Bingo You're Dead Read online

  Applebee dabbed his mouth with his napkin and released the brakes on his wheelchair. “Time for me to hit the road.” Applebee kissed each woman on the cheek and wheeled towards the men’s room. “See you all at practice tomorrow,” he called over his shoulder.”

  I sampled two more desserts before I called ‘uncle’. “I better check on Applebee,” I told the Schmidts. “Probably not a good idea to leave him alone in there with Perry.” I nodded towards the lavatory.

  I waved at Guenther who was just exiting the restroom.

  “Place looks great,” I said. “A lot of extra work for you.”

  “Yep,” he said. He looked at his watch. “The overtime’s all right though.”

  Applebee was coming out of the stall when I walked in. Perry was checking his teeth in the mirror.

  “Need a hand?” I steadied the wheelchair he had left by the sink.

  “Thanks, got it,” he answered.

  Hang on a minute and I’ll walk you out,” I offered.

  Applebee’s van was parked as always in the temporary handicapped lot adjacent to the front of the building, right above the section of the drive where it descends to Route 27. A new lot was in the works because the slope of this ramp was too steep for the members with mobility aids to navigate safely. There had been several minor mishaps; the most serious happened when the battery on Morris Netsby’s scooter died halfway down the ramp. Morris lost control, rolled into an Osage orange tree, and suffered a concussion when one of the oranges bounced off his head. Luckily for Morris, Mr. Wittekind had spotted the red warning flag attached to the scooter lying in the driveway. He found Morris unconscious in the scooter, still wearing his seatbelt. Since then, we always tried to have somebody accompany Applebee and the others to their vehicles.

  “I’ll get my coat,” I said.

  “Don’t bother,” Applebee said, wheeling away. “I’ll corral somebody outside to give me an escort. Don’t forget—tomorrow—kazoo practice at one sharp.”

  I filled up a pitcher with beer and was settling back down next to the Schmidts and Wittekind, when Ernie came rushing into the room. His shirt was half in and half out of his khaki Dockers, and he buttoned it as he ran. Gert followed right behind, her hair freed from the pins and spray that had held it, helmet-like, earlier.

  “Call 911,” Ernie yelled. “It’s Applebee! His chair got away from him, and he rolled down the driveway into the pond.”

  I ran for the door and down the hill. The blue lights around the edges of the pond cast eerie shadows across the water. The only sign of movement came from the ripples caused by the cascading fountain anchored in the center of the pond. The scene was surreal, as mourners from Alice’s wake began gathering on the banks.

  I waded into the water and dove towards the bottom, fighting my way through the dirt, silt, and weeds set loose from the pond floor. There was no sign of Applebee. My lungs burned as I pushed to the surface for air, then back down, swimming toward the side closest to the drive where he would have gone in. I stretched my hands in front of my face, parting more weeds, when I touched the cold steel of what I recognized as his wheelchair. I went back up for another breath then dove straight down, past the chair. Just as I was about to return to the top for a third time, my hand brushed something soft. I reached again and grabbed with both hands, kicking with all the strength I could muster. The dead weight I was lugging slowed my progress. It felt like an eternity before I finally I reached the surface. By now, the fire department was on the scene and pulled me out. Me and Applebee.

  The EMTs went to work on Applebee’s inert figure. Tippi elbowed her way through the group and threw her arms around me.

  “Mon ami.” She buried her head in my neck. “Are you all right?”

  My teeth were chattering so hard I couldn’t answer.

  “Get me a blanket,” she ordered one of the EMTs, who quickly obliged.

  Sheriff Grange jogged over. “You okay, Hank?”

  “I’m not sure.” I pulled the wool blanket tight and tried to see through the knot of rescuers gathered around Bob.

  Just then a cheer went up from the crowd and I knew Applebee had come to. My knees almost buckled as I realized how close I had come to losing another one of my friends tonight. I held Tippi tight.

  A firefighter pulled a gurney up beside me. “Here you go, buddy,” she said.

  I shook my head. “I’m okay, I’m just a little chilled. I do need to get out of these wet clothes though.” I grinned at Tippi, who scowled back.

