Bingoed (12 page)

Chapter Nineteen

“Old wood best to burn, old wine to drink, old friends to trust, and old authors to read.”

—Francis Bacon

When she arrived back in her apartment, the telephone was ringing again. Oh no, she thought. Not again! However, when she answered, it was only her oldest daughter Prudence confirming her doctor appointment for the next morning. Prudence typically took her to all of her appointments and tomorrow’s outing was quite a distance—to a neighboring town where her gerontologist (a fancy term for old people’s doctor) had her office. Luckily, Essie only had to see this particular doctor twice a year. Essie considered the long trip a complete waste of time. The lady physician usually just asked her a few inane questions, renewed her prescription, and then sent her on her way. The only good thing about the outings was that she and Pru could enjoy all the wonderful flowering trees that lay between Happy Haven and the doctor’s faraway location.

Essie was exhausted—even more than usual. That encounter with Ben Jericho and the confrontation she was forced to endure with Violet had taken the stuffing out of her—as her father would have said. After a quick potty break, she rolled over to her bed and fell backwards onto her soft mattress. She was sound asleep in a few minutes. When she woke up—seemingly just a little bit later—she was refreshed. Glancing at her wristwatch, she realized that it was almost time for dinner. In fact, she expected the dinner call to come over the intercom at any moment. She pulled herself up. Her bones ached. She had been scooting around much too fast and much too far in the last day or two in her efforts to track down the cause of Bob Weiderley’s collapse at Bingo. She really needed to take it easy. And she would, she promised herself, just after she figured out what had happened to Bob and what she could do to help him.

Pulling herself upright and hanging onto her walker for support, she pushed herself into her bathroom and ran a brush through her newly coifed hair. How quickly a new style became disheveled! She looked like a chicken, feathers jutting out everywhere from her scalp. Oh, well, she shrugged, patting her nose with a small powder puff. That’s good enough for now. Grabbing the rubber handles on her walker, she headed out her apartment door just as the Intercom sizzled to life and Phyllis’s sweet voice sang out the call to dinner.

She was first at the entrance; the waiter in charge let her through and she wheeled herself to her table. Another waiter came around and poured her water and asked if she’d like anything to drink. She ordered iced tea and opened her menu and began to read the evening’s choices while she waited for Marjorie, Opal, and Fay to arrive. Soon more residents began to fill the hall. Eventually, her three table companions arrived, talking and laughing as they took their places. Waiters soon surrounded the table again and brought the newcomers their chosen drinks.

“I suppose I should call our meeting to order,” said Essie when the waiters had receded and the women were alone. “I have a lot to report. How about the rest of you?”

“Not much,” answered Marjorie, “because the lady who ran the trivia game today was brand new—a volunteer. It was her first time. I doubt she even knew the names of the players at the table, let alone any dirt on anyone else. Sorry.”

“What about the players?” asked Essie. “Did you get a chance to talk to any of them?”

“The only one that might be of interest to us was Hazel Brubaker,” said Marjorie. “I did sort of indicate to her my concern for Bob and she seemed thankful for it. He appears to be still in a coma. She did say that Rose was visiting him again today with her daughter.”

“That’s something,” said Essie. “Opal, look over at Bob’s table. Is Rose there?”

“No,” said Opal. “I only see two women at that table. I think just Hazel and Evelyn.”

“Maybe Rose is still at the hospital,” offered Marjorie.

“Maybe,” agreed Essie. “What about you, Opal? Did you find out anything at physical therapy?”

“Not about Bob,” noted tall, stern Opal, stretching out her arms, “but I did learn a few pieces of interesting information about some of the staff members.”

“Do tell,” said Marjorie, leaning over the table.

“You know the therapists come in from the outside. They’re not employed by Happy Haven directly. So, I’m guessing that the reason they talk among themselves about staff members here is probably because they know that no one here has any authority over them.”

“Probably,” agreed Essie.

“Anyway,” continued Opal, “one of the therapists who evidently has been working with patients here for many years was complaining about some of the procedures here. You know, how workers sometimes talk as if their clients either aren’t listening or don’t care about what they’re saying. Anyway, one therapist was complaining about Violet and her strict requirements for the therapists. The therapist was saying that she worked for this particular therapy service—not for Violet. She took her orders from this service, but Violet gave orders to her and expected her to obey them as if Violet had the authority to fire a therapist if she wanted.”

