Bingo You're Dead Read online

  “Thanks, guys,” I yelled to their backs hustling down the hall.

  “Late for bingo,” somebody called back.

  Tippi stood by scowling as I struggled to my feet and unscrewed the troll from my ear. She motioned for me to follow, her red Reeboks disappearing down the hall to the lounge, past the multipurpose room that doubles as a dining hall. Besides lunch, it’s where we hold large events, dances, or—like today—bingo.

  I could see we had a near-capacity crowd, with two hundred septuagenarians intent on the numbered gray squares in front of them. An enormous screen at the front of the room, like the scoreboard at a Cincinnati Bearcats basketball game, electronically recorded each number as it was announced. The stakes are high enough—typically $50 to $200 in an afternoon—so the players are deadly serious—too serious for my taste. I have a hard time keeping my mouth shut and my wisecracks have gotten me expelled from a game on more than one occasion.

  I hurried to keep up. Tippi hates bingo and usually refuses to come near the center on game days. I figured some cataclysmic event brought her here today.

  “You have something stuck in your teeth,” she called over her shoulder.

  I worked my tongue around a stray sliver of strawberry, stalling for time. “Tippi, something’s happened.”

  She pulled a bench into the corner behind the piano. “Keep it down,” she said, ignoring me. She patted the curls springing from her head like corkscrews. “We’ve got trouble.”

  I took her chin in my hand and turned her face toward mine. “Tell me later. First, I have some bad news.”

  “What? What’s wrong?”

  “Alice Duns has died.”

  “What? What do you mean? That can’t be. She’s our lead kazooist. She’s helping Gus with the competition. She’s going on vacation, Hank. She can’t be...”

  “I know, honey.” I reached out but she slapped my hand away.

  “Is this one of your sick jokes, Hank Klaber? Well, it’s not a bit funny.”

  I reached for her hand and waited for the news to sink in. Her eyes grew wide.

  “I can’t believe it,” she cried and held out her arms for comfort.

  When she regained her composure, she straightened up and looked me squarely in the eye. “All right, I got that out of my system. Now tell me everything. When did it happen? Was it a heart attack? She seemed so healthy. I bet it was the crazy diet she was on. You know she gave up carbs and sugar and of course, your body needs those for energy and then...”

  I took her hands in mine. “All I know is what Sheriff Grange told Regina and me. I was at the diner when he came with the news.”

  “Oh my God, poor Regina. Where is she now? I need to be with her, Hank. Come on, let’s go.”

  “Okay, but first I need to let Applebee know so he can tell the band. They’re supposed to practice after lunch. Wittekind can tell the others once we’re gone. You go splash some water on your face and meet me at my car. I’m parked out back.”

  …

  “Now,” Tippi said, fastening her seatbelt, “tell me what Grange said.”

  I filled her in on what I knew. Tippi started crying again. I fished in my pocket for a Kleenex but came up with a handful of discarded candy wrappers.

  “Really, Hank,” she scolded, smacking my hand away. “What does Grange think it was?”

  “He wouldn’t say.”

  “There has to be a simple explanation.”

  “I don’t know. He acted real funny. He said they would know more after the autopsy.”

  …

  Grange met us at the front door of Regina’s neat little ranch-style home. “Thanks for coming, guys. I have to get back to Joe’s and I didn’t like leaving her alone.”

  Tippi brushed past him and went inside.

  “This is going to be a rough one, Hank.”

  I waited for the sheriff to go on.

  “This is between you and me?”

  “Of course.”

  “This was no heart attack.” He paused. “And it was no accident, either.”

  FOUR

  “No one will tell me anything.” Regina accepted a cup of tea from Tippi, who had taken charge of the kitchen.

  “There has to be a simple explanation.” Tippi spooned three towering helpings of sugar into her cup. “She must have had some health problem. Maybe she didn’t tell you?”

  “No. She just had a physical last month for a vacation we were planning. She talked me into going on a rafting trip down the Colorado River next spring, and she wanted to make sure she was up for it before we paid the deposit. She told me the doctor said she wished she were in such good shape.”

