Bingoed (5 page)

Chapter Six

“I still have a full deck; I just shuffle slower now.”

—Author Unknown

“Essie,” said Marjorie, poking her friend. “It’s your turn. Play.”

“Um, I’ll meld,” responded Essie, glancing down at her cards and then placing most of them in columns in front of her. She and her tablemates had gathered in the family room for a quick game of canasta before lunch call. They were lucky to get through a round in an hour because Fay constantly had to be awakened to play her hand. Despite this delay, Fay usually made relatively competent moves. Her sleepiness was apparently more an issue of exhaustion or boredom rather than an indication of senility.

Opal followed Essie by adding a king of hearts to one of her columns.

Marjorie poked Fay who sat on her left. Fay awoke promptly, took a quick glance at the previously played cards, her own hand, and discarded a black three of clubs. Marjorie also played a black three.

“Essie, back to you!” chortled Opal to Essie who was staring out the full-length glass window.

“Essie,” added Marjorie, “get with the game!”

“What?” said Essie, looking from one friend to another.

“Are you still fretting over Bob Weiderley?” asked Marjorie.

“You didn’t go pester his tablemates, did you?” asked Opal.

“I didn’t pester anyone, Opal,” said Essie, defensively. “I merely spoke with them. And, they don’t know why Bob collapsed.”

“I told you so,” said Opal. “Your snooping is just a waste of time.”

“Actually, it wasn’t,” said Essie. “I found out from Evelyn that Bob had become very upset yesterday about something, sometime between lunch and dinner. He said he wanted to talk to her about it after Bingo, but of course, we know what happened there.”

“Does she know what it was about?” asked Marjorie.

“No, unfortunately not,” said Essie, playing another card.

“Then it’s just like I said. None of them really knows anything.”

“But they know that he was unusually upset about something very specific.”

“What could it be, Essie?” asked Marjorie. “What could it possibly be?”

Essie set her hand of cards face down on the table and leaned in close to her three friends. Fay woke up and, startled to see three faces bent so close together, joined them.

“I know one thing it isn’t,” she whispered to the three women.

“What?” they all asked in unison.

“Money.”

“Why do you say that?” asked Marjorie.

“Because I found out just a little while ago that Bob Weiderley is not hurting for money. Indeed, he’s not hurting at all. He’s actually a multi-millionaire.”

“What?” asked Opal.

“Don’t ask me how I know, but I know. And that’s not the half of it. Guess who’s the beneficiary in his will?”

“I don’t know,” said Marjorie. “He doesn’t have any family—no children.”

“Right,” agreed Essie. “Bob has left his entire estate to us!”

“Us?” replied Opal, aghast. “You mean the four of us?”

“No, silly! Us! Happy Haven! His entire estate goes to Happy Haven!”

“Who knows this?” asked Marjorie.

“I’m assuming Happy Haven knows. That means Violet.”

“Violet!” shouted Fay out loud. “Violet knows!”

“Quiet, Fay!” shushed Essie.

“Essie,” said Marjorie, her index finger pointing in the air. “Does that mean that you suspect Violet of—of causing Bob’s collapse at Bingo last night?”

Essie looked back and forth at the three faces. The three women stared at her with great anticipation. She hesitated before she spoke.

“I don’t think so,” she replied carefully. “I mean, Violet doesn’t own Happy Haven; she’s just the Director. If Happy Haven gets a lot of money from someone’s inheritance—and I’m sure it does from time to time—Violet doesn’t profit personally.”

“She did get new curtains in her office last year,” noted Opal slyly, a satisfied smirk on her face.

“New curtains!” said Fay, nodding.

“But not five million dollar curtains,” added Essie is a conspiratorial whisper.

“So, who does profit if Happy Haven is left money in a will? What do they do with it? Does any person benefit?” This was Marjorie thinking out loud. The other women listened and nodded as she made each point.

“There’s a Board of Directors,” said Essie. “HH is run by a company which has a Board. I don’t believe it’s owned by an individual. I’ve never paid much attention. My children pay all my bills.”

“The Board probably just put it in their endowment and use it to pay their taxes,” noted Opal.

“Oh, you would know from endowments, Opal?” sassed Marjorie.

“Ladies,” cautioned Essie. “This is all speculation. Remember, Bob is—as far as we know—still very much alive.”

