I had my doubts that the bingo hall was even open given the fair, but Freddie assured me that it would be packed.
“I’ve been trying to get out more,” he said as we approached the hockey arena. Bingo was held on the second level. “Outreach and whatnot, now that I’m a figure in the community, and it turns out I like seniors. They get me.”
“You know, I’m really only coming along because I want to put this whole thing to bed,” I said, opening the heavy metal door. “And you need to promise me that we’re going to play this cool. We’re just going to see what people are saying. Do not bring up the twins.”
“Okay, okay. Will you relax? These are my people. I know what I’m doing, Stressica. Actually that doesn’t really work. Too bad you weren’t named Jessica.”
“Yeah, too bad,” I said, grabbing the railing anchored in the concrete wall. “Let’s just get this over with.”
Freddie and I climbed the stairs and opened the doors to the large room. It had the same wood paneling on the walls and the same vinyl floor tiles it had back when I was a teenager. It was the only room big enough in town to hold community events, and occasionally one of the more industrious teenagers in Otter Lake would bring in a real DJ from Manchester or Nashua to throw a dance. I was pretty sure I had some hearing loss as a result. Now maybe eighty or so people filled the room, seated shoulder-to-shoulder. A man with a microphone sat on the mini stage at the back of the room with one of those giant bingo cages. Beside him sat a funeral wreath on an easel. I doubted that the Mastersons ever made it out to bingo night—they were more of the class to be donating prizes—but it was nice the town was thinking of them.
Freddie and I walked in, and even though our footsteps were echoing off the walls, not a single person turned to look at us. All eyes were glued to the cards on the table.
Suddenly a microphone screeched. “B-six! I have a B-six!”
I jolted. Hands darted around the tables—one lady had at least fifteen cards. It then occurred to me that I had never actually been inside a bingo hall before. I hadn’t expected it to be quite so … intense. I leaned toward Freddie and whispered, “This is kind of creep—”
“Shush!”
My gaze shot to a woman with a ferocious-looking expression sitting in the back, near where Freddie and I were standing.
Sorry, I mouthed.
The intensity of her outrage dropped a smidge. She turned back to her game as Freddie led me into the back corner of the room.
“You have to keep it down,” he said once we were safely tucked away.
“I had no idea bingo could be so creepy,” I said looking over my shoulder. “They’re all so quiet … and they all have matching markers.”
“Those aren’t markers,” Freddie whispered with a chuckle. “They are daubers … or dabbers if you’re weird. Big difference.”
“Oh, well, pardon me.”
“This is serious business. These guys are dealing in real money.”
“What kind of money are we talking here?”
“The pot is two grand.”
My jaw dropped. “Shut up! Two grand? I want in.”
“It’s too late now,” he said, dropping his voice even lower. “Now behave yourself. They’ll break soon.”
I muttered something under my breath and leaned back against the wall, folding my arms across my chest. Suddenly it felt like I couldn’t quite stand on my own anymore. All the drama of the day was finally catching up to me. I was really tired … maybe if I closed my eyes just for a minute …
Giant swans. Giant swans flying through the air with people riding them. Kit Kat and Tweety riding them. Giant swans diving. Dive-bombing! Right above my head! No! No!
“Erica, wake up,” Freddie said, jerking my elbow. “You’re making that snoring sound at the back of your throat.”
“Sorry,” I mumbled, wiping my hand against my mouth. “What’s happening?”
“They’re between games. Time to go.”
I pushed myself off the wall with my foot to follow.
“Oh look! There’s Mr. and Mrs. Cruikshank,” Freddie said with obvious affection in his voice. “They hate each other. Let’s go say hello.”
“What? Freddie—” But he was already on his way. All I could do was hurry to keep up. Now that the round was over, more than a few players were giving me curious looks. Everyone was probably still getting used to the idea of me coming back to town more often.
“Hi, guys!” I heard Freddie call out cheerfully to the older couple. The man must have been about six four, a little hunched in the shoulders, but in pretty good shape considering he had to be in his seventies. The woman was only maybe five foot and had a slightly bewildered look about her eyes.