  “Rafting?” My jaw dropped. For once I was speechless.

  Regina nodded. “Also, Pete Grange acted real weird and wouldn’t tell me anything. He only said that the coroner would let me know more after the autopsy.”

  “SOP.” Tippi scowled when she caught me trying to hide a grin. “Standard Operating Procedure,” she talked right over me when I tried to say I knew what the term meant. “I’m thinking Joe’s a person of interest,” she said smugly.

  “You mean suspect,” I said and resisted the urge to mention that real life police work may be different from the kind portrayed on Law and Order, Tippi’s favorite TV show.

  She patted my hand and ordered me to find some cookies “before my blood sugar plummets and I go into a coma.”

  As I searched Regina’s pantry for the lifesaving cookies, I felt as though I were swimming underwater—the sights and sounds around me were muffled and surreal. I needed an excuse to get away from the women before I let Grange’s remarks to me slip out. Tippi was still trying to understand what happened when I returned with two slices of chocolate pie I’d found in the fridge.

  “Oh, this is better than cookies.” She forked a mouthful of the pie into her mouth. Regina let go with another round of weeping. Once she pulled herself together, she wiped her nose on my sleeve.

  I moved an arm’s length away. “I think the best thing for us to do right now is sit tight and wait for the autopsy report. Speculating isn’t going to help anybody. Okay?”

  Regina nodded and took a deep breath. Tippi came up with a box of tissues and handed one to her. She patted Regina’s shoulder with one hand while polishing off the second piece of pie with the other.

  FIVE

  I left to check on Regina’s daughters at the diner. News of Alice’s death had already reached the popular lunch spot by the time I arrived. Customers were in the kitchen, cooking, cleaning up, and getting out food orders. Susan and Ann sat in a corner booth; their faces white, the shock of what happened beginning to register. I reassured them that their mom was okay, and Tippi would stay with her until they got back.

  “I can finish putting up the decorations if you want,” I offered, looking for a way to stay busy. Susan nodded and Ann gave me a weak smile. Someone brought them cold sodas and left to take orders from the new customers who were arriving for lunch. Patrons spoke in whispers and stopped to hug the girls on their way out, offering their condolences and to help manage the restaurant for as long as needed.

  It felt bizarre to be hanging up grinning jack-o-lanterns and witches on broomsticks, but it helped me feel useful. I worked my way around the room, leaving a trail of crepe paper, cardboard pumpkins, and plastic orange flowers.

  “Look good?” I said to a couple finishing their generous slices of homemade peach pie. The man gave me a thumb’s up, but his companion wiped away a tear and shook her head.

  “Maybe I should stick to what I know,” I said, pointing to the trash bags stacked beside the rear door. She responded with her own thumb’s up.

  I emptied the garbage cans, washed a couple of pots, and refilled drinks. When I’d exhausted my repertoire of skills, I hugged the girls again, and took a last look around. Seeing friends, neighbors, and even a couple of strangers pitching in to help made me remember why I’d picked Goose Down to call home.

  Outside, a
coating of ice covered the truck. It took several minutes of chipping away before I could get the door open. I had to wait for the defrosters to kick in before I went to work on the windshield. I should call Tippi. Damn. It was times like this when I wished I had a cell phone. Tippi told me it was my stubborn German pride keeping me in the Dark Ages. “Mark my words,” she’d said after an argument on the subject, “this is going to bite you in the ass one day.”

  So far, my ass remains unbitten. I can’t say that’s something I want to brag about though.

  I warmed up the truck and decided I needed some fresh air to clear out the cobwebs. I turned toward Fernald, my old workplace, just down the road.

  …

  The day after I graduated from high school, my parents decided to encourage me to become independent by kicking me out of the house.

  “Time to be a grownup, son.” My dad said, handing me the keys to his ancient DeSoto. He’d packed the car with all my stuff and told me to call when I got settled. My mom handed me a paper bag with a cheese sandwich and an apple and kissed my cheek.

