“Bingo Bonanza?” Dusty shoots me a dry look. “This is what my afterlife has been reduced to? Babysitting senior citizens and bingo?” I shoot her a warning glare, unable to answer her directly with Danny standing right next to me. With a tut and an eye roll, Dusty takes Mrs Abernathy’s hand and swaggers off on her heels behind Trudy.
“Don’t tell them I’m a detective,” Danny mutters under his breath as we follow behind Trudy. “People tend to clam up around the police. Let’s see if we can shake anything loose before they find out about the investigation.”
“How do you know Larry hasn’t already said something?” I whisper back.
“I’m hoping she hasn’t,” he replies, pasting on an affable smile as Trudy holds the door open for us to enter the hall.
The scent that hits me is like every other community hall in the UK—the dry, stale smell of old wood, rather like a church. The space is filled with random tables, each one surrounded by plastic chairs filled with an eclectic assortment of people ranging from pensioners to young mums with buggies parked beside them. Up on the makeshift stage is a microphone and a cage of numbered ping-pong balls, beside which stands a portly man wearing a tracksuit and with a massive bald patch in the back of his salt and pepper hair.
“Testing, testing, one two three,” he shouts into the microphone, causing it to squeal loudly. He winces. “Sorry.” His Somerset accent makes him sound like a pirate. He blows into the microphone, making it sound like a typhoon blowing through the noisy room, before tapping it several more times. “Ten minutes, folks. Make sure you’ve grabbed your cuppa and bingo cards and found a seat.”
I follow along, listening to the chinking of cups and teaspoons, all blanketed by a loud hum of chatter. Trudy weaves effortlessly through the crowd, greeting people and smiling in welcome. Finally, she approaches a large round table in the centre of the room where several ladies who look to be at least in their eighties, at least, sit.
“Ladies.” Trudy claps her hands together loudly. “We have some guests today.” She indicates two free seats at the table for Danny and me to slide into before she tucks her skirt under and sits regally. “This is Danny and Tristan,” she introduces us, “friends of Delores.”
Every eye at the table turns towards us, and I fight the urge to squirm under the intense scrutiny.
“It looks like Delores was holding out on us,” the woman sitting directly to Danny’s left states in a querulous voice. Her face is heavily made up with snowdrifts of facial powder sitting in the deep grooves and lines. Her lips are painted with a bright pop of bubblegum pink lipstick that settles into the wrinkles around her mouth, and her sparse eyelashes are liberally coated with black mascara. When she smiles coyly at my boyfriend and winks, it looks more like she has a tic in her right eyelid than a seductive overture.
“Oh for heaven’s sake, Ivy, do control yourself.” Trudy sighs. “Don’t mind her, she still thinks she’s got hormones.”
Another woman with an enormous wiry hair growing out of a chin mole cackles. “Only hormones she’s got have dried up like a week-old slice of bread.”
“Be nice, Birdie,” Trudy tuts. “What will our guests think?” She turns back to us and gives us a smile. “Danny, Tristan, welcome to the Clapham Senior Ladies Social Circle and Jam Tart Society.”
Dusty snorts loudly.
“Uh, it’s nice to meet you all,” I say hesitantly.
“Likewise.” Danny looks uncomfortable as he shoots a wary look at Ivy sitting next to him and scoots his chair closer to mine.
“You might want to watch out for Barbara Cartland over there.” Dusty nods in Ivy’s direction. “I think she might have her hands on your fella’s goodies.”
Danny gives a squeak and edges even closer to me. Honestly, if he gets any closer he’s going to be sitting in my lap.
I glance across at Dusty who winks at me. “Don’t worry, boo, I gotcha back.”
Suddenly Ivy gives a yelp, and her chair shoots back a few paces. She glances around a little wildly before dropping her gaze to the floor.
“Did someone spill something?” She frowns in confusion. “The floor seems to be awfully slippery around here.”
“Anyway”—Trudy rolls her eyes—“that’s Ivy, next to her is Vera, then Maeve. Over there is Birdie, Phyllis, and Violet.” She finishes the introductions with a little wave of her hand.
“Good god,” Dusty mutters. “It’s like the cast of Cocoon.”
“Ladies.” I offer a smile, ignoring Dusty’s snarky commentary. “What exactly is a Jam Tart Society?”
“It was a tradition we started years ago,” Trudy explains. “Just a little bit of fun.”
“A little bit of fun?” Maeve retorts indignantly. “It’s an integral part of our community spirit. Everyone looks forward all year to the JTSS.”
“The JTSS?” I repeat slowly.
“The Jam Tart Society Social.” Maeve folds her hands neatly in her lap primly.
I’m really trying to keep a straight face but all I can hear is Dusty laughing loudly behind me. “The Jam Tart Society Social?” I repeat faintly. “You don’t say.”
“That sounds… interesting. What exactly does a Jam Tart Society Social entail?” Danny asks politely.
