Bingoed by Patricia Rockwell

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