“Very much alive!” agreed Fay, nodding so hard her glasses fell off of her nose.

“Yes, but five million dollars seems like quite a motive to me!” suggested Marjorie.

“It’s only a motive if you are the beneficiary—and you’re not—and neither is Violet!” Opal argued.

“What I recommend we do is keep our eyes and ears open!” said Essie. “And don’t let on we know anything about Bob’s finances or his will.”

“I won’t tell a soul,” said Marjorie.

“Neither will I,” said Opal. “Not that you need to ask.”

“Tell who what?” asked Fay.

“Never mind, Fay,” said Essie, patting Fay’s hand. “You just keep doing what you’re doing.” Fay smiled, picked up her cards, and peered at them intently.

“Canasta!” shouted Fay and placed the remaining cards in her hand on the columns on the board.

“She just won!” said Opal, aghast. “I didn’t even think she was paying attention.”

“You sly minx, Fay,” said Marjorie, pinching one of Fay’s chubby cheeks.

“It just goes to show that you should never underestimate little old ladies in wheel chairs. You never know what they might be up to!” said Essie with a smile.

“
Good morning, residents!” rang out a soothing voice over the intercom system. The four friends silenced their discussion and returned to their card game, as the melodious voice read announcements for the next day, including a list of upcoming social activities.

“And don’t forget to sign up for the botanical gardens field trip,” urged the voice. “Remember, the Reardon local gardens have some of the most exquisite indigenous flowering plants in the four-state area. We still have room for three more participants. Just add your name to the sign-up sheet at the front desk. Buses leave for the gardens this Thursday.”

“You should go on that trip,” suggested Marjorie to Essie. “You love gardening!”

“Not someone else’s gardening!” responded Essie. “I hate field trips.”

“Why on earth would you say that?” queried Opal.

“I hate being cooped up.”

“Cooped up?” asked Marjorie. “You mean cooped up away from a bathroom?”

“That too,” noted Essie. “There’s never a toilet around when you need one.”

“Toilet!” added Fay, as she played another card, reaching her pudgy arm out and plopping the queen down on her column.

“Some of those big buses have toilets,” suggested Opal. “But probably not the Happy Haven bus.”

“I would never use a toilet on a bus!” exclaimed Essie. “What do you take me for? A homeless person? There’s probably graffiti on the walls. Besides, the problem is getting to the bathroom on the bus—in time.”

“Oh, I see,” offered Opal sympathetically.

“Essie,” scowled Marjorie. “You shouldn’t let a little—incontinence—get in your way. I know I don’t! They make some remarkable products for women like us nowadays.” Marjorie smoothed her skirt and sat up a little taller in her chair.

“Then you have no shame, Marjorie!” countered Essie.

The announcer’s voice continued over the intercom. “Happy Haven will be sending flowers to the following residents who are hospitalized: Glenda Stearns, Mamie Morgan, Eloise Steinberger, and Bob Weiderley. If you would like to sign a get well card for any of these residents, see Phyllis at the front desk. You have until 7 p.m. tonight.”

“I guess if they’re sending Bob flowers and a get well card, it must mean he’s still alive,” said Opal. She bit her lip, contemplating her next move.

“But is he still in a coma? That’s the more important question,” added Essie. She looked at Opal, waiting for her to make her move. Finally, Opal discarded a six of diamonds.

“Fay, it’s your turn!” said Marjorie, nudging the little woman to her left. Fay shook herself and looked pointedly at the cards on the table and squinted her eyes. Then, with a slow, careful movement she placed all of the cards in her hand on the columns of cards on the table in front of her.

“I’m out,” she said, smiling sweetly at her three card partners.

“What!” screamed Opal. “You can’t be out! We barely started!”

“How did you do that, Fay?” asked Marjorie, bending over and examining Fay’s cards.

“I don’t believe it,” said Essie, shaking her head. “No, I take that back. Actually, now, I’ll believe anything.”

“Oh, well,” said Marjorie in resignation as she stood up. “It’s almost time for lunch. I need to get to my room for a bit. I’ll see you all in a while.” She gathered her purse, placed it atop her walker seat, and wheeled herself away.

Opal gathered the cards from the table and placed them in a box and then wheeled over and returned them to a cupboard near the wall.

