Bingo You're Dead Read online

  “I don’t know, Hank.” Tippi unwrapped four of the candies faster than a Vegas blackjack dealer clearing a table. “This thing with Alice …” She popped two chocolates into her mouth. “There’ll be an autopsy, then an inquest. Meanwhile what happens to Joe?”

  “The guy must be a wreck. No wonder he flew the coop. First his girlfriend dies right in his own backyard. Then he vanishes and throws suspicion on himself until they clear him—which of course they will.”

  Tippi shrugged and helped herself to the last two chocolates. “We’ll see.” She waggled her fingers at me for more candy.

  “I think you only love me for my pockets of chocolate.” I emptied the rest of my stash onto the table.

  There was no way I would believe Alice’s death was anything but an accident brought on by some catastrophic medical event. I don’t know Joe that well, but the idea that he had intentionally harmed Alice? No way. The most serious crime I ever heard of around here happened two years ago, when Horace McKenna got arrested for stealing a home-waxing kit, black thigh-high stockings, and a bottle of Boone’s Farm from Walt’s Day and Night Boutique and Mini-Mart. Sheriff Grange put in a good word for Horace, who was happy to give up his brief life of crime as well as his masculine identity. Now he’s a she named Hortense, a popular, law-abiding citizen and proprietor of Flights of Fancy Day Spa and Salon.

  “I wonder if Gus heard?” I asked. Gus Uhl is the center’s accountant and Alice had been assisting him with the bookkeeping.

  “I called him but there was no answer. He’s probably on his way over here.”

  I tried to change the subject. “I ran into Guenther Hoffman out at Fernald. I’d just finished my walk when he arrived. He’s a weird bird.”

  “You’d be weird too, Hank, if your wife ran away with the organ repairman.”

  “What? His wife and...?”

  “You heard me, you perv. Guenther’s wife Elda had apparently been having an affair with the guy who was fixing the organ at the Congregational church. One night, Guenther goes home after work and finds her gone. She took her clothes and left her wedding ring and a note saying she was leaving. Guenther reported it to Sheriff Grange as a kidnapping. He swore Elda wouldn’t have left him voluntarily and demanded the sheriff investigate. Grange was skeptical but did a little checking and found out she’d used her ATM card a few times between here and Pigeon Forge—that’s where the organ guy was from. Soon after, Guenther showed up at Grange’s office to say he’d heard from Elda. She’d called to say she wasn’t coming back and she wanted a divorce.”

  “Jeez, I didn’t know.”

  “You wouldn’t know anything that happens around here if it weren’t for me, Hank.”

  “Hmm. Maybe. I need to think about that for a minute.”

  “A minute is all I’ve got. I have to get to clogging practice.”

  “Then what do you say to dinner tonight? You can fill me in on all the other stuff I don’t know.”

  “I don’t have that kind of time. Besides, I have to work on my routine for this weekend at Giggles. I heard Tommy Rae has the flu and his open mic spot could be available. I want to be ready just in case,” Tippi smiled. “I’m not really in the mood but then, the show must go on.”

  Tippi dreamed of becoming a standup comedian and often performed at Gaggle of Giggles, a Laundromat that doubled as a comedy club on Saturday nights. She always drew a crowd, although some of her material bordered on offensive.

  “You’re not including jokes about Guenther’s wife are you?” I knew that was just the kind of incident she would use to get a laugh.

  “I did write up a routine about it,” she confessed, “but I think I’ll let it go for now. Timing is everything in comedy, Hank.”

  I let her remark slide. How about dinner tomorrow night at my place?”

  “I don’t know. What’s on the menu?”

  “I’ll surprise you—but I promise there will be chocolate.”

  “Trés bien.”

  I cracked open the door and we started to make our getaway.

  “Busted.” Bob Applebee rolled up and blocked the door with his chair. He thrust a plastic kazoo at me. “Hank, we need you for the band.”

  “No way, Applebee. Over my dead…” I stopped. “Sorry.”

  “Real nice, Hank.” Mr. Wittekind arrived in time to join in.

  “Look, I had a bad kazoo incident when I was a kid. Can’t do it. I get PTSD whenever I see one of the damn things.”

