Dumpster Dicing (Bunco Biddies Book 1)

by Julie B. Cosgrove

  Chapter Twenty

  Janie clicked the remote to view the reporting team. The anchor lady spoke. Behind her, a familiar mugshot gleamed in digital glory.

  “The total bizarre story of Edwin Newman may never be fully discovered, though police are still investigating his ghastly murder last week. His niece, Marjorie Newman Spellman, informed us a memorial service will be held at Thompson’s Funeral Home in Alamoville tomorrow at 11:00 a.m., preceded by the viewing at ten. In lieu of flowers, donations can be made to the Misidentified Criminals Foundation, who help the falsely accused assimilate back into society.”

  Ethel’s voice came through the receiver. “I think we should go, don’t you?”

  Janie tapped the remote to her thigh. “Yes. Can’t believe the next of kin wanted a viewing, though. Guess they found enough pieces to put Humpty Dumpty together again, huh?”

  Ethel’s scoff echoed in her ear. “Janie, really.”

  But a sputter told Janie Ethel tried hard not to laugh.

  “I’ll call Betsy Ann first thing in the morning. She’s usually in bed by nine, you know.”

  “True. But I think it would be wise to wake her and tell her now.”

  “You think so?”

  “She hates last minute changes in plan. You know that.”

  “Well, we better go on our walk at six-twenty instead of six-forty-five so we have time to eat breakfast, shower, and change. What ya figure? Meet back at your place at nine?”

  Janie nodded and then realized her friend couldn’t decipher the gesture over the phone. “Yes, shouldn’t take us more than forty-five minutes to drive there. Okay, I’ll give Betsy Ann a ring now.”

  “Okay.”

  But, Ethel?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Let’s meet up at six. That’ll allow her a good hour after breakfast to decide which black outfit to wear.”

  * * *

  The blast of stale air conditioning hit Janie’s cheek as the women slipped into the low-lit funeral parlor. Mildred came as well, stating it to be her pious duty to forgive and forget.

  A white, satin-lined guest book sat in the vestibule on a pedestal. The four women signed in their names with the snowy plumed pen, identified themselves as neighbors on the adjacent line, and tiptoed down the ramp into the viewing room. Soft, piped-in organ music filtered from speakers hidden in the ceiling. The mahogany casket sat half-open in the back of the room, centered under pink pocket lights. At least ten flower arrangements, several on easels, dotted the surrounding area as forty-plus people occupied the room, some standing and whispering, others clustered in seated groups.

  Janie spoke in a library-hushed voice. “Can’t believe so many folks turned out for this.”

  Ethel bobbed her short, steel-colored curls. “Well, call me morbid, but I am curious to take a peek. The restoration must have cost a bundle.”

  Betsy Ann shuddered. “Wonder which one is his niece?”

  Janie removed her glasses and rubbed them on her blouse. “Darn photo-chromic lenses. I can’t see a thing.” She sighed and cradled them back onto the bridge of her nose. “Well, let’s pay our respects and mingle. We might be able to pick up a clue in conversations.”

  Three heads bounced up and down without making a sound. With a collective breath to steady their nerves, the ladies traipsed past the grouping of bystanders with respectful nods and pursed smiles.

  Betsy Ann whimpered. “This is eerie. The last time we saw him was...well, in pieces.”

  Ethel shushed her. “Don’t think about it.”

  “You didn’t discover him, Ethel.” Her voice quivered. “Janie and I did.”

  Janie held her hand to her waist. “I admit the Danish I ate for breakfast is churning in my gut.”

  The three gazed into each other’s eyes and whispered in unison, “We can do this.”

  Ethel heaved a deep sigh. “Let’s go.”

  As they shuffled closer to the casket, Mildred stopped. She put out her arms for the other to halt as well. “Wait.”

  “Mildred? If you don’t wish to come, we understand.”

  She shook her head. “That’s not the problem, ladies.” She pointed with her head at the body laid out in estate. “Are my eyes deceiving me or is that a...?”

  Ethel whispered the startling revelation. “A woman!”

  Janie began to back step. “Oops. Wrong viewing.”

  Dozens of eyes peered as the quartet scurried away, hands to their mouths. Outside on the stoop, they burst into laughter.