  With nowhere else to go, I wound up at a Marine enlistment center and by the end of the day, I was on my way to boot camp. I survived two tours of duty in Vietnam, and when I came home to anything but a hero’s welcome, I signed up for the GI Bill and spent the next six years in night school at the University of Cincinnati. My days were split between my studies and selling used cars to support my wife Nancy and our baby daughter Rachel. After graduation, with the ink on my chemical engineering degree still damp, I landed a job at Fernald, a quasi-secret facility twenty miles west of Cincinnati that produced uranium for use in the government’s growing nuclear weapons arsenal. I used to tell Nancy if it hadn’t been for Fernald, I wouldn’t have the special glow that she loved about me.

  The shit hit the fan when the public learned the plant had released millions of pounds of uranium dust into the atmosphere, polluting the air, the soil, and the Great Miami River aquifer from which Goose Down and much of the neighboring area draws its water supply. I was handed a hefty severance check for my trouble and tossed unceremoniously into early retirement.

  Although the property will never be fit for human habitation, years of cleanup have reversed some of the damage done to the area. The place is now a nature preserve. The walking trails through fields of wildflowers, open vistas with decks for birding, and wetlands offering refuge to the returning species that once lived in the area have replaced the silos and slag heaps of the original plant.

  It’s a perfect place to think.

  …

  On the way, I stopped at home to change into my hiking boots and a windbreaker. By the time I reached the park and pulled into the empty parking lot near the visitor’s center, I could see the sudden change in the weather had chased other hikers away. I was grateful for the solitude.

  As I walked, I thought about the last time I’d spoken to Alice. We were at the center, playing Scrabble. From where we sat in the lounge, we had a clear view of the Fire and Sheriff’s Departments across the field. When one of the fire trucks pulled out of the garage, lights blazing and siren blaring, I’d made some remark about the firemen, and Alice jumped on my case.

  “It’s firefighter, Hank,” she’d said.

  “What did I say?”

  “You said fireman. It’s firefighter. Women fight fires now, too, in case you haven’t heard.”

  “Okay, firefighter,” I conceded. “I wonder what they call lady Marines now,” I’d added. “We used to call them ‘BAMS.’ It stands for ‘big...’”

  “I know what it stands for,” she’d said. “Now it’s Marines, Hank. They just call them Marines.” So ended my lesson in political correctness.

  I reflected about how someone can be here one day and gone the next. My thoughts turned to Nancy. When she died six years ago, all I wanted was to get away from everything that reminded me of the hole her death left in my life. Goose Down became the perfect place to recover. I bought twenty acres, mostly wooded, with a creek where my grandson Noah can float toy boats and sticks. I stocked my pond so my city-dwelling buddies could come out to angle for blue gill and bass on weekends.

  I immersed myself in building my new home, a log cabin that I perched on a rise above the valley. When it was finished, I sat on the porch, watched the sun go down, waited for the seasons to change, and the arrival of the geese for which the town is named. I finally began to feel the first stirrings of something I remembered as happiness.

  Ours is a rural community where farming is predominant. Since the demand for ethanol shot corn and land prices into orbit, fewer folks work outside their farms to make ends meet. Many of those who do are employed by Down to Sleep, a local manufacturer of pillows and comforters sold to upscale hotels around the world. The taxes support our state-of-the-art hospital, modern schools, and the sprawling civic center complex where our senior citizens recreation center is located. Thanks to the generous legacies from a couple of wealthy members, the center is undergoing some major renovations including a new gym, media room, walking trail, and swimming pool. The town slogan, “A great place to settle Down,” sums it up.

  …

  By now the wind was really blowing again, and icy rain mixed with a few fat flakes of snow. I headed back toward the car, wishing I’d worn my heavy parka, when I spotted another walker coming toward me. As the figure got closer, I recognized the large bulk of Guenther, local odd-jobber, farmer, and part-time maintenance man at the center.

  “Hey, Guenther,” I said. “You’re turned around. Hot chocolate thatta way.” I pointed to the parking lot.

