Death By Dauber

By R. A. Carter-Squire

People are dying at bingo games all over the city. The police are treating the deaths as natural because the people dying are elderly. Terry MacArthur is an amateur sleuth who plays bingo and notices the similarities. Her instinct for solving puzzles, especially murder is aroused. She begins a quest for answers. Using her long-time friend and police detective Arnold Jackson, Terry finds the coincidences, plots them into a bigger picture of anger, hatred, and narcissism. Is it another player, an employee at the hall, or an anonymous killer trying to make a statement? They fight together to solve the case of Death by Dauber.

• Language: English
• Publisher: R. A. Carter-Squire
• Release date: Jan 17, 2020
• ISBN: 9780463570425

R. A. Carter-Squire

Married with children. My wife and I live in Manitoba, Canada. Writing has become my passion because the words can make pictures that others have never seen.

Book preview

Chapter 1

Myrtle shuffles through the door into the bingo hall. Same grubby floor, poor lighting, old people she’s been sitting with for the last forty years. The room buzzes with voices from various groups sitting along tables that witness many nights like this. She waves and gives a weak smile to a few of the players she knows and lines up to buy her cards. The woman behind the counter is new, relative to Myrtle’s time here. This girl is the same one each Monday night for the last twenty-five years. Her hair style never changes, always pulled back in a tight bun on the back of her head, always dresses in a blue t-shirt with the club logo sewn into the left shoulder. The only change tonight, is her hair color, deep brown from a dirty grey. Her frown never wavers either, no matter how much Myrtle tries to joke with her. She picks out which cards she wants and pays the woman, receives a grunt in reply.

Turning slowly, Myrtle scans the crowd looking for someone to sit with, someone who won’t be too annoying. People who play bingo are a diverse lot, some are neat, some are talkative, others want to rule the table spreading their things everywhere. Myrtle didn’t like anyone like that, she wants enough space to play her cards without being crowded and she didn’t like conversation when she is trying to concentrate on the numbers. Talk between games or when they call a break. The table in the corner is vacant. She starts in that direction hoping nobody else will find her or need to sit near her.

Several players say hello as she passes, her mouth twitches into a grin with each, but she keeps moving. Each night is the same. She comes in, spends thirty dollars of her meager pension, makes her way to a secluded spot, and prepares for the nights’ games. In forty years of this innocent gambling, her total winnings are three hundred dollars. Her late husband asked her once, why do you play if you’re only going to waste your money?

Herb, she said. Why do you golf? There’s nothing in it for you and it costs more than me playing bingo.

Well, Herb stammered. I get exercise and fresh air, but there’s always a chance I’ll be the better golfer any day I go out.

That’s my point. Every time I play, there’s a good chance I’ll win. He never asked her again. She misses him being around the house. Myrtle drops onto the hard-plastic chair, set her purse on the empty one beside her and struggles out of her coat. It is early October; a chill wind is blowing tonight threatening an early snow by morning. She shivers at the thought of winter. Her hands dig through her bingo bag, a separate carry-all for her game nights. Daubers, candies, tissues, lucky charm, spare change, and other things she doesn’t recognize and likely won’t ever throw out. As she prepares some of the cards for the evening’s games, her eyes fall on the caller sitting behind the desk on the raised platform.

Richard something, a new member of the group running the show. He has a good voice, but the man doesn’t seem to take the game seriously. Nobody is perfect, Myrtle knew that, but when this guy makes a mistake, he makes jokes or laughs at it. He’s arrogant, a likeable egotist. The other callers are cold or talk too much wasting time instead of calling the numbers. It’s all about the numbers.

There, everything is ready, cards in order, daubers on the table in a row across the top of the cards and nobody else at her table. A few people are still coming in, but there isn’t much time left before the games start. She takes out her wallet and goes to the concession window for a snack and a drink. This is another expenditure she doesn’t regret each week. A treat once a week for herself isn’t a luxury in her mind. Besides, what difference will it make at eighty-three years old if she eats some junk food occasionally.