“Fay,” said Essie. “What do you think happened to Bob Weiderley? I think you know more than you let on.” She leaned in towards the rosy-cheeked woman with the thin but fluffy head of grey hair and waited for what she assumed would be a revelatory remark.

“Box,” said Fay. Essie turned around towards Opal who was placing the box of cards in the cupboard.

“The card box?” she asked Fay. “The box where we keep the cards? Is that what you mean?”

“Box,” replied Fay enigmatically. Opal wheeled back to the table and remained standing.

“Fay, are you ready to go back to your room? I have some things to do before lunch. We’ll see you at lunch, Essie.” Opal headed towards the elevator with Fay following behind in her wheelchair. The two soon disappeared behind the elevator doors. Essie sat at the card table, thinking. Then, she pulled herself up and rolled her walker away the short distance down her hallway to her apartment.

Chapter Seven

“A man is not old as long as he is seeking something.”

—Jean Rostand

At lunch, the four women continued their furtive discussion about Bob Weiderley and the cause of his sudden collapse. Essie noticed immediately as she looked around the room that all three of Bob’s tablemates were at their assigned dining spots. She smiled and waved discreetly at them from across the dining hall. Santos arrived and the women placed their orders—with the most popular request being Croque Monsieur.

“Let’s put our heads together,” said Essie as soon as Santos had returned to the kitchen. “We need to consider everything we now know about Bob and his situation. Then we need to decide what we need to do next.”

“Do?” exclaimed Opal. “What can we possibly do, Essie? We’re four old ladies in an assisted living facility.”

“I don’t know—maybe nothing,” said Essie, ignoring Opal. “But let’s not get ahead of ourselves. First, let’s figure out exactly what we do know.”

“We know that Bob collapsed during Bingo and had to be taken away in an ambulance. We know he’s in a coma in Fairview Hospital now,” said Marjorie.

“We know that Bob was really upset about something,” said Opal.

“And we know that whatever upset him, happened sometime yesterday between lunch and dinner,” added Essie.

“We know that Bob is a multi-millionaire,” said Opal, lowering her voice to a whisper, “and that he’s left his entire fortune to Happy Haven.”

“We also know that Bob has no family,” said Marjorie.

“That anyone knows about,” said Essie.

“So,” said Essie, “we can conclude—if nothing else—that it is possible that someone might have had a motive to murder Bob.”

“But who? Does it mean that everyone who lives at Happy Haven has a motive to kill him because he’s willed his money to Happy Haven?” asked Marjorie.

“Unlikely,” said Essie. “But I don’t think we know enough about Happy Haven—its structure, its hierarchy to make a determination about that.”

“How can we find out?” asked Marjorie, bouncing a bit in her chair with excitement.

“Let me think about that,” replied Essie, just as Santos arrived with their Croque Monsieurs. The women ceased their discussion and for a few moments all four heads were bent over the crispy, crunchy sandwiches filled with ham and cheese. Soon, all four plates were nothing but a landscape of crumbs. The four friends sipped their coffees and teas as Santos placed chocolate pudding cake before each.

“Ladies like Croque Monsieurs?” asked Santos as he distributed the desserts.

“Oh, yes, Santos,” said Marjorie. “Delicious! I wish we had them more often.”

“They’re tasty,” agreed Opal, “but I’m afraid they’re quite fattening.”

“Ladies at this table no need worry fattening,” said Santos, cheerfully.

“You’re a diplomat, Santos,” added Essie. “Do you hear anything from Bob Weiderley’s table? I see his tablemates are here.”

“Yes,” said Santos, wiping his hands on his dish towel. “Mr. Bob’s ladies say he still in coma. But say doctors very hopeful.”

“Yes, that’s what we heard,” noted Essie. “I just wish we knew more. Santos, you waited on Bob last night at dinner, didn’t you?”

“Yes, Miss Essie. Mr. Bob very worried.”

“You noticed it too?”

“Ladies look at him a lot. Ladies very worried for Mr. Bob.”

“What did Bob eat last night?”

“Can’t remember,” replied the waiter. “Oh, yes, now remember. Mr. Bob not very hungry, he said. He only wanted some soup. I bring him chicken soup. He only eat a little bit of it. You ladies want more coffee?” he asked finally.

“No,” replied Essie, “I’m fine.”

