach in the stores, or anything!" With an effort, Mrs. Bishop joined in my light laughter. The realtor gave me clear directions to her office, recommended a couple of restaurants for supper ("If you're allowed to do that"), and said that she'd see me in the morning. I located the soft drink machine, bought a Coke, and watched the news while sipping a bourbon-and-Coke made from the second half of my airline bottle. I was glad Mrs. Bishop wasn't there to see the conduct of this purported member of a religious cult.
After a while, feeling strangely anonymous in this little town where no one knew me, I drove around, staring through the fading light at the town Martin had known so well growing up. I went past the ugly brick high school where he had played football. Through a light drizzle in the gray spring evening, I peered at the houses where Martin must have had friends, acquaintances, girls he'd dated, boys he'd gone drinking with. Some of them, perhaps most of them, were surely still here in this town . .. maybe men he'd gone to Vietnam with. Perhaps they mentioned it as seldom as he did.
I felt as if I were eavesdropping on Martin's life. I had a book in my purse, as usual (tonight it was the paperback of Liza Cody's Stalker), and I read as I ate supper at the diner Mrs. Bishop had recommended. The menu was slightly alien—none of the southern diner standbys. But the chili was good, and it was with reluctance I left half of everything on my plate. Now that I was over thirty, gravity and calories seemed to be having a little more effect than they used to. When you're four feet, eleven inches, a few extra calories end up looking like a lot.
No one bothered me, and the waitress was pleasant, so I had a nice time. I took the light rain as a sign I should not walk or run tonight, though I'd virtuously brought my sweats and running shoes. As a palliative to my conscience, I did some stretches and calisthenics when I got back to my room. The exercise did relieve some of the cramped feeling the plane and the long car ride had caused. I checked in with Amina, who told me Martin had indeed left a message on her machine not thirty minutes ago.
I smiled fatuously, since no one was there to see me, and called him. The minute I heard his voice, I missed him with a dreadful ache. I pictured his meticulously groomed thick white hair, the black arched brows and pale brown eyes, the heavily muscled arms and chest. He was at work, he'd told Amina's machine, so I could imagine him at his huge desk, covered with piles of paper that were nonetheless neatly stacked and separate. He would be wearing a spotless white shirt, but he would have taken his tie off when the last employee left. His suit jacket would be hanging on a padded hanger on a hook in his very own bathroom.
I loved him painfully.
I couldn't remember ever having told Martin lies before, and I kept having to remind myself of where I was supposed to be.
"Is Amina talking a lot about the baby?" he asked. "Oh, yes. She's scheduled to take Lamaze in a couple of months, and Hugh's gung-ho about coaching her." I hesitated a moment. "Did you take Lamaze when Barrett was born?"
"I don't remember taking the course, but I was there when he was born, so I guess Cindy and I did," he said doubtfully.
Cindy. Wife number one, and mother of Martin's only child, Barrett, now trying to become a successful actor in Los Angeles.
Martin was saying, "Roe, is Amina being pregnant giving you ideas?" I couldn't tell how he felt from his voice. He'd spoken so much about Barrett lately I'd felt it wasn't a good time to talk about another child. "How do you feel about that?" I asked.
"I don't know. I'm pretty old to be changing diapers. It's daunting to think of starting all over again."
"We can talk about it when I get home."
We talked about a few other things Martin wanted to do when I got home. By a pleasant coincidence, I wanted to do them, too.
After I hung up, I picked up the little Corinth phone book. Before I could reconsider, I flipped to the B's.
Bartell, C. H., 1202 Archibald Street.
Now, this may sound fishy, but up until that moment I hadn't thought of Martin's former wife being in Corinth.
I discovered I was burning with the urge to see Cindy Bartell. A particularly ridiculous jealousy had flared in my heart; I wanted to see her. Wise or not, I decided to lay eyes on Cindy Bartell while I was here. I took off my glasses and relaxed on the slablike motel bed, with an uneasy feeling that I was being seriously stupid, and wracked my brain to try to remember what Cindy did for a living. Surely Martin had mentioned it at some point or other? He was not one to discuss his past much, though he seemed fascinated with the placidity of mine... .
I almost fell asleep fully dressed, and when I forced myself to get up and wash my face and put on my nightgown, I had dredged up the fact that Cindy Bartell was, or had been, a florist.
The little telephone book informed me that there was a listing for a Cindy's Flowers.
I fell asleep as if I'd been sandbagged, still not having decided if my good taste and good sense would keep me away from Cindy's shop.
The next morning I showered briskly, put my mass of long, wavy hair up in a bun that I hoped would make me look religious, went light on the makeup, and cleaned my glasses carefully. I wore a suit, a khaki-colored one with a bronze silk blouse, and modest brown pumps. I wanted to look ultrarespectable, so Mrs. Bishop would be reassured, yet I wanted the religious cult front to be objectionable enough to tempt Joseph Flocken to sell the farm to spite his stepchildren. Unfortunately, I didn't know the location of the farm, since Flocken didn't have a phone listing. I was simply hoping I'd spot it during my driving around with the real estate agent.
I scanned myself in the motel mirror, thought I would pass whatever test Mrs.
Bishop chose to give, and went off to have a little breakfast before I met her.
Her directions proved excellent, which boded well for her efficiency. Bishop Realty was in an old house right off Main Street. As I entered the reception area, a door to the right opened, and a tall, husky blond woman emerged. She was wearing a cheap navy blue suit and a white blouse. "The Lord be with you," I said promptly.
"Miss Teagarden?" she said cautiously, after a glance at my ring finger. Naturally, I'd left my huge engagement ring in a zippered pouch in my purse. It hardly fit my new image.
"I do have a few places to show you this morning," Mary Anne Bishop said, still obviously feeling her way with me. "I hope you like one of them. We look forward to having your group settle in our area. It is a church, I understand?" She waved me into her office and we sat down.
"We're a small pacifist religious group," I said with equal caution, wondering about tax exemptions and other hitches connected with claiming to be an actual church. "We like privacy, and we're not rich," I continued. "That's why we want a farm a fair way out of town, one that we can fix up." "And you want at least—what—sixty acres?" asked Mrs. Bishop. "Oh, at least. Or more. It would depend," I said vaguely. I had no idea how big the Bartell/Flocken farm was.