The first game takes five minutes to play before someone hollers, Bingo. Myrtle needed three more numbers. Her hopes for a win are dashed once more. She changes the dauber color, leaves the cap open end up on the table for ‘good luck’ and waits for the next game. Six minutes, a first-timer wins this time. She’s never seen the person here before tonight. A small ball of frustration begins to grow in Myrtle’s stomach. This is nothing new, but before leaving her apartment earlier, she had a feeling that tonight was going to be her night. Two games gone, and she hasn’t come close to winning. The third game goes to another woman at the far end of the hall. Twenty-five games played each Monday night, six by the first break and Myrtle is starting to think Herb was right, it is a waste of money.

All the big money jackpots are played for in the last half of the evening, forcing people to stay until the end. The caller makes a few announcements before starting the next game. He doesn’t look a day over sixty to Myrtle. His voice calls the numbers, she dabs the card watching the marks form the required patterns or filling up the sheet. Each game ends with someone else winning. Anger replaces depression. The second break is over, and the largest jackpot of the evening is up next. She knows with every fiber of her being that it’s her turn to win.

The letter X game with a prize of over two thousand dollars in fifty numbers or less. Her emotions rocket up and plummet with each number. When she has one, they go up, but the drop when she doesn’t have it, or it’s in the wrong place is devastating. One number away, on one card, her heart pounds as the ball appears on the screen. He will call it next. His voice comes to her ears as the voice of God announcing the ten commandments. She pounds the dauber onto her card while yelling Bingo at the top of her lungs. Her other arm shoots skyward, her eyes scan the room searching for a paymaster. An aging man in jeans and blue shirt, totters over to her, he reads the number on her card, the caller declares it a winner and the other players applaud politely for her victory. A minute later, she stares at a cheque for twenty-three hundred sixty-five dollars. This is more money than she’s ever held at one time in her entire life. The next game starts so she can’t dwell too long on her windfall.

The pain in her chest starts small, a spasm really, forcing Myrtle to shift positions, but that doesn’t help. She takes a sip of her soda thinking it’s a case of indigestion. The pain eases for a second. She believes she’s fixed the problem and vows never to eat left overs again. Her vision blurs suddenly, the voice of the caller fades as the pain hammers into her chest. Oh my god, I’m having a heart attack. This can’t happen now, not now. Myrtle clutches her chest, starts to rise. Darkness floods the room. I’ll wait a minute, it isn’t much longer until everybody goes home, I’ll be fine then and pack up my things, too.

Chapter 2

Good night, the caller says as the crowd moves rapidly toward the exit. The volunteers begin clearing the tables, filling the garbage cans on wheels, one of the men walks toward Myrtle’s table. He has the expression of someone hoping the woman is sleeping. Ma’am, ma’am, are you going home? His face goes white when she doesn’t react. Reaching out with trembling fingers, he touches her hand resting on the table. The wrinkled skin is cool just before it falls limp toward the floor. The scream from his throat is high pitched as he jumps back with fear and revulsion.

The police arrive five minutes later, two ambulance attendants enter with the cops, a gurney rumbles and clatters across the floor between the EMT’s. One of them feels for a pulse, listens with a stethoscope, but shakes his head at the police.

She’s gone, the elder looking EMT says. We’ll take her to the hospital to be certain, but I’d say she died about half an hour ago.

Okay, the cop with the most stripes on his sleeve says. What do you think, heart attack?

Likely, but that’s up to the examiner. He’ll let you know. They place Myrtle gently on the gurney, cover her with a blanket and wheel her out to the ambulance.

The ranking police officer turns to the hall manager. Do you know the woman? Is she a regular? Dave Crandall, an aging ‘Don Quan’ nods his head. Yeah, she comes in every week, but I don’t know anything about her. She won big tonight, must have been too much for her.

Thanks, we’ll take care of everything. Hope this doesn’t affect your business.

Dave nods, he’s thinking the same thing. The cops take a statement from the other volunteers, and the few players hanging around to find out what happened. When the interviews end, they bag up her belongings and take them away.

Chapter 3

Gord likes playing bingo. A caller once, he’s an addicted player now after winning big twenty-five years past. His windfall burned away after two weeks of drinking and playing the horses, but he feels lucky tonight. The same way he felt that first time.