“Couldn’t Violet refuse to let a therapist work on a resident if she didn’t like the therapist?” asked Marjorie.

“I doubt it, unless the therapist did something so egregious that it became a matter of safety or legality,” countered Opal. “So, another therapist agreed with this first therapist and they went back and forth for a good twenty minutes complaining about Violet and what a dictator she was.”

“I don’t know if that helps us,” mused Essie. “We already knew Violet was strict and that the employees didn’t really like her.”

“That’s what I found out,” said Opal with a shrug. “Take it or leave it.” She turned her nose up slightly and inhaled deeply.

“What did you find out, Essie?” asked Marjorie. With a gleam in her eye, Essie proceeded to regale her tablemates with the new found knowledge that she had gleaned about Violet and the Board of Directors from Bev the beautician.

“I bet Fay can find out more about Violet and the Board of Directors and how she got her job,” suggested Opal. “What about it, Fay?”

Fay, who was starting to drift off, quickly perked up when she heard her name called.

“Fay, can you put those computer skills of yours to use and find out how Violet got her job here? Seems there was a battle among the members of the Board of Directors about her,” said Essie.

Fay smiled at Essie and then nodded slowly up and down, her eyes turning back to the kitchen.

“Does she understand?” Essie asked Opal and Marjorie.

“Who knows?” said Opal. “Just let the information sink in. Then just watch and wait. If she’s going to do something, she’ll do it.”

“Great,” noted Essie. “I hope she does something quickly.”

“Be patient, Essie,” said Marjorie calmly. “It’s not like we have to rush to meet a deadline.”

“You mean like if that Ben Jericho should arrive on the scene,” suggested Essie.

“Right,” said Opal. “At least that hasn’t happened.”

“But it has!” said Essie. “He arrived this afternoon! I saw him at the front desk!”

“Oh dear,” shrieked Marjorie. “What did you do?”

“I watched as Phyllis managed to talk him into leaving,” she said.

“Marvelous!” cried Opal. “That Phyllis is fantastic!”

“Not so fast,” said Essie, holding up her palms. “The man returned shortly afterwards and demanded to see the Director.”

“Violet!” cried Marjorie.

“The one and only,” said Essie. “I had barely returned to my room, thinking I was safe when Phyllis called and told me Violet wanted me in the lobby immediately.”

“Ooops!” said Marjorie, with a grimace.

Essie related to her friends the events that followed the confrontation between Violet, Ben Jericho, and herself. She also informed them that after talking to Jericho face-to-face she had changed her opinion of him and now believed that he was genuine and truly was trying to track down his biological father. “Although he didn’t tell me that,” she added. “Of course, I didn’t tell him where Bob was either—or even hint that I knew where he was. I think that’s just being cautious. And, of course, it’s none of my business. It’s totally up to Bob whether or not he wants to meet this Ben Jericho.”

“If he comes out of the coma,” suggested Opal.

“When,” Marjorie added firmly.

“So, Essie,” said Opal, “what’s our next step?”

“More investigation,” replied Essie. “Fay will look into the situation with Violet and the Board of Directors—and if she doesn’t, we can try to find out ourselves on that computer. I will try to find out how Bob is doing . . .”

“Essie, look!” Marjorie whispered, pulling on Essie’s sleeve. “Rose Lane just arrived at her table. She must have returned from visiting Bob at the hospital. She’s talking to Evelyn now. Hazel is listening, but Evelyn is clasping Rose’s hands.”

“Oh, my,” said Essie, glancing around so she could see the scene taking place at Bob Weiderley’s table. As Rose spoke to Evelyn, all three women could see a dramatic difference in the faces of Evelyn and Hazel, even from this distance. Both were now smiling broadly. Evelyn stood and hugged Rose tightly. Then all three women sat back down. “That looks like good news, wouldn’t you say?”

“I would,” said Opal, nodding. “Very good news.”

Suddenly the intercom sputtered to life, and Phyllis’s voice reverberated through the dining hall.

“Residents, I am happy to report that we have just received word that Bob Weiderley has come out of his coma. Doctors are cautiously optimistic about his recovery.”