  Applebee’s eyes bore into mine. “We need a replacement for Alice.”

  “What a pair of lungs.” Wittekind looked wistful. “She could really blow that thing.”

  “Well, I…” I stammered.

  “Swell.” Applebee slapped the kazoo in my hand. “We’ll be playing at Alice’s wake. I’ll let you know when the sheriff releases her body after the autopsy. Meanwhile—practice.”

  …

  Tippi arrived the next evening with news. “Alice was knocked on the head and strangled with her bra before she drowned.”

  “Strangled with her bra?” That part was news to me so I didn’t even have to pretend to be surprised.

  “40 DD.” She had an ‘I told you so’ look.

  “Dinner ready?”

  SEVEN

  News of Alice’s murder spread quickly. Sheriff Grange told me his small department was working overtime, and there was still no sign of Joe. When the autopsy was complete, arrangements were made for the funeral. Half of Goose Town turned out for the event. The overflow crowd at the Lay Me Down To Sleep Funeral Home gathered on the lawn to follow the service on the loudspeakers that were hastily set up outside.

  I stood in front with the Senior Honkers; we had our kazoos in hand. The band also boasted a washboard played by Hazel Fuller, along with a tambourine and washtub, played by sisters Mary and Violet Schmidt, respectively. The women whispered together while eying the pews crammed with mourners.

  The pastor from the Goose Down Congregational Church called the gathering to order and led us through a brief service. Regina spoke about how much the senior center had meant to Alice, and about how she had been looking forward to the kazoo competition next month. When she said she hoped the Honkers would “win one for Alice,” the band stepped forward.

  I helped Applebee up from his chair and to the podium where he faced the band. He locked the leg braces in place that allowed him to stand for short periods of time. Herb B. pushed the chair out of the way and into an empty room across the hall.

  “As many of you know,” Applebee began, “Alice loved Elvis Presley. She not only founded the town’s fan club for the King but also served as its president for over twenty years. This song was one of her favorites, and we play it as a tribute to our friend and our late lead kazooist, Alice May Duns. Here to sing it is Tony ‘Elvis’ Yates.”

  There was a collective gasp from the congregation when Tony, dressed in a gold lamé cape over a black jumpsuit, stepped out of the Sunday school room and took his place beside the band. Tony, a mail carrier by day, moonlighted as an Elvis impersonator at the casino in nearby Indiana. He was good enough that if you closed your eyes, you’d swear you were listening to the King himself. Applebee had to cajole Pastor Schultz in to letting Tony perform, but I could tell by their smiles that the mourners were pleased to have him there.

  Applebee paused to clear his throat before lifting the baton. “Hmm,” he hummed as a preamble, leading us off. After a couple of false starts, the band forged gamely ahead and Tony crooned, “Amazing Grace, How sweet…” The crowd got into the spirit of the occasion and swayed to the music, some mouthing the words, “I once was lost...”Applebee joined in, singing along under his breath.

  “One more time for Alice,” Gus called out, wiping tears from his cheeks.

  Applebee nodded and we started over. This time the congregation rose to their feet, joined arms and sang along, “Twas Grace that brought me safe thus far and Grace will lead me home.”

  Applebee motione
d for the kazooists to arrange ourselves on both sides of the aisle. Hazel and the Schmidts took their places on either side of the casket, and “Elvis” led the procession beneath our upraised arms, kazoos held high to form a canopy. The entire congregation filed out, still humming the tune as they headed to their cars for the short ride to the cemetery. A reception at the center was to follow the brief graveside service. I steered Tippi to my car before she could insist on driving.

  One funeral was enough for today.

  EIGHT

  When we arrived at the center, we found Martha Mosley and her committee busy setting out the food. The buffet table was loaded; platters of sauerkraut and sausages, bowls of potato salad, sandwiches of thick dark rye bread stuffed with pale slabs of limburger topped with rings of sweet red onion, and enough cream puffs, éclairs, and strudels to feed all of Goose Down. I helped the men roll out a keg of beer and, once we got it flowing, pulled up a chair next to Applebee and the Schmidts.

