Free Bingoed by Patricia Rockwell Page A

relatives,” argued Marjorie.
    “I’m speaking hypothetically,” retorted Essie.
    “I know that when Herman Anspach was hospitalized several months ago, they had one of those things on his door. Once I saw his daughter taking it off of his door when she dropped by to pick up some of his clothes,” said Opal, warming to the subject matter. “Surely, there must be a key for each security lock and they must keep them somewhere centrally located so that when family members come and need to get into a resident’s place, someone can let the family member in—or give them a key so they can let themselves in.”
    “Yes, exactly!” said Essie, pointing her finger at Opal with glee. “I knew you’d know how all this must work. Now the question is where do they keep the keys to these security locks?”
    The older waiter returned with their salads, beverages, and a basket of rolls.
    “Roll!” yelled Fay, and Essie chose a particularly crispy looking one from the basket and handed it to her.
    The other three women nibbled at their salads and sipped their drinks.
    “I don’t know,” said Opal, continuing to chew the carrots in her salad.
    “I wonder how many of these locks they have all together?” asked Marjorie.
    “Good question,” noted Essie, as she swallowed her tea. “They’d need enough to cover however many residents might be out for any particular number of days.”
    “And how many do you think that would be?” asked Opal.
    “How many do you think? You’re the one with the math background.” Essie directed this to Opal who had spent her career as an administrative assistant doing balance sheets and inventories.
    “That’s not a math question. Even so, I’m guessing with the number of residents at Happy Haven—around 300—and the number of them who might feasibly be away at any one time, I’m guessing they’d have at least five, but probably no more than ten.”
    “That sounds about right to me,” agreed Essie.
    “Me too,” said Marjorie.
    “Me too,” said Fay, her mouth full of roll. The other three women chuckled, wondering if Fay had any idea what she was “me-tooing.”
    “So what does that prove?” asked Opal.
    “This is what I’m thinking,” said Essie in a whisper. “Once they put these locks on a resident’s door, they would have to have the key available in a convenient spot in case a family member showed up suddenly and needed to get into the apartment. That’s why I’m guessing they must keep them—the locks and the keys—at the front desk. You know Phyllis has all sorts of stuff on that desk of hers behind the counter. There’s the back room too. Here’s what I’m thinking. They probably keep the unused locks and their keys in the back room, but they probably keep the keys for the locks that are in use on Phyllis’s desk.”
    “Makes sense,” agreed Marjorie.
    “She has little boxes with paper clips and erasers in them. I think she has a little basket on her desk and I think I’ve seen small keys in there,” said Opal.
    “What I wouldn’t give to be tall like you, Opal,” said Essie. “I can never see over that counter for love or lipstick.”
    “How many keys have you seen in it?” asked Marjorie.
    “I can’t remember,” said Opal. “It’s not like I had any interest in the doodads on her desk. Just a lot of junk, if you ask me.”
    “Think, Opal,” urged Essie. “I mean, were there dozens? Hundreds? What?”
    “No, no!” replied the tall, stern woman. “Just a few. I think each one had a little brightly colored tag on the end—I think—with a number.”
    “It’s probably how they keep the locks and the keys matched together. Yes! That must be it!” said Essie.
    “So what?” asked Opal. “What good does it do us to know that they keep these keys at the front desk?”
    “We can’t just have you grab all of them,” mused Essie.
    “Me!” screeched Opal. “Why me?”
    “Because you’re the only one tall enough to reach over the