The hall is bright and clean, not like that place where a woman died three weeks ago. This parlor is across town, a block from Gord’s apartment in the Assisted Living complex. The workers are paid to be here and act accordingly. They smile when they take your money, talk with the players between games and when they pay the winners, they seem happy to give away the money. People play here because they like the atmosphere. He knew the dead woman, as a nodding acquaintance, seen her many times over the years. Short lady, carried two bags that seemed heavy, shuffled like she had trouble moving her legs. Gord doesn’t move any faster, but he often felt sad for the woman. Other women he knows, said her name was Myrtle and she’d lost her husband a few years back. His wife died ten years ago. It took a year before he felt able to go out in the world.

He looks at his watch to find out how much time there is before the games start. Ten minutes, plenty of time to get a snack and a drink. He purchases his favorite, Coke and an Oh Henry bar, returns to his seat, and eats the chocolate bar. The can pops as he pulls the ring, and he takes a drink savoring the fizz as it trickles down his throat. All the women who come to this hall are his age or older, in their late sixties or seventies at least. He scans the hall noting that the white hair in the room makes it look like snow drifts. They all dress like they are going to church, nice clothes, jewelry, hair done the day before. He laughs inside. Who are they kidding? If they are looking to catch a man, this isn’t the place. All the men coming here are broke or interested in something to do with their time until they die. Of course, he wants to win, again, he isn’t hurting for money, but he isn’t looking for a relationship, either.

A woman at the front of the room facing the back catches his eye. She has short white hair, wearing glasses, nice clothes of course, but something about her expression doesn’t seem right. She seems surprised. The more he stares, the more he realizes why. Her eyebrows are painted on, poorly, in place of the plucked and missing natural arches she was born with. He smiles as her eyes meet his stare. The woman misunderstands his attention and smiles back. Her false eyebrows rise higher and he chuckles. Something about his expression alarms her because she frowns, but the brows just rise higher. He takes a sip of Coke, as she frowns, when her eyebrows rise, he chokes, the soda threatening to jet from his nose.

Let’s get started, the caller says, effectively halting any further risk to Gord’s safety. They play through the first games until a break is called. His cards are crap, he isn’t coming close to a win. This is troubling, he sat at his usual table, has the lucky coin in the exact spot as the night he won big. To be certain, he picks it up and rubs the face before replacing it on the spot near the top left of his cards. The chocolate bar is sitting heavy in his stomach. He rises stiffly and goes outside for a smoke. Gord hates having to be out in the freezing air, summer is okay, but this is ridiculous. The day they banned smoking indoors, he should have quit. Oh well, he inhales and tosses the cigarette away returning to his seat. He watches the people wander in and settle again. Several players he recognizes as regulars from the other bingo halls around the city. He makes the circuit every week too, when he isn’t at the track playing the horses.

An hour goes by, his luck isn’t changing, and the winning feeling is fading fast. The crowd outside is larger during the next break, a few of the people seem happy, maybe they are winners. Never a jealous man, Gord’s mood darkens as he watches them laugh. They are stealing his rightful winnings. This is his night. He angrily throws the cigarette butt to the ground hoping to change his luck. The heat inside the building feels like a blast furnace, sweat forms on his forehead as he sags stiffly on the chair. His right-hand trembles as he reaches for the dauber ready to start the next game.

The first five numbers called in the Lucky Seven game are on one of his cards, three more and he’s a winner. Six, seven, his heart races, his eyes grow larger with excitement. Half a dozen numbers go by which he dabs on his other cards, but he wants B 12 and there it is, on the monitor as the next number up. The caller pulls the ball and Gord’s trembling hand moves the dauber toward the paper card, but it never makes the mark.

His head thumps on the table making a gong sound, a woman sitting at the other end of the row screams. The crowd turns toward the noise, another woman screams, someone shouts to call 911 as a few of the workers rush to Gord’s aid. They haul him off the chair and gently lay him on his back on the floor between the tables. One man starts CPR as people crane their necks to catch a glimpse of what is happening. A worker glances at Gord’s cards and realizes he’s won but shrugs it away. The eternity of five minutes passes before the EMT’s push through the crowd with a gurney. They examine Gord, shock his heart with a machine, use every effort to save the patient, but shake their heads. He is gone.

