Bingoed (8 page)

“Oh my God!” cried Marjorie.

Essie continued reading.

“I have been looking for Bob Weiderley—my biological father. There are a few men named Bob Weiderley in the country, but not any that have all the criteria that my mother described. I believe I have found the correct Bob Weiderley—the Bob Weiderley that once upon a time loved my mother, Julia Warren. I believe that Bob Weiderley is you, sir. Mr. Weiderley, I believe I am your son—yours and Julia’s.

I don’t know your situation, Mr. Weiderley. I don’t wish to disrupt your family or cause you any anguish. If you wish to communicate with me, we can do so without ever mentioning our situation to anyone else. I’ve enclosed a recent photograph of me. I hope you see yourself and my mother in my features. People have always said I look like my mother.

Sincerely,

Ben Jericho”

“Oh, my God!” exclaimed Marjorie. “No wonder Bob collapsed! Let me see his photo.” Essie passed the small picture to her two friends.

“Do you think he looks like Bob?” asked Opal.

“I can’t tell,” responded Marjorie.

“The poor man!” added Opal.

“Poor man is right!” said Essie. “I say, this is all a crock of doo doo!”

“What?” screeched Marjorie, “this is the most romantic thing I’ve ever heard.”

“Romantic,” sneered Essie, “this man—this Ben Jericho—is after Bob’s five million dollars!”

“Oh,” said Marjorie, deflated. “I hadn’t thought of that. Do you really think he’d do that? I mean, we didn’t know that Bob was rich. How could this Jericho fellow find out about Bob’s money?”

“Essie,” added Opal, “you really believe that this man is playing some scam on Bob?”

“I’d bet money on it,” said Essie, then added, “But I certainly wouldn’t bet five million dollars!”

“Would Bob collapse just because he thought someone was trying to scam him?” asked Marjorie.

“But Essie, what this Jericho says in his letter just might be true,” argued Opal.

“I doubt it. Bob is a multi-millionaire and he’s a lonely old man with no family. He’s the perfect target for such a scam,” argued Essie.

“What are we going to do?” asked Marjorie.

“We’re going to confront this Ben Jericho!” announced Essie. “But, first we’re going to find out everything we can about him.”

“How?” asked Opal. “How can three old ladies track down some scam artist?”

“If he is a scam artist,” said Marjorie.

“We can do what we do best,” said Essie. “Use our feminine wiles.”

“What feminine wiles?” asked Opal. “I’m not sure I ever had any and I’m quite sure I don’t have any now.”

“You sell yourself short, Opal,” said Essie. “It’s just a matter of figuring out what we need to know and then finding it.”

“Essie,” said Marjorie, “it’s after eight o’clock. My aide will be by soon to give me my evening meds. If I’m not in my room, she’ll come looking for me.”

“Me too,” agreed Opal. “It’s hard to be a detective when you’re so conspicuous.”

“I know,” agreed Essie. “But, we can do it. We just need to keep our eyes and ears open. Let me think about this and we’ll reconnoiter tomorrow.”

“I assume that means something that doesn’t involve a high speed chase,” added Marjorie.

“If it does,” said Essie with a wink, “just remember, we have the fastest speed walkers in the place!”

Chapter Twelve

“My idea of Hell is to be young again.”

—Marge Piercy

The next morning was cool but clear. Unfortunately, Essie’s mind was not clear. She had tossed and turned all night long trying to figure out what—if anything—to do about the letter from the mysterious Ben Jericho that now resided on her nightstand like some ravenous, monster from the darkest reaches of Hell. As the sunlight poured into her living room, it illuminated the rectangle with its colorful stamp in the corner that she had placed on her end table next to her telephone. After DeeDee had helped her dress and given her her meds, she’d sat in her favorite chair and thought. No crossword puzzle this morning for me, she thought. As she had contemplated her options during her sleepless night, she had come to only a few conclusions. First, she had concluded that she was going to do something. That is, she wasn’t going to just return the letter to Bob’s room and pretend as if nothing had happened. She firmly believed that this letter was the event that had led to Bob’s collapse and ultimately his coma. She knew she had to do something about it, but she didn’t know exactly what.

