Chapter Twelve

When Nate said that Whisper Lake took their bingo seriously, he wasn't kidding.

Three fights broke out over the evening, and two of them drew blood. And that wasn't even counting the squabbles that arose over the last piece of blackberry pie.

Every seat at every table was filled. Every inch of the tables was covered in bingo cards, daubers, and good luck trinkets. One woman had a stuffed snake wrapped around her neck and would pet it between every number Nate called. Another wore a tiara, and a tiny, hunched man in a motorized scooter emblazoned with pro-bingo bumper stickers had an intricate series of hand gestures he did whenever luck wasn't coming his way fast enough.

As the evening wore on, it was clear that prime territories had been staked out through years of border skirmishes. If the corner of even one bingo card slipped past what was considered neutral territory between players, the encroacher would be met with hostile force, shoving the page back hard enough that the advancing enemy regretted their incursion. The looks of derision the infraction earned was second only in causticness to the low boos and hisses that rose up from the nearby players.

Hanna had never seen anything like it, but by the time Nate took a break from calling numbers—bingo intermission as he called it—she was kind of in love with the gathering of feisty townspeople.

Nate pulled out his antique pocket watch and checked the time. "You should grab something to drink and use the bathroom while you can. The second act is likely to get ugly."

"Ugly?" she asked. "We've already had to stop twice to bandage wounds. How much uglier can it get with the average age in attendance pushing seventy?"

He opened his mouth, but before he could speak, Fern Simmons tromped up to where Nate stood on the low stage. Her steel gray head was low, like she was set to charge, and her face was grim. "Someone stole my tank."

Hanna blinked in confusion, trying to make sense of the woman's words.

"Are you sure it didn't just fall off the table?" Nate asked.

"Positive. It was there when I went to the toilet and gone when I came back."

"Did you ask your sister if she saw it?"

Mrs. Simmons's chest swelled with outrage. "Are you calling my sister a thief?"

Nate held up his hands to ward away the crazy, but Hanna guessed it wasn't going to work.

"Not at all," he said quickly. "I just meant that she's sitting next to you. Maybe she saw what happened to it."

Mrs. Simmons put her bony hands on her bony hips, thrusting out her bony elbows in accusation. "Someone stole it. That's what happened. It's brought me luck all night, and some fucker here just swiped it."

"What does it look like?" Hanna asked.

Mrs. Simmons stared at her like she was brain damaged. "It's a tank. It looks like a tank. The shooty-shooty kind, not the ones that hold shit."

Nate took pity on Hanna. "It's a small metal replica of a tank from World War II, painted Army green. Maybe three inches long. She's brought it here for years."

"I'll go see if I can find it," Hanna said, leaving Nate to soothe the angry woman.

She was halfway to the table where Mrs. Simmons had been sitting next to her colorful sister when a furtive movement caught the corner of her eye. She turned to see what had snared her attention, but all she saw was a strikingly beautiful woman sitting quietly along the wall, crocheting. Her hair was a sleek, platinum blond, held back on one side with a gold comb. Even though she had to be in her sixties, her skin was smooth, with a satiny peaches-and-cream coloring. Her posture was that of a demure southern belle waiting for her beau to come calling.

She had a large fabric bag on the lap of her flowing floral skirt, and a strand of thin yarn leading from that tote to her flashing crochet hook. Diamond rings twinkled on both her hands, but rather than covering each finger as Mrs. Peony did, this woman had stopped at one ring per hand and one glittering diamond tennis bracelet winking on her wrist.

As Hanna watched, tiny, intricate stitches formed a lacy doily so delicate, it could have graced the most refined doll house in town.

The woman's cornflower blue eyes lifted from her work, landing on a man crossing toward her. He was on the pudgy side, but handsome in a rakish kind of way. His hair was the color of oxidized lead, slicked back from his forehead. He had pale, scarred spots along his temples and hair line, reminding Hanna of the spots her landlord in Cincinnati had after suffering a bout of skin cancer.

