Page 10 of Pumpkin Patch Peril (Brook Ridge Falls Ladies’ Detective Club #1)

CHAPTER TEN

“Drive faster, Ruth!” Ida called from the back seat, clutching her spiral notebook like a life preserver. “Bingo starts in fourteen minutes, and I need time to set up my system!”

“I’m going as fast as I safely can,” Ruth replied, though she did press the accelerator a bit more firmly. The vintage Oldsmobile responded with a gentle surge of power, carrying them back toward Brook Ridge Falls as the sun painted the countryside in shades of gold and amber.

“What exactly do you need to set up?” Helen asked, twisting in her seat to look at Ida’s frantic preparation.

“Statistical analysis spreadsheets, strategic card placement, and careful observation of the room, “ Ida said seriously, flipping through her notebook to review her charts.

“Ida,” Mona said gently, “you do realize that bingo is a game of pure chance, right? Past results don’t influence future outcomes.”

“That’s what everyone says,” Ida replied, making final notations in her frequency analysis. “But everything has patterns if you look hard enough. Even chaos has an underlying structure.”

Ruth pulled into the retirement center parking lot with time to spare, though Ida was already unbuckling her seatbelt before the car came to a complete stop.

“Come watch!” she called over her shoulder, practically bouncing with excitement. “You can see mathematical precision in action!”

“Well,” Mona said to the others, “we did promise to support her scientific endeavors.”

“Plus,” Helen added, “it might be interesting to see how this plays out.”

“And there’s usually pretty good coffee at bingo night,” Ruth concluded pragmatically.

The community center’s main hall had been transformed for the evening’s entertainment.

Folding tables arranged in neat rows held dozens of bingo cards, dauber bottles, and the hopeful expressions of residents ready for an evening of competition.

The air hummed with conversation, the rattle of balls in the wire cage, and the underlying current of anticipation that preceded any good game.

Ida had claimed a table near the front, spreading out her materials with the precision of a military strategist. She’d arranged four bingo cards in a perfect square, her spiral notebook open to tonight’s frequency predictions, and three different colored daubers positioned at strategic intervals.

“Ida,” called Betty Morrison from the next table over, “what in the world have you got there? Looks like you’re preparing for a final exam.”

“Scientific method,” Ida announced proudly, adjusting her cards one more time. “I’ve been analyzing caller tendencies and number frequency patterns. Tonight we put theory into practice.”

Word spread quickly through the assembled players that Ida Baker had developed a “system” for winning bingo. Soon, half the room was craning their necks to observe her elaborate setup.

“That’s quite the operation you’ve got there,” observed Harold Fitzgerald, squinting at Ida’s charts through his thick glasses. “You’ve got more data than my grandson’s computer science homework.”

“Mathematics doesn’t lie, Harold,” Ida said, consulting her frequency analysis. “Based on six weeks of observation, B-seven has a twenty-three percent higher probability of being called on Tuesday nights than Thursdays.”

“But this is Wednesday,” pointed out Martha Henley.

“Last week’s statistics are still being calculated,” Ida replied without missing a beat. “I need three more weeks of data to establish the baseline probabilities.”

Mrs. Henderson, the evening’s bingo caller, approached the microphone with her usual theatrical flair. She was a small, energetic woman in her seventies who treated bingo calling like a performance art.

“Good evening, players!” she announced, her voice carrying clearly through the hall. “Tonight’s first game is a traditional blackout—cover all twenty-four numbers on your card to win!”

The crowd settled into focused attention as Mrs. Henderson began drawing numbers from the wire cage. Ida positioned herself with both hands ready to mark cards, her notebook open to the evening’s prediction charts.

“B-3!” Mrs. Henderson called out.

Ida immediately consulted her notebook, making a quick tick mark beside B-3 in her frequency column. The number appeared on two of her four cards, which she daubed with satisfied precision.

“I-19!”

Another notation in the notebook, another careful daub. Ida’s system was in full swing now, and the surrounding players watched with fascination as she treated each number call like a scientific data point.

“G-52!” Mrs. Henderson announced.

“Ha!” Ida exclaimed, making an excited notation. “Told you that one was overdue! Three weeks without a call creates statistical pressure for selection!”

“That’s not how probability works, Ida,” Harold called out good-naturedly.

“We’ll see about that,” Ida replied, daubing G-52 on three of her four cards.