What were her options? She could confess her theft and take the letter to Violet and let her deal with this Ben Jericho. No, that wouldn’t work. Violet was strictly hands-off residents’ private business. She would just chastise Essie for breaking into Bob’s room, return the letter, and then do nothing about the scam artist Jericho. No, telling Violet or anyone else in authority was not an option. She—and Opal and Marjorie (and Fay)—would have to handle this themselves. But how?

As it was impossible to take the letter to Bob or discuss it with him (and she wasn’t sure that she would do that even if Bob were not in a coma), it meant that she would have to find out if this Jericho’s story of his birth as described in the letter was true. If it was true, well, then that would be Bob’s concern if and when he recovered. If it was not true (which it probably wasn’t), then maybe she could do something about it so that Bob would not have this one more thing to worry about when (if) he did come out of his coma.

But how? How to track down Ben Jericho? She knew his name, address, and town from the return address on the envelope. She had his photo. She had no phone number. Even if she could get his phone number from long distance information, she didn’t believe she should confront him directly. That would give him an unnecessary advantage—to let him know that someone was on to him. She needed to find out what she could about him without him knowing what she was doing.

A small, niggling idea began to form in the back of her brain. Hmmm. She had to be careful and approach things carefully, she thought to herself. She would begin with a phone call. She reached for her appointment book and turned to the B’s. Ned Brannigan was the name she was looking for, her grandson. Claudia’s oldest son was some sort of computer wizard (so she was told) and now the CEO of his own computer firm. Claudia often gushed about his accomplishments whenever she visited Essie. A charming, outgoing young man, Ned had inherited Essie’s vigor and cleverness, she thought, so she didn’t feel as if asking for his assistance would be any imposition—even though it was 7:30 a.m.

“Hello, Ned,” she spoke into her telephone receiver, probably a little louder than necessary. She always found it a bit hard to hear people on the other end. People tended to whisper when they spoke on the phone, she found. “Hello, Ned. This is your Grandma Essie.”

“Grandma!” responded a cheerful voice. “Wow! It’s early! I’m still in bed. Are you okay?”

“No, no! I’m just fine,” she laughed. “I’m calling you, Ned, because I need your help.”

“Of course, Grandma,” replied the young man. “What can I do? Something that Mom can’t help you with? Do you need me to move some furniture for you?”

“No,” she said. “I need computer help!”

“Wow, Grandma!” chuckled Ned, “I sure wasn’t expecting to hear you say that! I thought you considered computers the Devil’s instruments.”

“No, no!” she said, “they’re just way too fancy for me. But, Ned, I have this friend, uh, friend here at Happy Haven who is having a problem. I wonder if maybe you can advise me how to help this . . . friend with a computer question.”

“I’ll sure try, Grandma,” responded Ned. “What’s the problem?”

“I don’t even know if it is a computer problem, but if it isn’t, just tell me that too,” she said.

“Okay,” he laughed, “but almost anything can be a computer problem nowadays.”

“Very well,” she said. “My . . . friend is trying to find someone, someone who doesn’t live here in town. They want to find out information about this . . . uh, person, but they don’t want to contact the person directly. They have a name and address but no phone number. Oh, and they have a photograph! I don’t know if that’s important or not.”

“It could be,” suggested Ned. “And, Grandma, this is definitely a computer problem—one that probably has a fairly easy solution.”

“Oh, good!” she responded with delight, thinking she had done the right thing by contacting her young grandson.

“I would simply tell your friend to Google this person,” said Ned. “That should produce a search results page full of information—newspaper columns, online articles, and similar things about the person. Some of those things may have photographs so your friend can verify the photo they have with the photos online.”

“How do I tell my friend to do this Google thing?” she asked.

She could hear the gentle laughter over the phone line.

“If your friend is computer-literate . . .”