  “Pervert.”

  “How’s Applebee?” I asked the sheriff.

  “They’ll take him to Memorial. He gave us a helluva of a scare,” Grange said.

  “His chair must have gotten away from him. He was upset when he left. He had a run-in with Perry,” I explained. “I offered to walk him to his van, but he said he’d find somebody outside to help him. I should have known better than to let him go. He’s so damn independent...” Guilt washed over me like a tsunami.

  “I’m taking you home, right now,” Tippi interrupted. “You can depose this witness in the morning, Sheriff.”

  Grange sighed. “We just need Hank to answer a couple of questions about what happened before Applebee left. Can you be at the station around eight-thirty?” he asked, turning to me.

  “We’ll be there,” Tippi answered. “Come on, Hank. I’ll drive you home.” She started to head to her car.

  “I’m good to drive.” I shot a glance at the sheriff, who was trying to hide a smile. He shrugged, the palms of his hands turned up in a gesture of helplessness.

  “Not on my watch,” Tippi took my hand and pulled me after her. “Eight-thirty, Sheriff. And Hank, I’m going to need breakfast afterwards.”

  NINE

  I told Sheriff Grange everything I remembered about the events of the previous night. Tippi held back with only a couple of outbursts. The sheriff reminded her that she wasn’t even around when the accident occurred.

  “Got time for one other matter?” Grange asked.

  “Not really, Sheriff. I haven’t had breakfast,” Tippi said, standing up and buttoning her coat.

  “Please, Tabitha. Sit down.”

  “Well, Hank, if my wellbeing doesn’t matter to you...” She sat down, crossed her arms over her chest, and tapped her foot.

  “Go ahead, Sheriff. What’s up?”

  Grange opened his desk drawer and pulled out one of the numbered balls used to call bingo games at the center.

  “We found this with Alice’s body.” He turned the ball around. It was stamped B-3. “Any idea what this might mean?”

  “Besides the obvious?” I looked at Tippi and shook my head. “No idea.”

  “Me either,” she added.

  “Was Alice involved with your bingo games? Player? Organizer?”

  “I don’t think Alice ever called any games,” Tippi said. “I don’t recall her even playing.”

  “I know she hated bingo,” I added. “She wouldn’t come near the center on bingo day.”

  “Well, better find another one of these.” Grange fingered the ball before securing it in a manila envelope marked “Duns.” “I need to keep this for now.”

  …

  “Coffee?” I asked Tippi when we’d finished with the sheriff.

  “And French toast. I’m feeling faint.”

  I had to stop myself from asking her how Weight Watchers was going as I steered her to my truck for the short drive to the diner.

  “What do you think?” She emptied three envelopes of sugar into her cup. “First Alice, now Bob.”

  “Surely you don’t think there’s any connection between what happened to Alice and the incident with Bob? That was clearly an accident.”

  “Hank, don’t toy with me. This isn’t a game.”

  “I’d love to toy with you anytime, sweetheart. Hank Klaber, boy toy at your service.” I wiggled my fingers next to a pretend cigar, Groucho Marx fashion. Lucky for me, our food came just then and distracted m
y friend from the remark.

  “Not in your wildest dreams.” She forked half a piece of French toast into her mouth. “Furs, we deed a pwan.”

  I reached over and caught a glob of syrup ready to make the leap from her chin to her white shirtfront. “Again, please.”

  She spoke with her fork poised over the next bite. “We need to see if somebody’s got it in for the band. Why do you have to be so obtuse?”

  “Do you really think this is about the kazoo competition? I find that hard to believe. The trip to Cherokee, North Carolina is not worth murdering anybody over. Not even for free bingo.”

  “Twenty-fours hours of free bingo,” Tippi reminded me.

  “Oh, now I see. You’re probably right.”

  Tippi shrugged and forked in another mouthful of French toast. Her mouth full, she mumbled, “And a trophy.”

  “A used trophy that’s been in Ernie’s attic for God knows how long? You can still see where the original inscription reads ‘First Place, Goose Down Junior High Volleyball Winners, 1985.’”