  Betsy Ann wiped the giggle-tears from her face with a tissue fished from her pocket. “Should we go in and cross our names off the guest book?”

  Janie stared at the other three blush-cheeked women who gazed back at her for the answer. “Nah. It would look tacky. No one ever reads those things, now do they? At least, after my late husband’s funeral, I never did.” She swatted the thought away with a raspberry sound, causing another episode of nervous chuckles.

  They propped against the pillars in the porte-cochere as they tried to stifle their giggles of embarrassment. However, as soon as everyone took a breath, one of them would sputter again, sending the rest into fits of suppressed laughter again. A group of people entering the parlor cocked their eyebrows at them and frowned.

  Janie motioned with her hand. “Come on, let’s go find out where our corpse is.”

  Betsy Ann slapped her back. “Janie!”

  They all burst into laughter one more time.

  Mildred wiped under her eyes. “Let’s locate a receptionist. Who knew there’d be two viewings?”

  The four entered the glass doors on the side where a young lady in an austere-tailored navy blue suit and hair tucked into a tight French bun greeted them. She motioned down a narrow hallway. “Past the restrooms and water fountain on the right.”

  The biddies edged down the oriental runners and peered in. A middle-aged woman shriveled on the edge of a love seat, a linen hankie clutched in her hands. A vase of roses, a winged-back chair in faded, maroon brocaded upholstery, and an easel depicting Edwin Newman as a younger man comprised the only other items in the room. Janie knocked on the door jamb.

  “Ms. Spellman?”

  She jolted with her hand to her throat. “Oh, hello.” She extended her other hand but didn’t rise from her seat.

  Janie clutched her purse to her stomach. She plastered on a sympathetic, matronly smile. “My name is Janie Manson, and these are...”

  Marjorie’s eyes enlarged. “You are the ones who...who...”

  Betsy Ann sniffled. “Yes. We did. So horrid.” She clucked her teeth and dashed her gaze to the flowers which showed signs of wilting in the sunbeam. “Let me draw those drapes. The heat will wither those blooms in no time.”

  Mildred perched next to the niece. She placed a hand on her knee. “I was his next door neighbor, if only for a few days.”

  The grieving relative swiveled towards her. “Oh, you must be the one with the dog. Mrs. Jacobs told me about that. I am so sorry. Edwin never liked dogs. One attacked him as a small child. A Schnauzer, if I am not mistaken. He still carried the scars on his arms and neck. Any barking set him on edge.”

  Janie slunk into the occasional chair. “Why didn’t this come out in the trial? Such evidence like physical markings would have proven he wasn’t Edward Norman.”

  Marjorie shook her head. “My guess is the prosecution thought they had their man and the bank officers wanted a quick closure.”

  “Yes, all three are branches of the same financial institution, correct?”

  “That’s true. Any hint of the theft being an inside job would damage the bank’s reputation. I’m sure the shareholders and board wanted to squelch any notion. They made Edwin their scapegoat.” She swallowed a sob and gazed at her clutched fingers. “His court-appointed rookie lawyer proved no match for their well-respected and learned attorneys.”

  A moment of uneasiness draped the small room. Janie followed the dust motes as they swirled in the su
nlight streaming through the opening between the drawn drapes. It landed onto Edwin Newman’s photo-glossy, framed-in face. Even as a younger man, he held a far-away look in his eyes as if a deep pain refused to surface. “Tell us about him. We never got the chance to know him and he went through such an ordeal.”

  His only living kin took a deep breath before beginning her tale. “His father died in a car accident a few months before he turned twelve. His gambling debts left Edwin’s mom penniless. My mother, her sister, took them in. I was in pre-school at the time. I recall him being sullen and moody, and he often spent hours locked in his room which they converted from half of the garage. He ran away five years later. Joined the Army. Never finished high school.”

  She paused and sipped a glass of water which she had perched on the carpet next to her shoes. After a couple of sips, she continued. “Three years in, he caught shrapnel in the leg and they discharged him after several months in rehab. After quite a few dead-end jobs over the next twenty years, he became a janitor for one of the banks Norman, Lopez and Smithers robbed. Worked for that financial institution for twelve years.”