At the announcement, a cheer arose throughout the dining hall followed by applause. Everyone looked over at Bob’s table and waved to Bob’s tablemates who in turn nodded and waved back to their friends around the room.

“This is fantastic news,” said Essie. “Once Bob returns, he’ll be able to deal with this Ben Jericho and we can bow out of the picture.”

“He may wonder where the letter is,” suggested Marjorie, “as he left it on his desk.”

“Yes,” said Essie, “I agree. We’re going to have to return that letter before Bob comes home.”

“We?” cried Opal.

“We broke into his apartment together,” argued Essie, “so we should break in together and return the letter.”

“Why don’t you just put it in his mailbox?” offered Marjorie.

“Bob’s not stupid!” countered Essie. “He knows where he left the letter—and it wasn’t in his mailbox.”

“I know,” suggested Opal, “just give the letter to one of the cleaning ladies. Tell her you found it on the floor and you don’t know where it belongs. She’ll see Bob’s name and she’ll probably put it in his apartment.”

“I can’t trust that anyone would do that,” said Essie. “A cleaning lady might just give the letter to Violet and she might see that it’s open and read it! No, we have to return it ourselves.”

Oh, all right, Essie,” said Marjorie. “I’ll help you.”

“I will too,” Opal agreed begrudgingly.

“Let’s do it right after dinner,” said Essie. “There’s some piano player performing tonight so most residents will be in the lobby listening and the hallways should be fairly deserted.”

“We can leave Fay at the computer,” suggested Opal. “Maybe she’ll find something about Violet while we’re breaking and entering.”

“You’ll have to get the security lock key again,” said Essie to Opal.

“I know,” said Opal, “and I can snag it if you and Marjorie will distract Phyllis for a minute or two.”

“Done!” chirped Marjorie.

“Let’s go!” said Marjorie, “I’d like to finish my burgling early so I can come listen to Liberace or whoever is playing.”

Chapter Twenty

“What most persons consider as virtue, after the age of 40 is simply a loss of energy.”

—Voltaire

After again swiping the security lock key from the small basket on Phyllis’s desk, Opal joined Essie and Marjorie. The three women parked Fay in front of one of the computer terminals in the family room and then took the elevator back to Bob’s apartment on the second floor. They repeated the same routine they had used previously with Opal standing guard by the corner where the back hallway met the main hallway. Essie and Marjorie removed the lock and slipped quietly inside Bob’s apartment. Once inside, Essie removed the envelope from under her walker seat and placed it back on Bob’s desk in the same position in which she found it—she thought.

“Does this look natural, Marjorie?” she asked her friend who was standing near the door.

“Come on, Essie,” whispered Marjorie, “Just drop it and let’s get going.”

“But I want to put it just like I found it.”

“I don’t remember what it looked like because you grabbed it while I was in the bedroom.”

“Come here.”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake!” Marjorie scooted over to the desk. “It looks fine. Leave it and let’s go.”

“Maybe more like this,” said Essie, turning the blotter sideways and slipping the envelope into the side sleeves. As she lifted up the corner of the large rectangle, Marjorie looked underneath.

“Essie, what’s that?”

“What?” She set the blotter to the side of the desk and picked up an aged piece of folded newsprint.

“Open it,” demanded Marjorie.

Carefully, Essie unfolded the newspaper article, revealing an old police report from the Hartford Journal of 1995. A short paragraph indicated the arrest and conviction of one Violet Hendrickson for DUI. An accompanying photograph showed the Violet they knew but younger and looking nowhere near as glamorous as she presently did. Marjorie read over Essie’s shoulder. As soon as they had completed reading the short paragraph, the two women looked at each other.

“Violet has a criminal record,” whispered Marjorie.

“And Bob knew about it,” added Essie.

“That’s not good,” said Marjorie.

“Not if Violet knew he knew,” agreed Essie. “Let’s get out of here. I’m leaving both of these items.” She replaced the newspaper clipping under the blotter and the envelope on top.

They quickly exited the apartment, replaced the lock, and rolled themselves down the hallway where they caught up with Opal standing guard at the juncture to the main corridor. The ladies rolled together around the corner and down the long carpeted hall. At the elevator, when the door opened, they found themselves staring directly into the faces of the three women who had become known to them as Bob’s girls.