  Tippi shrugged off my logic and sopped up the pool of syrup residue with the last crust of bread. “Let’s go see Applebee.” She rose and went behind the counter and brought out a freshly brewed pot of coffee. She made the rounds of the diner, filling up cups and chatting with customers while I paid for our meals.

  Guenther was installing new ceiling fans in the kitchen so I stopped to watch him work. “How’s it going?” I asked.

  He grunted his response from his perch on the ladder.

  “I’m thinking about putting in a fireplace insert. I’ve got access to plenty of wood on the property, and I thought it would help me save on the heating bill this winter. Wonder if you’d be available to give me a hand?”

  He stopped working and climbed down, taking a pocket calendar from his pocket. “I was scheduled to do some electrical work at Joe Thom’s next Wednesday,” he said, taking a pencil stub out of his shirt pocket. “Guess I’ll have to cancel that.” He put a line through the entry. “How would noon work?”

  “Great.” I made a mental note of the appointment.

  He wrote me in and resumed his work on the fan.

  We waved our goodbyes to Regina and headed back to the police station, where we’d left Tippi’s car.

  “Hospital,” Tippi said. “Let’s take Ruby,” she added, referring to the name she’d given her reconditioned ’57 T-Bird convertible. The car is Tippi’s pride and joy. Her husband L.T. bought it as a wedding gift to her, and she cherishes the vehicle more than she does most people. The removable hardtop comes off in spring and doesn’t go back on until the first hard frost. The red body is spotless, and the original upholstery has been replaced with soft tan leather.

  My problem with the car is that I have to fold my legs under me so I can sink into a seat that rides so close to the road my ass feels like its on fire. When Tippi turns the key in the ignition, I know I’m a condemned man. Under the hood sits a V-8 engine and when she revs it up my sentence begins. She treats even the most casual trip like the Indy 500, and I swear every white hair on my head came from a ride with Tippi in the Bird.

  Today I didn’t have the energy for an argument I was sure to lose anyway. “Okay, but you have to take it slow. I’m still wobbly from my swim last night. Besides, it’s an hour until visiting hours start.” I wasn’t kidding myself. I knew my remarks wouldn’t have any real effect.

  I climbed into the car and tightened my seatbelt. Tippi smiled and patted my knee. She punched the accelerator and went from zero to thirty before we even got out of the lot.

  …

  The trip from the station to the hospital takes a normal driver ten minutes. We did it in less than five. My nose felt like ice, and I couldn’t tell if my hands were numb from the cold or sheer terror. We screeched into the parking lot of Butler Memorial Hospital where Tippi parked across three spaces in the last row. Then she placed the orange cones she carried in the trunk around the vehicle.

  “Why are you walking like that?” she asked, as we headed for the hospital lobby.

  “Two guesses,” I answered. “I’m trying to wipe my nose on my knee. Next time, I’ll drive.”

  “Don’t be such a drama queen, Hank.”

  We stopped at the information desk and were directed to Gus’s room.

  “Visiting hours don’t begin until eleven,” the woman told us.

  “Oh, we’ll just wait in the cafeteria.” Tippi pulled me toward the elevator and hit the button for the third floor.

  “She said eleven o’clock.” I looked over my shoulder as I followed Tippi to Applebee’s room. “You’re going to get us kicked out of here.”

  “Too late. I’m already barred from the place because of a little misunderstanding, so don’t draw attention or somebody might recognize us.”

  “What? Barred? Us? What did I do? What did you do? Wait a minute, don’t tell me.”

  “Just hurry up,” Tippi said as we skulked past the nurse’s station. We could hear a man’s low voice, and Applebee’s angry one, even before we entered the room.

  “Mr. Applebee, we just need to check your blood pressure again since it’s been running on the high side. Now if you will let me....”

  “Of course it’s high, you damn fool,” Applebee yelled at the male nurse. “I almost drowned and then you bunch of sadists keep waking me up every five minutes—to make sure I’m not dead, I guess. You can take that blood pressure whachumacallit and put it where the sun don’t shine. I’m outta here.” Applebee pulled the covers over his head.