  We watched Elrod Klienfelter race to the front of the line as usual. Elrod liked to help himself to a “little extra for later,” which he stuffed down the front of his pants. Tonight was no exception, and we watched him unzip his fly to slip a Limburger and onion sandwich into his crotch.

  “Wait till that warms up,” Applebee said, chuckling.

  “Wonder if he’ll stay awake long enough to eat?” I commented on Elrod’s tendency to fall asleep at the drop of a hat. I’d even seen him do it standing up. Once he’d explained to me that his mother had been so terrified on her wedding night she slept through the whole thing. Nine months later, when Elrod came along, he was inflicted with narcolepsy.

  “I’m sure he fakes that sleeping routine sometimes,” Mary commented. “He always manages to be first in line when lunch is announced, even though a minute earlier it seems like he’s dead to the world.

  “It’s amazing, all right,” I said.

  “Good turnout,” Violet said, eying the room.

  “Check out Martha,” her sister Mary commented. “She hasn’t stopped talking about Joe since she got here. She swears he didn’t have anything to do with Alice’s death. Claims she knows him and she winks when she says it. Ugh.”

  “Good job tonight, Hank,” Applebee said, to change the subject.

  “Right. Don’t think you can flatter me into becoming a permanent band member. I only agreed to help out tonight for Alice.”

  I followed Applebee’s gaze to the next table where Gert Stein fed Ernie Schwab bits of a strudel. She dabbed his chin with her hanky after each bite. We were all waiting for Gert’s plump bosom, straining against its ruffled prison, to burst free.

  Mr. Wittekind pulled up a seat, grinning at the couple that had finished eating and headed toward the front door, arm in arm. “Show’s over,” he said, attacking a heaping serving of potato salad.

  “What a randy bunch,” I said.

  Wittekind’s mouth was full so he just nodded. I nudged Applebee and pointed to the buffet line where Gus Uhl was balancing two plates of food.

  “Say, Gus,” Applebee called out. Gus instinctively looked back to the table where his wife Edna sat, her red lips pursed, utensils in hands poised over the table. She glared at Applebee, raised her eyebrows and was clearly agitated by the intrusion.

  “Catch you Monday to go over the accounts for the competition?” Applebee said.

  Gus nodded and turned back to the buffet.

  “Poor sod,” I said. “I don’t know a single, more miserable excuse for a human being than Edna Uhl.”

  Violet and Mary nodded in agreement.

  “At least his job here gets him out of the house a couple of times a week,” Mary added.

  “We couldn’t have pulled off the competition without him,” Applebee said. “It’s been a huge job. Now it will all fall on him. Alice was helping him along with the remodeling accounts and the routine operating records for the center.”

  “Looky there.” Mr. Wittekind pointed toward the buffet.

  Perry Klump worked his way through the line, his plate piled high with a sampling of each dish. He wore a red and white striped vest and white slacks, and carried his trademark white straw boater under his arm. Black-and-white saddle shoes completed the ensemble. When he reached the end of the line, he balanced a cream puff and a chocolate éclair on his tower of food. He looked around before heading toward our table.

  “Applebee,” Perry said, placing his food and his hat carefully on the table. “Ladies,” he acknowledged the Schmidts, ignoring Wittekind and me.

  “See you’re in costume,” Applebee replied.

  “Uniform,” Perry said, his mouth full of cabbage roll.

  “Got a gig?”

  “Yep. Playing the after-dinner reception.” He took a bite of éclair.

  “Here?” the Schmidts said in unison.

  “Of course,” Perry answered, spraying Violet with bits of yellow cream.

  I turned to look at Applebee.

  Perry Klump, as in “Perry The One Man Band,” always played for the Goose Down Senior Center social events. For one hundred dollars, Perry would trot out all the old favorites on his harmonica, banjo, keyboard, cymbals, and, if the occasion demanded, he’d bring out his accordion. Lately though, Applebee’s Honkers had gotten a couple of jobs that would have gone to Perry.