“Essie!” cried Evelyn, tonight wearing a particularly lovely purple silk scarf wrapped and tied around her head. “Did you hear about Bob?”

“Yes,” replied Essie, somewhat flustered, “how wonderful! He’s out of the coma, I hear!”

“Yes, how wonderful!” agreed Opal and Marjorie.

“I was there in his hospital room when he came to,” said Rose, beaming and squeezing Evelyn’s arm protectively. Hazel stood on the other side of Evelyn, very close to her, somewhat like a guard dog.

“How is he . . . doing?” asked Essie. “Do the doctors think he’ll be coming home soon?”

“It’s too soon to tell,” said Rose, “but I know he wants to get back here as fast as he can.” She squeezed Evelyn’s arm again and smiled warmly at her friend. Hazel touched her hand to Evelyn’s shoulder.

“Did you speak to him?” Marjorie asked Rose.

“Just a bit,” answered Rose, “then the nurses swished us out of his room so they could run tests. It’s fine with me. Just knowing he’s coming back soon is all that matters, isn’t that right, Evelyn?”

“Yes!” said Evelyn, who had one small tear rolling down her cheek.

Essie, Opal, and Marjorie smiled warmly at the three women and then cautiously traded places with them in the elevator. Rose and Hazel both used canes. Evelyn used nothing, but even so she seemed the frailest of the three. Essie, Opal, and Marjorie all used walkers and the small elevator was briefly the site of a major traffic jam.

“Bye!” all of the women called out to each other as the elevator doors closed.

“How strange!” said Opal when the three women were alone in the elevator.

“That they all seemed really happy that Bob is going to be okay?” asked Marjorie.

“Rose and Hazel are very solicitous of Evelyn,” said Opal.

“She’s been ill, Opal,” noted Essie, “and undergoing chemotherapy. Did you see how she was walking? Rose and Hazel had to practically hold her up and they were the ones with the canes—not her.”

“I guess that’s it,” agreed Opal. When they reached the family room, they saw Fay tapping away at the computer keyboard.

“My goodness, look at her go,” said Marjorie. “What is she doing?”

“Maybe she’s found some more dirt on Violet,” offered Essie. The three rolled their carts over to where Fay was working diligently at the terminal. Fay turned and saw her friends had arrived. She hit the “print” button and the wheels of the printer behind the monitor started to spin and soon dozens of pages of printed material began pouring forth.

“What is all this?” asked Essie, gathering the pages together.

“Why don’t you take it and read it, Essie?” suggested Opal. “I should probably see that Fay gets back to her room now.” Opal tapped Fay on the shoulder and motioned that they should leave. Fay rolled the wheels on her chair back and then forward until she was aimed in the direction of the elevator and the two friends headed into the open chamber with the door closing behind them.

“Do you want me to read some of that, Essie?” asked Marjorie, pointing to the sheets of paper in Essie’s hands.

“No,” said Essie, shaking her head. “I asked for it, so I’d better read it. I can’t imagine that Fay actually found any real dirt on Violet, but it’ll give me something to do tonight before bed.”

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” said Marjorie and she headed off down her hallway.

Essie straightened up her pile of papers, tucked them inside her walker’s compartment and rolled herself down her hallway to her apartment. Once inside, she sat down in her armchair and began to glance at the papers Fay had printed.

She wasn’t exactly certain what all of the verbiage was. The tops of most of the pages were labeled “Minutes” and there was a date on each page. One page had a heading “Board of Directors’ Annual Meeting, Happy Haven Assisted Living Facility.” The date on each page was “June 15
^th
, 1995.” Hmm, thought Essie. Quite possibly, the minutes from this Board meeting might indicate just what the flack was over the hiring of Violet Hendrickson—why one Board member wanted to hire her—and one didn’t. Did one of the Board members know about Violet’s DUI? Or her past as a college protestor? Unfortunately, the minutes were written in boring prose—and proved very difficult to read with lots of “therefores” and “whereas’s.” Essie had completed about three out of the dozens of pages Fay had printed, when her nighttime aide, Connie, arrived to get her ready for bed and give her her bedtime meds.