Lena Jones 02 - Desert Wives

has not yet been sanctified!” Earl said. “We in the Circle of Elders have grave doubts about its validity. No one knows this woman! Not who she is or where she came from!”
    Davis tilted his head to the side and smiled down at me. His own showbiz teeth would have done a Scottsdale orthodontist proud. “I was taking care of some business in Salt Lake when you arrived, Sister Lena, or I would have been present to welcome you to Purity and help sort though this confusion with the Circle of Elders. Perhaps now that I am back…?”
    He trailed off and looked questioningly at Saul. I couldn’t help but notice, however, that Davis still held my hand. Not that I minded.
    Saul noticed, too, and the anxiety in his voice increased. “Prophet Davis, I’d be happy to discuss the worthiness of my new wife with you. You just say where and when.”
    Davis caressed my hand once more, then gently dropped it. His voice, as smooth as his touch, purred. “I don’t think you need to worry, Brother Saul. Your wife is charming.”
    With that, Prophet Davis went into the house and like good little Christian soldiers, we all trooped into the living room after him, the rest of the women following three paces behind. Muted children’s voices could be heard somewhere toward the back of the house, but none, not even their toys, were evident in the startling sight that lay before me.
    Davis Royal’s huge, three-story living room looked like something out of the pages of
Architectural Digest
. A solid glass wall, which I hadn’t been able to see from the road, offered a stunning view of the Vermillion Cliffs, and the cliff’s colors had obviously inspired the room’s decoration. Groupings of oxblood leather sofas and chairs hunkered on jewel-colored Persian carpets, which in turn topped what seemed to be acres of expensive oak flooring. Tropical fans dangled from the lofty, wood-beamed ceiling and stirred the ferns and palms placed around the room. I’d known billionaires with shabbier houses.
    Virginia and Leo had been right. Regardless of the poverty most of Purity’s inhabitants appeared to live in, the prophets themselves had access to plenty of money. Why did the Circle of Elders allow such disparity in lifestyle to continue? Religious intimidation—or something else?
    But not everything in the room was elegant, such as the rows of folding chairs which faced the lectern at the end of the room. While people jockeyed for positions near the front, Saul and I found seats at the back, the better to watch the others while being less noticeable ourselves.
    As I settled into my chair, Saul leaned over and whispered, “I think Davis is looking for a new wife, at least that’s the buzz. Once the family situation over at Solomon’s gets cleared up, he’ll probably move over there. The house isn’t as pretty, but it’s a lot bigger.”
    Davis wove between the chairs, greeting each man personally, slapping him on the back, sharing brief comments. He didn’t ignore the women, either. Each woman, even the oldest, homeliest, and most pregnant received that seductive two-handed greeting he’d given me. What a politician!
    Saul nudged me. “Lena, didn’t you hear me?”
    “Sorry. What were you saying?” I watched Prophet Davis bend over a plain, dark-haired girl who looked much too young to be pregnant. When he patted her on her monstrous belly she looked up at him with adoration.
    “I’m trying to tell you about Solomon’s widows.” Saul kept his voice low as the seats around us began to fill.
    “Wait a minute. That girl Davis is talking to, she looks too young to be pregnant. What is she, all of fourteen?”
    “That’s Rosalinda and she looks younger than she is. She’s sixteen. You’ve already had the non-pleasure of meeting her husband, Earl Graff. But please quit ogling our handsome prophet and listen to me. All of Solomon’s widows are here, and I want you to pay real close attention to them. People say they weren’t all that crazy about Solomon while he was alive, but they look plenty miserable now.” He waved toward a group of silent women ranging from young teens to elderly grandmothers, sitting together in the middle rows. Like the women I’d seen earlier on the portch, their teeth were marred by untreated cavities and cheap bridgework.
    “What do you mean?” I stopped watching Davis’s meet-and-greet routine. Earl Graff’s head suddenly turned toward us and I realized I’d spoken too loudly. I lowered