  Perry also happened to be Bob Applebee’s sort-of half-brother. Ada Stein, known in Goose Down as Mother Goose after the name of the nursery school she founded and ran for forty years, had given birth to eight children fathered by some of Goose Down’s most prominent citizens. She’d even married a few.

  But kids were her real love. Besides her own, she took in the occasional foster child, one of whom had been Perry. He joined the family when he was eight, and Ada developed a special bond with the boy, prompting her to try to formally adopt him. Because of her colorful history with men, the county had refused her. So instead, she just folded him into the rest of her brood and raised him like all the others.

  Applebee bit into his sandwich.

  “Yeah, guess Martha wanted a pro for the occasion,” Perry slid over the barb. “I had to cancel the Open House at Mother Goose so I could be here tonight. I wanted to give Alice the sendoff she deserves.”

  Applebee just chewed.

  “How’s your little group doing? Gettin’ any jobs? Ones that pay, I mean?” Perry asked, trying to prompt a reaction.

  Violet started to speak but her sister elbowed her in the side, causing her to yelp in pain.

  “I might add a kazoo to my band,” Perry continued when no one answered. “Not that a kazoo is a real musical instrument, but I’m thinking of working up a comedy routine with it. Gonna try it out at Giggles one of these days,” he goaded.

  “A kazoo in the hands of some tone-deaf phony who looks like he ought to be pedaling an ice cream cart…” Applebee finally let go.

  Mary and Violet put their arms around his shoulders and glared at Perry.

  “Time for me to get set up. First, the little boys’ room.” He rose and downed his beer in one gulp. He burped, set the boater on his head, and left.

  “What a boor,” Violet said.

  “I know, but with that uniform...” Mary sighed.

  “Who’s up for dessert?” I asked to relieve the tension. I headed to the buffet and piled up a tray with a sampling of sweets for us to share.

  “What’s the deal with your brother?” I asked Applebee when I returned. I bit into an apple strudel.

  “When he first came to live with us, we all thought he was doing okay. Oh, he was real quiet, hardly said two words for the first year but then he started to do better in school, stopped getting into fights and settled down. Mother thought maybe he turned a corner. She tried to get him interested in sports. He was a big kid for his age but he wasn’t athletic.

  “Then she noticed he was always hanging around when I practiced my music. Since the old legs didn’t work,” he said, referring to what was the result of childhood polio, “music
was my game and Perry seemed to enjoy listening to me practice.”

  I passed around the remaining desserts and waited for him to continue.

  “Well, as I said, Mother saw that Perry seemed to be interested in my music so she asked him if he’d like to take lessons. He agreed and said he wanted to learn to play the accordion. Us kids thought that was really a hoot. It got to be a big joke, calling him Lawrence Welk, Jr., you know, that sort of thing,” he stopped and closed his eyes at the memory.

  “We were all guilty of similar acts,” Tippi said.

  “Boy, I hate to think of the stuff my friends and I did to some of the kids in the neighborhood when we were growing up,” I said. “Now I guess we’d have been labeled bullies. If any kid did something to Noah…” I felt my blood pressure rising at the thought.

  Applebee nodded. “Looking back on it, I realize Perry must have felt we were singling him out because he was ‘the foster kid.’ Funny thing though, it was really because we just saw him as another brother that we could tease, beat up once in a while and all the other stuff we just took for granted as siblings.”

  “So that was the beginning of ‘The One Man Band?” I said.

  Applebee nodded. “He loved all kinds of music. Had a natural talent and learned to play the guitar, flute – better than me – and could pick up almost any instrument and teach himself to play. He got a scholarship to the University Of Cincinnati College Of Music for piano. Never graduated though as he had an offer from a local rock band that was getting some national attention. They were opening for some big names and spent a lot of time in Vegas or on the road. We’d hear from Perry every few months but it wasn’t until our sister, Mary Catherine died that he came home.”

  “I had no idea,” I said.

  “To his credit, Perry’s overcome a lot. He was drinking heavily when he came home. I guess it was part of the music scene and the guys he hung out with. Ada was having none of it though and he straightened up fast. He’s been sober ever since but he doesn’t have much to do with the family. I’m sorry about that but he sure knows how to push my buttons.”