“I guess you mean if my friend uses a computer. He . . . I mean she doesn’t.”

“You know, Grandma,” continued Ned, “I’ve been trying to get you to let me bring you a small laptop computer that you could use for photos and email and stuff . . .”

“Thank you, Ned, but I really don’t need one of those things myself,” she explained. “I just need to know what to tell my friend to do to find out about this person.”

“Would you like me to come over there to Happy Haven and help your friend with an online search? I could come over later this afternoon.”

“No, no!” she interjected. “My friend is . . . uh . . . sort of shy. Uh, she wouldn’t like that. Let’s just stick with this Google thing.”

“You can have her do that on one of those two old clunkers they have in the family room at Happy Haven,” he continued.

“I’ve never used those things, Ned,” she said, cringing.

“I know, Grandma,” he replied, and Essie could hear a little bit of a scolding coming on.

“Can you tell me what to do? So I can show my friend?”

“All right. Maybe you should write this down.”

“No, no. I’ll remember. Just tell me how to do the Google.”

“Okay, first make sure the computer is turned on. Can you do that? Then, sign on to the Internet.”

“How do I do that?”

“Grandma, you’d better let me come over and help you.”

“I’ll figure it out. Go on.”

“Maybe someone there who actually uses the computers can help. Anyway, once you’re on the Internet, you type in ‘Google’ which will take you to the Google home page. Here you will see a search box.”

“A box,” she replied. “I’ve got it.”

“Just type in the person’s name in the search box along with whatever other information you have like address and home town. Then hit ‘enter’ and you’ll see a long list of items. If you click your mouse on each of these items, it will bring up pages about this person.”

“These items are about the person?” she asked.

“Yes,” he said, “some of the items may be newspaper articles about the person. They may be related to social or business aspects of the person’s life.”

“That’s great! That’s just what I . . . I mean, what my friend needs!”

“But, Grandma,” cautioned Ned, “if you have any problems doing any of this, I would be more than happy to drop by your place and help you or set you up with your own unit.”

“No thanks, Ned. I think I understand. Google, search box, click item with mouse. Thank you. Bye!”

“Uh, bye, Grandma.”

Essie gently placed the receiver back in its cradle. Grabbing a pad of paper and a pencil, she quickly jotted down what she remembered of Ned’s directions. She really didn’t understand any of what he’d said but she hoped that when she and Marjorie and Opal sat down at one of the two computers in the family room, one of the three of them would be able to figure the directions out.

Computers, she thought. She had avoided the treacherous machines ever since they had appeared. Now it seemed she would have to make their acquaintance.

Chapter Thirteen

“Anyone who stops learning is old, whether at twenty or eighty.”

—Henry Ford

Several hours following breakfast, Essie and her three companions in detection were ensconced before one of the two large desktop computer consoles located along the back wall in the family room. Essie sat directly in front of the screen in her walker seat, having removed the rolling computer chair off to the side. Fay was to her right in her wheelchair, Opal was directly behind, and Marjorie sat on her left. All four women were bent close to the glowing computer screen, partially because they couldn’t see it well and partially because they didn’t want any passers-by to notice what they were doing.

“If anyone asks,” said Essie, turning from one woman to another, “we’re practicing our computer skills so we can learn to be emailers. I’ve heard that term and it seems like something we could all do.”

“Email,” they all agreed in a pact, including Fay.

“I hardly get any regular mail,” noted Opal from behind Essie’s chair, “so maybe getting some of this email is just what I need.”

“We’re not doing any email,” explained Essie. “We’re just using it as an excuse for all of us sitting here at this computer.”

“Okay,” said Marjorie, “let’s get busy. What do we do first?”

Essie picked up her small notepad and ran her finger up to the first item on her list.

“First, we have to get on the Internet,” she said.

“How do we do that?” asked Opal, bending over and peering intently at the colorful screen.

“Ned said something about a mouse,” recalled Essie.