“Me too,” added Marjorie.

“Same here,” said Opal.

“Coffee, Miss Fay?” Santos asked the wheelchair-bound lady, leaning in and speaking in her ear as she was snoring softly.

“What?” asked Fay, startled to discover the young brown face directly in front of hers.

Santos pulled back a bit, and repeated his request, “Would you like some more coffee, Miss Fay?”

Fay shook her head, smiling warmly at the waiter. Her cheeks reddened—even more than her usual rosy glow. Santos shrugged and headed back to the kitchen.

Essie glanced at Opal and Marjorie with a double-take.

“Fay?” asked Essie. “I think you like Santos, don’t you?”

“Who?” answered Fay, turning away from Essie. She quickly dozed off again.

“Why did you ask him about what Bob ate for supper?” asked Opal.

“I was just wondering if it might have been possible for someone to poison his meal?” she said.

“What?” exclaimed Marjorie, dropping her half-filled cup and splattering coffee on her lap.

“I said I was thinking that it might have been possible that Bob was poisoned,” repeated Essie.

“Why would anyone want to poison him?” asked Opal, also plunking her cup down on her saucer.

“Doesn’t anyone remember that five million dollar will?” Essie whispered.

“But no one at his table would benefit personally from his will,” said Marjorie.

“It wouldn’t have to be someone at his table,” contemplated Essie, still holding her cup and bringing it to her lips for a brief sip.

“Who are you thinking?” asked Opal.

“Just think. Bob’s table is right by the door. People are walking by it as they go in and out. All sorts of people come and go that way—possibly people no one knows—and anyone could slip some powder or liquid into Bob’s soup without him or any of his tablemates noticing.” Essie had set forth her case. Now she sat back in her chair and waited for her jury’s reaction.

“That’s ridiculous, Essie!” said Marjorie. “Surely, one of them would notice if somebody tried to put something in Bob’s food.”

“I agree!” said Opal. “Not to mention the fact that we haven’t established that anyone had any reason to want Bob dead—except for the money in his will—which we all know wasn’t left to any one person here, but to the entire facility. I don’t see how that would be a motive for murder.”

“And,” added Marjorie, “he didn’t collapse at supper; he collapsed at Bingo, and he wasn’t eating then.”

“It could have been a slow-acting poison!” argued Essie.

“If that’s the case, maybe someone poisoned him three weeks ago when he was on the field trip to the natural history museum,” suggested Opal.

“Really, Essie,” exclaimed Marjorie, “you are usually so level-headed, but this line of reasoning is just. . . just foolish!”

“You’re right,” agreed Essie, looking directly at Marjorie. “I don’t know why I didn’t think of it . . .”

“Of what?” asked Marjorie.

“Bob wasn’t poisoned in his soup . . .” she said. “He was poisoned some other way. Possibly he was so agitated because he’d had some sort of encounter with the poisoner. And it must have occurred yesterday afternoon.”

“You are really off the deep end,” said Opal, shaking her head.

“Oh, I don’t know if he was poisoned, but something happened yesterday afternoon—between lunch and dinner—that upset him terribly. This something probably led to or at least contributed to his collapse. Are we agreed on that?”

The women nodded in agreement, even Fay, although Fay continued to nod after the others had stopped.

“Then we have to find out what it was,” pronounced Essie.

“But, Essie, you said that none of the women at his table even had a clue about what was upsetting Bob. If they don’t know, how do you expect us to find out?” pleaded Marjorie.

“I can think of one way,” said Essie.

“What?” asked Marjorie and Opal. Fay looked from one friend to another.

“Break into his apartment.”

“What?”

“Break into Bob’s apartment,” repeated Essie.

“Just what do you expect to find there?” asked Opal.

“I don’t know. Maybe a clue as to who poisoned him or why he was so upset last night or something,” she offered. Then she sighed and gave them all a sad smile.

“I don’t think it’s wise, Essie,” said Marjorie. “You could get in lots of trouble.”

“What are they going to do to me? Arrest me? Old lady breaks into old man’s room at assisted living facility! Story at ten! All they’d do is give me a reprimand—like I’m a school girl,” Essie explained.

“Actually,” said Opal. “It probably wouldn’t be hard at all. I mean, hardly anyone locks their doors unless they’re leaving the building.”

