She threw on clean clothes and tore down the stairs, then stumbled over the radio. Abigail sailed through the air, missing the last three steps and landing on her hands and knees. Her palms stung from the impact. Her legs were wobbly.
“Ouch,” she groaned, more in shock than in pain.
Abigail hobbled out the front door to her Volvo and sat there deliberating what to do. Her hair was dripping, soaking her shirt. She had nowhere to go.
“There’s bingo,” she sighed. “Why not? This night couldn’t get much worse.”
To find the local fire station, all Abigail had to do was follow the line of parked cars that trailed from the center of town along a side street. She tied her wet hair into a bun and tucked in her shirt as an effort to appear more presentable. Having left in such a hurry, she’d forgotten to put on socks, and her shoes squished when she walked.
“Some first impression you’ll make. You have your own sound effects.”
The fire station was an unembellished cinder-block building, two stories tall. A sandwich board propping open the station’s main door read:
“Here goes nothing.”
A large meeting hall spanned the entire second floor of the fire station. It was packed with rows of folding tables and chairs. Nearly every seat was full. The smell of popcorn and roasting hot dogs seemed to warm the air. Adults and children alike were flocked at the tables, gabbing. Abigail overheard people talking about the burglaries. They were the hot topic at each table, everyone speculating about who the culprits could be. Some thought it was a bunch of teenagers. Others believed it was lowlifes boating over from the mainland at night. The only one not discussing the robberies was a barrel-chested man in suspenders standing at the front of the room. He was too busy announcing numbers into a microphone as he plucked plastic bingo balls from a spinning cage. The plywood bingo board behind him lit up whenever he called a new number.
Abigail was standing by the door, feeling self-conscious and contemplating heading home, until she heard a familiar voice shouting her name.
“Hey, Abby! It’s me, Denny Meloch. From the ferry. ’Member?”
He was pushing through the crowd toward her, a hot dog in one hand, a cup of beer in the other.
“Oh, hi. Of course I remember you.”
Denny’s eyes brightened. “Really? How ya liking it here so far?”
“It’s been…colorful.”
People were giving her passing glances. She was a stranger and she stood out. The women at the table in the far corner were doing more than looking, though. They were staring bullets and whispering.
“Why do I get the feeling I just walked into Salem with a pointy hat and a broomstick?”
Denny’s face was blank, the reference lost on him. “Wanna sit down?” he asked, chewing his hot dog. “I can get you some cards, teach you how to play.”
“Um…”
“There you are, hon. I saved you a seat.” Ruth Kepshaw was motioning to her from a nearby table, supplying Abigail with a welcome excuse.
“Thanks, Denny, but Ruth already…Uh, you don’t mind, do you?”
“No, that’s cool. That’s cool.”
“I’ll talk to you later, okay?”
“Sure. Later. Awesome.” He gave her the thumbs-up. Uncertain how to respond, Abigail gave him the thumbs- up, too, then snaked through the crowd to Ruth’s table.
“Thanks for—”
“Rescuing you from Denny? Don’t mention it.”
Ruth had a dozen bingo cards spread before her, which she was skimming and daubing with an ink marker with the smooth speed of a seasoned pro. She gave four of her cards to Abigail, along with an orange dauber.
“Take some of these, will ya? I got a hot one I have to keep my eye on.”
“I haven’t played since I was about eight.”
“It’s not chess. It’s bingo. Now, mind those cards.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Between numbers, Abigail scanned the hall. There were so many people, so many unfamiliar faces. She spotted Sheriff Larner three tables to her right. He saw her too and gave a nod.
Halfway through the round, she became aware that the clutch of women in the corner was keeping tabs on her. One gestured right at her. Janine Wertz was among them, sullenly smoking a cigarette.
“Oh, brother.”
“What is it?” Ruth asked.
“Those ‘hens’ you told me about—they aren’t too pleased that I’m here.”
“Why? What are they doing?”