  Ethel spoke up. “Ah, I understand.”

  Marjorie’s eyes narrowed. “Yes. He never possessed one reprimand on his employment record, but they always blame the cleaning crew, don’t they?” Her lips curved to one side as her eyelids drooped.

  Janie softly touched the woman’s arm. “I gather your parents have passed on?”

  She gave her head a quick bob. “Dad died of heart failure at only fifty-nine. Smoked several packs a day, but didn’t everyone in his generation? Mom suffered a stroke within two weeks of Edwin’s conviction. She never recovered. She’s been gone ten years now. Edith, Edwin’s mother, remained in the house as a recluse until the neighbors discovered…”

  “Yes, we read that in the papers. I am so sorry.” Janie gave her a sweet smile of sympathy.

  “I should have visited her more often.” Marjorie’s voice caught in her throat.

  The four Bunco Biddies glanced at each other. Ethel leaned in. “We better get going. Funeral is in fifteen minutes, correct?”

  Marjorie pushed back her sleeve to read her watch. “Yes.” Her voice remained flat. “Will you stay?” She lifted her gaze to each one, an unstated plea reflected in her dark brown, red-rimmed pupils.

  Since the service began soon and no one else milled around, Janie doubted anyone else would attend. “Of course. We will meet you in the chapel.” Janie gave Marjorie’s arm a gentle squeeze and rose from the cushion.

  The other three followed her into the hallway in a stiff, silent parade. Betsy Ann spoke first. “I want to freshen up.” She motioned with her eyes toward the door marked for their gender.

  Everyone murmured in consent.

  * * *

  The whole thing lasted twenty minutes. A generic preacher expounded on judgment being in God’s hands and how we are called to love and forgive. Mildred sniffled. Betsy Ann crossed herself, and Janie and Ethel stared at each other with renewed resolve.

  “This poor man did nothing to deserve his demise.” Janie put her hands to her hips. “I agree judgment belongs to the Almighty, but we can ensure justice is done here on earth.”

  Ethel arched her eyebrow and scribbled her response one of the information pamphlets. “Remember, Marjorie is now about two-hundred-fifty thousand dollars richer.”

  Janie’s eyes became as large as the spider mums in the floral arrangement on the closed casket. She glanced up a row across from them to Edwin Newman’s niece. Ms. Spellman seemed meek enough and her sorrow genuine. However, she recalled what she had told Blake. People have killed for less.

  Chapter TwentY-One

  “What if Edwin Newman died because he wasn’t Edward Norman after all?” Ethel made her point with an erect finger.

  Janie gripped the steering wheel. “Well, I guess that’s something to think about, though it seems unlikely.”

  Betsy Ann scooted forward from the back seat to be heard over the hum of the tires. “Not if Edward Norman wanted to remain incognito. Remember, they never found the money. Once people learned the authorities mistook Edwin for Norman, it only stands to reason the feds would be searching for the real robber now.”

  “Blake told me the real Edward Norman died in South America or somewhere years ago.”

  Ethel twisted to face her from the front passenger side. “Maybe sweet Marjorie wanted the compensation money more than a reunion with her sad-sack uncle. Two-hundred-fifty thousand is nothing to sneeze at.”

  Mildred humphed. “We never learned what she did for a living.”

  “No, no, no.” Janie shook her head back and forth as she refocused on the traffic ahead of her. “I can’t believe such a sweet woman could be so dastardly. Let’s hope Blake uncovers something about Edwin from his prison mates. I get a nagging suspicion Edwin crossed the wrong people after he became incarcerated.”

  “But will he share that with you?”

  “I’m having dinner with them after church on Sunday. I’ll tell him about our conversation with Marjorie Spellman and perhaps in exchange...well, I can try.”

  Ethel pressed her spine into her car seat. “Why do I feel as if we are back at square one?”

  “Again.” Betsy Ann folded her arms and flopped back to stare out the side window.

  Mildred sat in quietness, biting her lower lip. Cupped in her hand lay a crumpled photo of her Poopsy.