“Freddie,” the man said, taking his hand. “Good to see you. Keeping things running smoothly?”
“You know it.”
“Are you dating anyone yet?” the woman popped in.
“Mildred,” Freddie said with a chuckle. “You know I don’t date.”
“Well, you’d better get started,” she said, shaking her whole body side-to-side. Her neck must have been frozen. “You’re never going to get to adopt a baby if you don’t hurry up and get married. It takes a long time to adopt a baby.”
“Mildred,” the larger man said with a sigh.
“Well, he’s going to have to adopt unless he gets a surrogate. Are you getting a surrogate? Maybe, maybe her?” she asked, jerking a thumb in my direction.
“I would rather die,” Freddie said.
I smacked him on the arm.
“What?” Freddie asked, throwing me a look.
Mildred nodded before leaning in to him to whisper, “Her eggs are getting old anyway.”
I felt my mouth open to say something, but I caught it just in time.
“Mildred, really,” the man said, giving me an apologetic smile that looked even more worn out than I felt.
Mildred backhanded her husband lightly on the belly without turning the rest of her body. “You never want me to talk about the important stuff.”
“Leave the boy alone. He’s busy keeping the town secure.”
I suddenly remembered what Grady had said about his war for public perception. “Well,” I said, “Freddie and the sheriff’s department of course.”
The older man scoffed. “That’s questionable. How long was Forrester investigating the wrong suspect for Dickie Morrison’s murder?”
“Yeah, but he wasn’t the only one,” I said. “A lot of us thought—”
“It’s what all the gay couples do now,” Mildred said jumping back in. “There’s nothing wrong with it.”
“I know there’s nothing wrong with it,” Mr. Cruickshank answered with a sigh, “but maybe Freddie doesn’t want kids. Maybe he doesn’t want to get married.”
Freddie chuckled and leaned over to me to whisper, “Aren’t they great?”
“Of course he does,” Mildred replied. “Everybody wants to get married. It gives life meaning.”
The older man was shaking his head now. “What I’d give for a little less meaning.”
“Oh really?” Mildred suddenly twisted the cap off her dauber and gave three good pounds with it across her husband’s white shirt, leaving three purple circles behind.
“That’s the fourth shirt this month.” He rubbed the spot in between his eyebrows. “And she does the laundry.” He sighed again before turning back to his wife. “He’s never going to want to get married if you keep behaving this way.”
“Stop it. Marriage is good,” she said, patting Freddie on the arm. “And you don’t want to leave it until it’s too late.” I’m not sure if she was even making an attempt at subtlety, but her eyes most definitely slid in my direction. She then patted my arm and turned with her husband to talk to someone else.
“Well,” Freddie said carefully. “We didn’t find much out, but that was—”
“Can I just ask why are they all supportive of your babies, but I’m a spinster? I’m still in my twenties!”
“Well, I would say it’s because babies are cute, and spinsters aren’t, but—”
“I hate you.”
“I’m kidding! I’m kidding,” he said, laughing. “Ah, it’s good to have stressy Erica back. Come on. Let’s mingle.”
“This is not at all how tonight was supposed to go,” I said, following Freddie around a table toward the other side of the room.
He kept walking. “I know.”
“If only I’d kept my mouth shut, I can’t even imagine what Grady and I might be doing right now.” I let my hands flop to my sides. “Okay, let’s get on with this. Look, there’s—” I stopped suddenly because I heard someone talking from somewhere behind me. Talking about the twins.
“Tweety always did have a reputation for being a bit loose. And then there’s the Viagra he was taking.”
I spun around to see who had said it.
I saw the back of a magenta-colored head of hair. Marg Johnson. The same woman talking trash about Tweety at the fair.
“Erica,” Freddie said. “Where are you going?”
I couldn’t answer; I was too busy walking in the opposite direction.
“Erica! Slow down,” Freddie called after me. “Remember what you said about laying low?”
This woman needed a talking-to.
“This doesn’t feel low, Erica!” Freddie shouted. “Not low!”