“I think that’s the mouse,” said Marjorie, pointing to the small round plastic device attached to a long cord next to the monitor. The mouse sat on a rubber pad that proclaimed “Happy Haven Assisted Living Facility.”

“Oh,” said Essie, touching the round plastic mouse cautiously. “Ooops!” As she touched it, the screen came to life and a white arrow appeared on the blue screen.

“Oh, my!” said Opal, applauding. “That was wonderful, Essie!” Essie quickly removed her hand from the device as if she’d been stung.

“No, Essie, don’t let go!” directed Marjorie, “You have to hold on to it! Look, when you touched it, that little arrow popped up!”

“Do you think that arrow is pointing us to the Internet?” asked Essie.

As the three women argued about what to do next, Fay reached over from her wheelchair seat to the right of Essie and grabbed the mouse. Expertly using the mouse to slide the white arrow down a list of choices along the left-hand side of the screen, she stopped her hand movement at an entry that said “Internet.”

“Look!” said Opal with a surprised cheer. “Fay’s found the Internet!” And indeed, as soon as Fay clicked the link, the screen changed. Fay lifted her hand from the mouse and sat back in her seat smiling.

“How did you do that, Fay?” Essie asked the rosy-cheeked, smiling face to her right. Fay smiled even more broadly as the other three women were awed at her performance.

“It doesn’t matter,” said Marjorie, calling their attention back to the screen. “Look! It’s the Google!”

And sure enough. On the screen, in large, primary colors, the words “Google” appeared at the top.

“Essie,” said Opal, pointing at a rectangular-shaped box directly below the Google icon on the screen. “Look! It’s a box!”

Essie glanced down at her notepad. Running her finger down the instructions that Ned had given her, she read, “type in name in search box.”

“Hmm,” she said to herself. “Do you think that’s the search box? Ned said to type in the name. Now, how do I type in the name?”

She started typing but nothing happened.

“It’s not doing anything in the box,” said Marjorie.

“I’m typing,” replied Essie, hitting one key, then another in her one-finger method. Again, Fay elbowed Essie away from the board, grabbed the mouse, and clicked on the search box where, magically, a black vertical line appeared. Fay pointed at the box, and then sat back in her wheelchair.

“How does she know how to do this?” asked Marjorie.

“Just type, Essie,” said Opal. Essie’s right index finger went flying (well, not flying) over the keyboard. After a few starts and stops, her efforts appeared in the magic Google box. She had typed the name “Ben Jericho.”

“Now what?” she asked. “Is it supposed to do something?”

“Maybe you have to click it with that mouse thing?” suggested Marjorie.

“Maybe you have to rub the mouse thing over the box thing,” offered Opal.

At this point, Fay again bent over towards the keyboard and with one finger hit the “Enter” button. Suddenly, the screen filled with a list of words and paragraphs, all containing the name “Ben Jericho.”

“Oh, my!” said Marjorie. “Is all of that information about Ben Jericho?”

“It goes on and on,” added Opal as she glanced from the top of the computer screen to the bottom.

“There’s. . .” Essie looked at the bottom of the page where blue numbers running from “1” through “7” seemed to indicate additional information about Ben Jericho. “I think there’s more information about him. Look!”

“Now what do we do?” asked Marjorie. Fay, who still had her hand on the mouse, moved the device quickly over the blue text on the first entry. She clicked her index finger on the left side of the mouse. Instantly the screen changed to a newspaper article with a photograph.

“Look!” said Marjorie. “It’s a story about Ben Jericho.”

Essie started reading the story, which was from the sports section of a Buffalo, New York, newspaper. “The Buffalo West High School Bulldogs were led to glory last night in a squeaker over the Provincetown Panthers. Star guard Ben Jericho made the winning goal . . .”

“Wait a minute!” shouted Opal. “Look at the date! It says 2005. If Ben Jericho was a high school basketball player in 2005, I don’t think he’s the one we want.”