As soon as the older woman saw him, her face lit up with welcome, and a soft blush formed on her smooth cheeks.

She set her needlework on the floor, and as she did, the bag tilted sideways and a small, Army green tank rolled out.

The man bent and picked up the metal toy. "What's this?" he asked.

"Mine!" came an enraged shout from across the room. "That's my lucky tank!"

Hanna saw Mrs. Simmons barreling toward them, head down, teeth bared. Rage flashed in her eyes, as well as the promise for revenge.

Hanna hurried forward to intervene before that crochet hook ended up in someone's eye.

"I can't believe you stole it," Mrs. Simmons roared loudly enough the rest of the large room fell silent. Now that she had an audience, she announced, "Caroline Peach is a thief!"

Caroline rose to her feet and clutched the arm of the man beside her. "I didn't steal anything. I found it."

"You found it on my table," said Mrs. Simmons. "That's where you found it."

"Now, Fern," the older gentleman said, his voice low and soothing. "I'm sure this is all just a misunderstanding."

Mrs. Simmons’ face darkened further with rage. "You stay out of this, Gilbert. You're only good for one thing, and keeping the peace ain't it."

Caroline gasped. "How dare you talk to him like that? He's a kind, decent man and doesn't deserve your vitriol and spite."

"You only say that because you want him to waste one of his little blue pills on you."

An audible inhalation passed through the room, and then fell silent.

Gilbert stepped in between the feuding women. "Ladies, please. There's no need to fight."

"It was supposed to be my night," Caroline spat. "You got him last night."

"Well, maybe I'm just better in bed than you."

"Whore," Caroline muttered.

"Whoa," Nate said as he entered the fighting ring. "No need for that." He addressed the growing crowd of gawkers. "You all go on about your business. Get some coffee. Next round starts in ten."

A few of the onlookers grudgingly left the spectacle, but most of them stayed where they were, watching what would happen next with rapt attention.

Nate turned to Caroline. "Did you take the tank?"

"She can have the stupid thing. It isn't lucky, anyway."

"It sure as hell can't get you laid," Fern said. "Then again, there's not a lucky charm in this place strong enough to make a man stomach what's between your legs."

"O-kay," said Nate, hands raised, his cheeks a delightful shade of pink. "Can we all just agree to keep our sex lives and personal insults out of this?"

"She's always stealing my night," Caroline said, her tone one of clear accusation.

"There's enough of old Gilbert to go around," the older man said. "Why don't both of you come back to my place after bingo and I'll show you."

"Pervert," shot Fern.

"Deviant," scolded Caroline.

"Don't knock it ‘till you try it," called Mrs. Peony from somewhere in the crowd.

Nate's blush darkened, and Hanna had to bite the inside of her lips to keep from smiling.

"That's enough," he said, his voice booming over the crowd. "This discussion is officially over, or I'm calling it a night."

"But—" Fern began.

"No buts," said Nate. "If any of you say one more word, I'm shutting down bingo for the rest of the night, and everyone will know why. Is that what you want?"

He looked from Fern, to Caroline, to Gilbert, and then scanned the gathering.

"You'd better not fuck up my winning streak," Mrs. Peony warned.

Hanna could just catch a glimpse of her lavender hair through the crowd. She was trying to push her way forward, but the onlookers seemed loathe to give up their front row seats.

Nate held out his hand. "Give me the tank."

Gilbert handed it over, then Nate offered it to its rightful owner.

Nate raised his voice loud enough so that even the most hard-of-hearing in the crowd had no excuse. "Now everyone, back to your seats. We're moving on."

He took Hanna's arm and cleared a path for them.

As soon as it was safe, Hanna let out the laugh she'd been holding in. "Is it always like this?" she asked.

Nate shook his head and let out a heavy sigh. "No. Sometimes it gets bad."