Page 21 of Pumpkin Patch Peril
“That’s quite the operation you’ve got there,” observed Harold Fitzgerald, squinting at Ida’s charts through his thick glasses. “You’ve got more data than my grandson’s computer science homework.”
“Mathematics doesn’t lie, Harold,” Ida said, consulting her frequency analysis. “Based on six weeks of observation, B-seven has a twenty-three percent higher probability of being called on Tuesday nights than Thursdays.”
“But this is Wednesday,” pointed out Martha Henley.
“Last week’s statistics are still being calculated,” Ida replied without missing a beat. “I need three more weeks of data to establish the baseline probabilities.”
Mrs. Henderson, the evening’s bingo caller, approached the microphone with her usual theatrical flair. She was a small, energetic woman in her seventies who treated bingo calling like a performance art.
“Good evening, players!” she announced, her voice carrying clearly through the hall. “Tonight’s first game is a traditional blackout—cover all twenty-four numbers on your card to win!”
The crowd settled into focused attention as Mrs. Henderson began drawing numbers from the wire cage. Ida positioned herself with both hands ready to mark cards, her notebook open to the evening’s prediction charts.
“B-3!” Mrs. Henderson called out.
Ida immediately consulted her notebook, making a quick tick mark beside B-3 in her frequency column. The number appeared on two of her four cards, which she daubed with satisfied precision.
“I-19!”
Another notation in the notebook, another careful daub. Ida’s system was in full swing now, and the surrounding players watched with fascination as she treated each number call like a scientific data point.
“G-52!” Mrs. Henderson announced.
“Ha!” Ida exclaimed, making an excited notation. “Told you that one was overdue! Three weeks without a call creates statistical pressure for selection!”
“That’s not how probability works, Ida,” Harold called out good-naturedly.
“We’ll see about that,” Ida replied, daubing G-52 on three of her four cards.
The game continued with Ida maintaining her elaborate system of cross-referencing, notation, and strategic daubing. Her table looked like a small command center, complete with charts, predictions, and enough data to outfit a statistics professor.
“N-34!”
Ida paused, frowning at her notebook. “That’s unusual. N-34 typically doesn’t appear until after the eighth number on Wednesday games.” She made a careful notation. “Anomalous result. Requires further analysis.”
Mona, Ruth, and Helen watched from the coffee station, amused by their friend’s scientific approach to what was essentially a game of luck.
“She’s certainly committed to her methodology,” Helen observed.
“Look at her concentration,” Ruth added. “I’ve seen surgeons with less focus.”
“BINGO!” called out a voice from the back of the room.
Ida looked up from her charts with apparent shock. “But that’s impossible! According to my calculations, we shouldhave needed at least six more numbers for optimal coverage probability!”
“Sometimes the balls don’t read your notebook, dear,” Mona called out gently.
The winner—Marge Potter from table seven—approached the verification table with her winning card and a broad smile. Mrs. Henderson checked the numbers carefully, then announced the official win.
“Congratulations to Marge! Our first winner of the evening!”
As the room prepared for the second game, the hall filled with the cheerful bustle of intermission. Players stretched, visited the coffee station, and socialized between games. Helen moved toward one of the tall windows that overlooked the parking lot, idly watching the evening traffic while waiting for the next game to begin.
“Looks like a busy night,” she commented to Mona, who had joined her at the window. “Lots of cars are still arriving.”
Through the glass, she could see the parking lot illuminated by street lamps, with vehicles scattered across the asphalt. Her gaze fell on a small dark sedan parked at the far edge of the lot, positioned where it had a clear view of the main entrance but remained somewhat hidden in the shadows between lampposts.
“That’s odd,” Helen murmured, more to herself than to Mona.