“True,” agreed Marjorie.

“I say we head out to Bob’s room right now and case the joint,” said Essie, cajoling.

“Wait a minute,” said Opal, holding up her hands as Marjorie and Essie started to leave. “Where is Bob’s room?”

“Ooops!” said Essie, sitting back down. “I could ask Hazel or Rose or Evelyn but I’m afraid they’d want to know why we wanted to know where Bob’s room was.”

“True,” agreed Marjorie. “I know he’s on the second floor, but I don’t know what wing he’s in.”

“We could just roam up and down all the residential hallways on the second floor looking at the names on the doors until we find it,” suggested Essie.

“I should help Fay get back to her room,” said Opal.

“Then Marjorie and I will go look for Bob’s room,” said Essie. “You take Fay back. It’s probably better that we keep this a smaller group so none of the aides or directors get suspicious.”

The four women nodded to each other and then headed out of the dining hall. Opal and Fay went first while Essie and Marjorie sat in the lobby for a few moments. After a while, they rose and pressed the button for the elevator. When they reached the second floor, they hesitated.

“Let’s think about this first,” said Essie. “We’d probably save time if each of us takes a different hallway. If you find Bob’s room, you come find me. If I find his room, I’ll come find you.”

“All right, Essie,” agreed Marjorie. “I’ll take the two hallways on the right and you take the ones on the left.” Essie agreed to this plan and the two women started to roll their walkers away down the first hallway they intended to check.

As Essie glided down the silent hallway, she realized how much quieter the second floor was compared to the first floor. She had gotten used to the ambient noise from the lobby and family room that seeped through her walls. Up here, the hallways were like a tomb—no people, no sound. Essie moved her walker along the carpeted floor, carefully glancing at each doorway to note the name of the resident who lived there. Each door had a gold nameplate and all nameplates had a name—unless of course no resident lived there. However, that happened seldom because when a resident moved away or died (the last option being the more common), the suites were quickly filled by new residents. Happy Haven was a popular assisted living facility and many older people wanted to live there.

As she rounded the corner at the end of the hallway, she found what she was looking for—Bob Weiderley’s apartment, immediately on her left. Unfortunately, on his door was also a massive metal lock—the kind the police place on doors at crime scenes. She realized that they had probably placed this external lock on Bob’s door so that no one (and “no one” meant aides, cleaning people, or residents) could get into his apartment while he was in the hospital. She remembered that she had seen a similar lock on her neighbor Charlene’s door when Charlene was in rehab for several weeks after breaking her leg. It took a special key to open the external lock and she had no idea where to find it. She rolled her walker around and sat on its built-in seat. Then she bent down to examine the structure of the lock, with the idea that possibly she could use a knife or a bobby pin to pry it open. A shadow appeared.

“What are you doing?” Essie popped upright, startled. Standing in front of her, hands on hips, was Violet Hendrickson, Director of Happy Haven.

“Violet! Miss Hendrickson!” sputtered Essie. “I . . . I . . . was just curious about these . . . locks. I just saw it on this door and wondered how it worked. You know, how it was attached and how it kept people from getting in.”

“This isn’t your room, Essie,” said the tall woman, ignoring Essie’s excuses. She tapped her manicured fingertip on the sleeve of her beautiful purple designer suit coat.

“I know,” replied Essie, blushing. “I was just out for some exercise. You know, Miss Hendrickson. You always tell us how important it is to get some daily exercise . . .”

“That doesn’t explain why you’re trying to remove the lock from Mr. Weiderley’s door,” continued the Director, with no sign of warmth or understanding on her severe but carefully made up face.

“Oh, no, Miss Hendrickson!” said Essie. “I’m certainly not trying to remove it! I know how important it is to keep poachers out. I was just looking to see how it works. You know, how one could devise some sort of lock to place over a doorknob that would secure a door from outside. Really quite inventive!”

“That’s why we use them,” responded Violet Hendrickson. “They’re quite strong—and fool-proof. You can’t remove one without the key.”

“That’s wonderful!” noted Essie, stuttering. “Really, wonderful! I’d hate to see anyone break into Mr. Weiderley’s apartment while the poor man is stuck in the hospital. He’s such a nice gentleman. All of the ladies at my table admire him so much, we all . . .”