  “Hank.” He stopped. He pulled his wool cap over his eyebrows and thrust his reddened hands into the pockets of his tan barn coat.

  “Heard the news about Alice Duns?” I asked.

  “Yep.”

  “Sad deal.”

  “Yep.” He looked over my shoulder to the trail ahead and shifted his big frame from one heavy-booted foot to the other.

  “Looks like the weather kept everybody home today.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  I nodded toward the parking lot where Guenther’s truck sat at the far end. A heavy canvas tarp covered the bed of the pickup. “Movin’ some firewood?” I asked.

  Guenther turned to follow my stare. “Nah. Caught a groundhog that’s been digging his way to China underneath my barn. Gonna release ’im.”

  “Oh. Well, I guess he’ll be happy here.” I chuckled.

  “Think so?” He returned my comment with a thin smile, stomped his feet a couple of times and shivered.

  “I’m heading back before I freeze my ass off.” I sensed our conversation, if you could call it that, was over. “See you at the center.” I moved past him toward my car.

  “Yep.” Guenther stood and waited for me to leave.

  …

  Regina was resting when I picked up Tippi. Since Ann and Susan were back home, we left them with admonitions to call us if they needed anything.

  “I need a cuppa,” I said, cranking up the car heater. “Center?”

  “Sure. Maybe there’s news about Joe.” Tippi turned down the heat.

  I turned it back up and smacked Tippi’s hand as it reached for the dial.

  “My car, my heat.”

  She responded by opening her window.

  “Poor Joe,” I said.

  “Poor Joe, my Aunt Fanny. He’s got more women after him than I can count.”

  “Joe? You’re kidding? Jeez, who knew?”

  “Everybody but you, apparently.”

  “Wonder what he’s got?”

  “Besides a new hot tub?” She smirked. “How about a driver’s license that says he can drive at night.”

  SIX

  “I can drive at night,” I whined, “but women aren’t dying to be with me.”

  “Really, Hank? Show some respect for the dead. Besides, you do know Alice was first string kazoo?”

  “I know. A terrible loss for the musical community.”
My mouth seemed to have a mind of its own.

  Tippi stared at me, her lips a thin red line.

  “I am sorry. I feel terrible about Alice. But, she did go out with a ...” What the hell is wrong with me?

  “Don’t even go there, mister.”

  I knew I was out of control but when I let myself go to the dark place where people actually set out to do one another harm… let’s just say memories of my time in ’Nam, followed by some trips to the Cincinnati V.A. for my mental health, or lack of, bring out the worst in me. Goose Down was supposed to be my safe haven and now everything familiar was unraveling. I struggled to keep it together with some gallows humor, and while not a good way of coping, it has worked for me before—at least for a little while.

  “Face it, mon cherry, none of us are exactly kids. Things happen.”

  “It’s ‘ma cherie’ and speak for yourself. I’m middle-aged.” Her cheeks reddened when she was angry.

  “You’re seventy,” I pointed out. “Are you planning to live to be one hundred and…?”

  I was able to stop the door from slamming me in the face as I followed her into the foyer.

  “What’ve you two been up to?” a voice rang out, accompanied by the sound of a kazoo.

  “Mon Dieu!” Tippi huffed. “Don’t you two have something better to do?” she scolded Bob Applebee and Mr. Wittekind, who grinned back.

  “Aw, lighten up, Fifi,” Applebee boomed, belying the frail figure in the wheelchair.

  His companion Wittekind waved a kazoo at us. “Hey, Hank—you do know how to play the kazoo, don’t you? You just put your lips together and blow,” he drawled, in his best Lauren Bacall imitation.

  “You know what you can do with your kazoo?” Tippi said. I took her elbow and hurried her toward the ceramics room before somebody got hurt.

  The kiln was off and the room was empty, so I closed the door behind us and pushed a chair under the doorknob to ensure some privacy. I pulled out some of the Hershey’s kisses I keep handy for emergencies and put them on the table between us.