  “Oh, Bob.” Tippi pushed the nurse away from the bed, and put her own head under the blanket. She spoke gently to our friend, her words muffled.

  I shrugged and gave the nurse what I hoped was an understanding look.

  “Guess you run into this a lot, huh, Ed?” I said, reading the name off his hospital badge.

  “His blood pressure is really high,” Ed said. “His doc is ready to discharge him, but we need to check it again before he goes. Believe me, we’re as eager to get him out of here, as he is to go. He threw a urinal at his aide last night—after he used it,” he added with a shake of his head.

  Bob’s right arm inched out from under the blanket where he and Tippi continued to whisper. Ed seized the opportunity to slip on the blood pressure cuff and finished the task quickly.

  “Still kind of high,” he said. “Dr. Schneider will be in shortly.”

  Tippi pushed back the cover and came face to face with Ed.

  The nurse turned to leave, and then hesitated, giving Tippi a hard second look. “Hey, I know you. You were the one I found in the morgue with... Oh, man—I’m calling security if you don’t get out of here right now.” He picked up the phone by the bedside to prove he meant business.

  At least Tippi had the decency to blush. She placed her hand on top of Ed’s.

  “Come on, now. I didn’t mean any harm. Let’s put all that unpleasant business behind us, mon ami.” She smiled and batted her eyes at him.

  “What did she call me?” Ed’s face reddened. He looked from me to Applebee. “Did she tell you what she did? She sneaked into the morgue and …”

  “You make it sound so, so wrong,” Tippi interrupted. She turned to me. “I just wanted a little peek at my friend, you know, before Meyer got hold of her and tarted her up.” Tippi brushed non-existent tears from her eyes. She was pulling out all the stops now.

  “You mean Alice?” Applebee looked stunned.

  “She had a pair of salad tongs clamped around one of the corpse’s breasts when I walked in on her. She’s a wacko!” Ed shouted.

  “My last chance to see if they were the real McCoy.” Tippi looked downcast. “Just wanted to see if there were scars. There weren’t.” She looked down at her own less-endowed bosom. “Those 40 DDs were hers alright.”

  “Out. Now,” Ed said, opening the door. “I see either of you in here again, and I’m calling security first and asking questions—well, never.”
r />   I took her elbow and hustled her down the hall. “Really, Tabitha?”

  “Oh, don’t act so high and mighty, Hank. I wasn’t hurting anything. Too late for that. Besides,” she said, taking the offense, “don’t pretend you and your buddies never wondered about it. I mean, come on, the woman was built like...”

  “Please don’t finish your thought. What you did was just wrong and you know it.” I hoped I sounded angry.

  Tippi became uncharacteristically quiet while we waited for the elevator. When the doors opened, Sheriff Grange stepped out.

  “Uh-oh,” Tippi moved behind me.

  “I can still see you,” Grange said, his face serious.

  “I know I’m not supposed to be here, but I had to see Bob.”

  “What’s she talking about?” Grange asked me, since Tippi continued to bury her face in my back.

  “Long story for another time,” I said. “What’s the news?”

  “Well,” he hesitated, closing his eyes. “Bob’s so-called accident was, um, not one.” He waited for the impact of his words to sink in.

  “Surely you can’t mean...”

  “I knew it,” Tippi said, coming out of hiding. “I told you so, Hank.”

  “But how?” I asked.

  Sheriff Grange explained, “After we pulled his wheelchair out of the pond, one of my men took it over to Ada’s. She planned to drop it at Bob’s so it would be there for him when he came home. Ada asked my deputy to put it in her spare bedroom and to lock the wheels. He did, or thought he did. As he was leaving the room, the chair rolled away from the corner he’d put it in, so he went over to take a closer look.”

  Tippi sagged against me as Sheriff Grange went on. “The lever that locked each wheel in place appeared to work when pressed down. But the wheels moved freely when the slightest pressure was applied. My man took a closer look and saw the metal piece that was supposed to press tightly into the wheel to prevent it from turning had been bent. It looked like the wheel was locked, but it wasn’t. He examined the other wheel and found the same bent bar.”