“Of course not,” agreed Essie. “Remember, there must be hundreds of Ben Jerichos. In the letter, our Ben Jericho said he had trouble tracking down Bob Weiderley because of the number of Bob Weiderleys that are in the United States. I imagine there are lots of Ben Jerichos too. This one is obviously not our Ben Jericho.”

“How do we go back to that part that listed all those articles?” pondered Marjorie. As if in answer to her prayer, Fay reached for the mouse, moved it to an arrow in the upper-left-hand corner of the screen and clicked. The previous page appeared.

“Oh, I get it,” said Opal from behind Essie. “The arrow points backwards, so she clicked it and it sent us back to where we were.”

“Very clever! Good job, Fay,” agreed Essie. “Now, what do we do next?”

“Fay, do that click thing on one of these other articles,” said Marjorie, pointing at the second listing in blue text on the screen.

“Do we have to just keep clicking on every article until we find our Ben Jericho? What if we never find him? What if there aren’t any articles about him?” asked Essie.

“Try putting some other information in that box,” suggested Opal. “Those articles seemed to have been generated by that mouse device based on the information you typed into that box, Essie. Maybe if you type in more information, the mouse will find the right Ben Jericho.”

“Yes,” agreed Marjorie. “We know more than just his name. Write in his name, his address, his town. Write in everything we know.”

“Okay,” said Essie, and she quickly went to work with her one finger typing. Soon the box was filled with the more detailed information about Ben Jericho. “Okay, now I hit this button that says ‘enter,’ right?” She turned to Fay who had fallen asleep.

“Yes, yes,” said Marjorie, nodding.

With her finger on the “enter” button, Essie felt empowered. As she pressed it, the screen immediately brought up a new list of information—although this list was much shorter. Indeed, this list had only three items.

“Why so few?” asked Marjorie.

“Because we narrowed our parameters,” said Opal.

“Math again, Opal!” chided Marjorie.

“Stop it, you two!” said Essie, bent over the three entries. She saw that the second and third entries appeared to be the same. That is, although there were some differences in the title or what she was calling the title, the descriptions below were the same and both mentioned a Ben Jericho as a local marathon runner. She didn’t think that would be much help. The first article, however, referred to Ben Jericho and a local business.

“Click that first one,” said Marjorie, pointing at the first item. Essie moved the mouse over the blue link and clicked. The screen changed to a lengthy article dated 1998 from the business section of a community newspaper. It discussed various individuals in local businesses who had been hired or promoted. One such individual was an executive of a local company called Medilogicos, Inc., named Ben Jericho, age 42. It gave his address and listed the names of his wife and children. The information in the article was identical to that supplied in the letter. It appeared to the women that they had found their Ben Jericho.

“It’s him!” said Marjorie.

“Now what do we do?” asked Opal.

“I wish we had a way to locate the original newspaper and get a copy of it. Here, I’ll write down the name of the newspaper. Maybe I can call them and see if they can send me a copy of this newspaper.”

“It’s over ten years old!” said Marjorie. “They probably won’t be able to do that!”

“Then, I’m going to have to write it all down. You two stand guard while I start copying.”

“Essie, you can’t write down that entire article!” exclaimed Opal. “It must be thousands of words!”

All the shouting woke Fay from her brief nap. She glanced over at her friends who were squabbling about recording the information on the screen. Fay reached out again for the mouse, and clicked an icon in the upper left-hand corner.

“Oh, no, Fay!” screamed Marjorie. “Now it’s gone!”

“I needed to write that information down,” said Essie.

Fay ignored their pleas and clicked on a tiny drawing of a printer. When another screen popped up, Fay pressed “print” and instantaneously the small printer behind the monitor leaped into life and spewed out a beautiful copy of the Ben Jericho article. Essie grabbed the single sheet from the device and sat back down where she showed it to the women.

“Oh, Moses and roses!” exclaimed Essie. “Thank you, Fay!”

“Did Fay do that?” asked Marjorie.

“She must have,” replied Opal.

As the three women oohed and awwed over the newly printed copy of the newspaper article, Fay closed the print screen and clicked back into Google. Then she went back to sleep.