The police officers attending the scene question people, many of them trembling and distraught. A worker announces that the hall will reopen next week and gives everyone attending tonight a coupon worth fifty percent off next week’s cards. When the officers finish questioning the witnesses, they leave following the ambulance to the hospital, just another elderly person having a heart attack.

Chapter 4

Newspapers carry the story the next day, a two-inch piece buried on page six above the notices for coming events. Ironically, or perhaps by design, the article is followed by ads for bingo games coming the following week. Crowds thin at halls around town as players suspect a connection between the rash of deaths and the games. The fear lasts the rest of the month. Boredom, maybe a realization that there isn’t a hex, whatever the reason people return to the halls.

Trish returns because she misses her friends. The only time she sees them is at the hall on ninth street. Five of them sit together at one table, more if Mable and Elizabeth show up. They talk about family, neighbors, husbands, gossip throughout the evening. She needs their company and hopes they feel the same way.

Pulling open the door, she steps inside the warm hall. There they are, her friends, sitting together in their usual spot. Evelyn waves, Mable turns and waves too. Trish takes a seat after buying her cards.

Where have you been? Elizabeth asks.

Well after what happened, I thought maybe it was a virus going around. Weren’t you scared?

No, she chuckles. I never get sick. Why didn’t you call me?

I don’t have your number, Trish said. I don’t have anyone’s number.

Shocked at the oversight, the women all begin saying their telephone numbers at once. Wait a minute, until I get my phone out. Trish grumbles digging through her purse.

Oh, just write them on a piece of paper until you get home, Nancy orders. Not wanting to upset anyone, Trish finds a clean napkin and pen. The women take turns reciting their telephone numbers, when she has all of them, she gives hers to them. Satisfied, but feeling a tiny bit guilty for not knowing how to reach them after all the years they’ve known each other, she puts her cards in order.

The conversation moves on to husbands, Trish is a widow, but she listens to the others describing the failings of their husbands. She laughs several times, Nancy’s husband Adam did the laundry and shrunk her best sweater, Elizabeth’s husband Roger burned a casserole filling the house with smoke. They didn’t stop talking when she left the table to get a drink from the concession, they’d moved on to children or grandchildren by the time she returned.

Marjorie’s son was joining a major investment firm in New York, which everyone said was wonderful. None of the other women could top that story so they shifted to grandchildren. Trish never had children, and she’d grown up an only child, so she didn’t have anything to contribute. Her mind concentrated on dabbing her cards for later games. Sounds faded into the background becoming a gentle rumble. Her hand went up and down the cards, eyes searching for the next number. The hall plays a blackout game at the end of the night, numbers are pre-called to shorten the game. By the time she’s marked all the pre-called numbers, there is just one left uncovered. Wow, I’ve never come this close to winning, ever. Her eyes look around the table at her friends, none of them is paying attention to her. Their voices became clearer as she focuses on the conversation.

My doctor told me to cut down on sugar, Marjorie laughs. I told him it was my comfort food, and wouldn’t he rather see me a few pounds heavy than dying of a stroke from high blood pressure. She giggles, the other women chuckle, but the story fell flat. Marj is gaining weight, too much.

I only need one number on the last game, Trish announces. All eyes look at her as she holds up her card.

Oh my god, Trish, that’s fantastic. Good luck, Elizabeth said. All agreed.

With my luck, I’ll sit here until the end of the game, and it won’t get called, she complains, but they’d gone back to talking about their mundane lives. I’m going to get a drink, anyone want anything? Nobody responded.

A woman at the other end of the table begins coughing. Trish glances in her direction. I hope she doesn’t spread that around, I don’t want to get sick. She makes her way to the concession window, orders a Sprite and a bag of popcorn. Three dollars, I shouldn’t do it, but I can’t resist the taste. The woman is still coughing when Trish sits down. Why doesn’t she take some medication for that?

The games start, and she ignores