  * * *

  Later in the afternoon, Janie made her appointed Good Samaritan rounds at the assisted living center. Her cohorts opted out, both stating weariness from today’s outing and needing time to review their court transcripts before they met an hour before the rest of the Bunco Biddies arrived for the weekly Thursday evening fun.

  “All right. Meet you for our walk tomorrow morning.” Janie waved as both strolled down the street to their abodes.

  After changing into walking shorts and a layered top, she chomped a tuna fish sandwich, washed down with a glass of two-percent milk, and headed across the expanse to the four-story building she dreaded one day would be her residence. Anyone who lived in the community’s independent housing claimed first dibs on vacancies in the more monitored units.

  She chatted with a couple who shared quarters on the third floor. They had been one of the first residents to buy a condo in Sunset Acres. However, over the winter, their health declined so drastically, the family became concerned about their ability to live self-sufficiently.

  “I don’t miss cooking and cleaning.” Mrs. Joseph winked at her husband. “He won’t admit it, but he doesn’t either. In fact, the doctor says he gained a few pounds since we moved in here.”

  Mr. Joseph clasped a shaky hand over his ear. “What you say?”

  She erased the thought with her hand. In a higher decibel voice, she addressed him. “Never mind, honey. Go back to your nap.” She turned to Janie. “He takes three a day now.” Worried lines crinkled her brow line.

  Janie closed the door to their room as her heart fluttered. She went to the ladies’ room and stared into the mirror. Suddenly, her hair appeared whiter and her wrinkles more numerous.

  She chided her reflection. “There but for the grace of God go you.” Visiting these old neighbors weighed upon her spirit more than she realized. “But you’ve got to do this, Janie, old girl. Who will visit you when the time comes?”

  Blake and Melody and the kids would try, when they found time. But lonely long days stretched out in her mind. However, as she continued to chat with her peers who resided in the monitored facility, the boulders in her stomach became pebbles. Well-cooked meals, caring staff, and the ability to bring some personal belongings to make the small efficiencies your own eased the angst. The staff offered activities for all levels of competency, from ice cream socials to Bingo and movie nights. Wonder if they organized a Bunco get-together? Well, they would when she arrived.

  The thought put a slight bounce in her step as she headed back to her condo.
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  She spent the evening with a cup of chamomile tea and the transcripts, more confident than ever of the futility of her efforts. Still, this stone must be overturned and Blake didn’t have the time, not with his hectic schedule. Perhaps Betsy Ann or Ethel would uncover a clue in their documents.

  Yet something in the back of her brain tugged at her. No one killed Edwin until after the courts discovered his true identity. As long as he remained incarcerated as Edward Norman, he stayed safe. Why?

  She gathered Mrs. Fluffy and shuffled off to bed. Perhaps a good night’s sleep would un-muddle her grey cells.

  * * *

  A rumbling through her bedroom jolted Janie from her dream state. The kitty burrowed under the covers against the crux of her knees, a sure sign foul weather loomed on the horizon. Stark white light pulsed through her curtains followed by another elongated boom. Within seconds, the tapping of rain pounded above her head.

  She glanced at the illuminated dial of her alarm clock. 5:48. Janie flopped back on her pillow with a groan. Hopefully this would be over in an hour. Texas storms often breezed through at fifty miles per hour, rattling and shaking everything in their path. Which meant jogging in muddy puddles later this morning.

  Janie folded the sheets back, causing a disgruntled growl from her furry companion. She waddled into the kitchen and put on the kettle as bright, flickering shafts blasted through her mini blinds along with rhythmic tumbles of thunder.

  As Janie filled her cup with boiling water, a loud crash from the heavens vibrated her walls. A streak of gray stripes dashed in and wrapped herself between her mistress’s legs. In an effort to sidestep the feline, Janie lost her balance.

  She cried out as Mrs. Fluffy leapt to the kitchen counter and then cowered on top of the refrigerator.

  Her right ankle twisted out of her bedroom slipper. Sharp needles zipped up her ankle and down across her toes. Her elbow whacked next, breaking her fall before her face met the linoleum.

  Janie struggled to a sitting position on the floor. Her foot throbbed. Pulsating pain emitted from above her baby toe, across to the big toe and up to her ankle joint. She knew better than to try to stand. “Well, at least I didn’t break a hip.”