The game continued with Ida maintaining her elaborate system of cross-referencing, notation, and strategic daubing. Her table looked like a small command center, complete with charts, predictions, and enough data to outfit a statistics professor.

“N-34!”

Ida paused, frowning at her notebook. “That’s unusual. N-34 typically doesn’t appear until after the eighth number on Wednesday games.” She made a careful notation. “Anomalous result. Requires further analysis.”

Mona, Ruth, and Helen watched from the coffee station, amused by their friend’s scientific approach to what was essentially a game of luck.

“She’s certainly committed to her methodology,” Helen observed.

“Look at her concentration,” Ruth added. “I’ve seen surgeons with less focus.”

“BINGO!” called out a voice from the back of the room.

Ida looked up from her charts with apparent shock. “But that’s impossible! According to my calculations, we should have needed at least six more numbers for optimal coverage probability!”

“Sometimes the balls don’t read your notebook, dear,” Mona called out gently.

The winner—Marge Potter from table seven—approached the verification table with her winning card and a broad smile. Mrs. Henderson checked the numbers carefully, then announced the official win.

“Congratulations to Marge! Our first winner of the evening!”

As the room prepared for the second game, the hall filled with the cheerful bustle of intermission.

Players stretched, visited the coffee station, and socialized between games.

Helen moved toward one of the tall windows that overlooked the parking lot, idly watching the evening traffic while waiting for the next game to begin.

“Looks like a busy night,” she commented to Mona, who had joined her at the window. “Lots of cars are still arriving.”

Through the glass, she could see the parking lot illuminated by street lamps, with vehicles scattered across the asphalt.

Her gaze fell on a small dark sedan parked at the far edge of the lot, positioned where it had a clear view of the main entrance but remained somewhat hidden in the shadows between lampposts.

“That’s odd,” Helen murmured, more to herself than to Mona.

“What’s odd?” Mona asked, following Helen’s gaze.

“That car over there. See the dark one at the edge? It’s been sitting there since we arrived, but I don’t think anyone got out of it.” Helen squinted through the glass, trying to make out more details. “The engine’s running—you can see the exhaust.”

Mona looked at where Helen was pointing. The car was indeed still occupied, though the distance and poor lighting made it impossible to see who was inside.

“Maybe they’re waiting for someone?” Mona suggested, though she felt a small prickle of unease.

“For over an hour?” Helen asked. “And why park so far away if you’re picking someone up?”

Before Mona could respond, Laura Jenkins walked through the main entrance, scanning the room with the purposeful look of someone searching for a specific person. She wore the same hemp jacket from the other day, and as she moved, Helen caught the soft jangle of what sounded like a charm bracelet.

“Ladies,” Helen said quietly, nudging Ruth. “Look who just walked in.”

“Laura Jenkins,” Ruth observed. “What is one of our suspects doing at senior bingo night?”

“Visiting family, maybe?” Mona suggested, but her detective instincts were already engaged.

Laura made her way toward a table near the back corner, where an elderly woman with carefully permed white hair sat organizing her cards for the next game.

“I should go question her… err I mean apologize,” Helen said, though she couldn’t help glancing back toward the window. The mysterious car was still there, its occupant apparently content to wait. “About the flower garden incident. It’s the right thing to do.”

She walked across the room with casual purpose, pausing at the coffee station to pour herself a cup before continuing toward Laura’s table.

“Rosemary!” Helen called out warmly as she approached. “How are you feeling, dear?”

The elderly woman looked up with a bright smile. “Helen! What a lovely surprise! I’m feeling much better, thank you.”

Laura turned, her expression immediately cooling when she recognized Helen. “Oh. You’re one of the ladies from yesterday. The ones with the reckless driving friend.”

“That’s exactly why I came over,” Helen said diplomatically. “I wanted to apologize for Ruth’s parking mishap. We felt terrible about the flowers.”

“Those were late-season bloomers,” Laura said, her tone sharp with accusation. “Do you have any idea how critical those flowers are for bee survival at this time of year?”

“I’m so sorry,” Helen said sincerely. “We had no idea. Ruth feels awful about it.”

“She should,” Laura said, though her tone was softening slightly. “This is my aunt, Rosemary Powell.”

“Oh, I know Rosemary well,” Helen said, settling into a chair beside them. “We’re in the same book club.”

“Helen’s a lovely girl,” Rosemary said to her niece. “Very well-read.”