Patricia Rockwell - Essie Cobb 03 - Valentined (20 page)

“Essie,” said Sue, “I see you’re still pondering your secret
admirer card.” 

“Yes, Miss Barber,” replied Essie.  “I thought about all the
things you told me yesterday.  You really got me thinking about this card.  I
still don’t know who sent it, but I intend to find out.  I do!”

“Good for you!” replied Sue, barely glancing at the fragment
of card sticking out of the envelope.  “Are you going to make another card? 
Maybe one you can send to that admirer when you discover his identity?”  She
smiled at Essie and Essie realized that the sub-text was that this was arts and
crafts class and if Essie was going to be here she should actually be doing
arts and crafts.

“Oh, yes, Miss Barber!” exclaimed Essie.  “I’m just trying
to figure out what colors to use!”  She quickly grabbed a few sheets of craft
paper and a pair of scissors and began snipping away.

“Wonderful!” said Sue.  “I can’t wait to see what you
create!”  She moved on to the next table and the women returned to their gluing
and cutting.

Smooth
, Essie thought
.  Apparently, Sue Barber
believes my fake valentine is the original.  She didn’t appear the least bit
suspicious.  Neither do any of the women at this table and they all saw the
real card.

“My goodness, Essie,” whispered Velma, “you’re clutching
that valentine like it’s your long lost child!  No one’s going to take it from
you.”

Essie jolted from her reverie.  Velma’s words struck her
because, indeed, she did expect someone to take it from her. 

“Oh, you know!” said Essie, with a casual laugh, “it’s not
every day that a girl gets a card from a secret admirer.”  She gave the women a
coy look.

“Yes,” agreed Donna, “it’s very nice.”  With that, she
returned to her cutting and pasting as did the others.  All the excitement the
women had shown the other day over her card appeared to have vanished. 

“Weren’t those delicious pancakes this morning?” Velma asked
the entire group.  Everyone nodded their assent, including the silent lady to
Essie’s left.  “The strawberries were so sweet.  And that pomegranate juice!”

“I love how the chef created such a nice theme for
Valentine’s Day!” added Donna.

“I wonder what he’ll do for lunch and dinner,” said Velma. 
At that, the other ladies had an entirely new topic of interest.  They all mused
over possible menu items for Valentine’s Day for the next several minutes.

“Oh, are you all going to that special presentation by that
Dr. Love?” asked Velma enthusiastically.  “That sounds like a lot of fun.  They
have him billed as the ‘guru of love’!  He is supposed to answer questions from
the audience about love and romance!”

“I’m going to ask him about my husband,” said Donna.

“Donna,” said Velma, in what Essie considered an
unnecessarily harsh voice, “your husband is dead.”

“I’m going to ask him about my husband,” Donna repeated as
if she hadn’t even heard Velma’s comment.

“Essie,” declared Velma, turning to the newest member of the
table, “you should ask the ‘guru of love’ about your secret admirer.  I bet he
can help you figure out who he is.”

“I doubt it,” replied Essie.

“You never know,” added Donna.  Essie glanced at the silent
woman to her left who nodded knowingly. 

“Well, I’ll see,” she said. 

“Do any of you know Grace Bloom?” asked Essie suddenly. 

“She plays Quiz Bowl,” responded Velma.  “A very nice lady. 
Her husband died too, Donna.”  Velma glanced over at Donna.  “However, she
knows he’s gone.”

“I know Grace,” added Donna.  “She’s in my knitting club. 
Although she hasn’t come lately.”

“I told you, Donna,” chided Velma, “her husband died
recently.   Maybe she’s having trouble adjusting—like you.”

“I’m not having any trouble adjusting,” said Donna calmly.
“My husband isn’t dead.”

“Oh, why bother?” cried Velma, flinging her hands in the
air. 

“Grace’s husband lived here at Happy Haven with her?” asked
Essie.

“I believe so,” replied Velma, with an annoyed glance
towards Donna. “I believe they moved here when he retired.  He was a vet.”

“In the military?” asked Essie.

“No,” said Velma, “an animal doctor.  Grace was his nurse. 
They had a clinic in Reardon for many years.”

“That’s nice,” said Essie.  “I had heard that she was ill.”

“Ill?” asked Velma.  “I don’t think so.  I saw her at dinner
the other night.  Although, now that you mention it, she hasn’t been at Quiz
Bowl in quite some time.  She used to be a regular.”

“You saw her eating at dinner?” asked Essie.

“I think so,” said Velma.  “Donna, didn’t you see Grace
Bloom at dinner the other night?”

“Yes,” said Donna.  “She was there.  I’m sure of it.”  Essie
wondered how sure Donna was of Grace Bloom’s attendance at dinner when she
wasn’t sure of her own husband’s existence.  Oh, well, Essie realized that
sometimes elderly people had blind spots about certain issues and were still
quite astute on everything else.  Possibly Donna did understand everything
except her husband’s death.  Even so, she thought, Velma’s rather harsh
behavior towards her friend’s problem seemed unnecessarily cruel.

As Essie looked around the table, it was clear that the
other women had completed beautiful homemade valentines.  Essie had completed
nothing.  She sat as she had day before, a glue bottle in her hand, squeezing
white goop around the edges of a big red construction paper heart.  She knew
her art work was not well done, but then she also knew that the art work she
had done last night that now resided inside the envelope in her walker basket
was truly a work of art.  It didn’t really matter how well this present project
fared.  She smiled sheepishly at the other women who all looked at her
handiwork pitifully.

“Guess I’m just not much of an artist,” Essie said to the
women.

“Don’t worry, Essie,” said Donna sweetly.  “So you’re not an
artist!  You have other talents!”

“Yes,” agreed Velma.  “Everyone at Happy Haven knows about
your talents, Essie.  You’re our resident detective.”

Essie smiled.  Little did Velma know how true it was.  For
indeed, Essie was deep in the throes of ferreting out her secret admirer who
was also the local drug dealer.  She believed she had sufficiently flaunted her
envelope around in the arts and crafts class.  She was quite certain that the
three women at this table and Sue Barber, who all had actually seen the card
yesterday, had been fooled by her ruse.  Now, whether or not they would convey
that information to other people—other people who would hopefully include the
suspect of interest—was uncertain.  But she had taken the first step.

It was getting late, and Sue Barber was instructing the arts
and crafts class to finish up their cards and put their supplies away.  Essie
assisted her tablemates in taking items back to cupboards on the side walls. 
Eventually, when the room was picked up, she bid farewell to her three new
friends and headed out of the rec room.  As she rolled down the second floor
hallway towards the elevator she contemplated where she might go next to
cautiously seed her story and show various Happy Haven residents and staff
members peeks of the card itself.  The elevator door opened and Essie
entered.  

Chapter Twenty Five

“Love is a canvas furnished by Nature
and embroidered by imagination.”

—Voltaire

As she exited the elevator on the first floor, the family
room was almost deserted.  Probably most of the residents were in their rooms,
getting ready for lunch.  The lobby looked fairly empty too.  Only Phyllis was visible,
standing guard of the front desk as she usually did.  Essie rolled casually
over and began to peruse the array of sign-up sheets all lined up on the
counter with their pencils attached with strings.

“Library field trip tomorrow, Essie!” Phyllis warbled, and
pointed out a purple sheet that contained at least a dozen signatures. 

“Oh, not this week, Phyllis,” replied Essie politely.  “I’ve
got enough reading material in my room.”  This wasn’t actually true, but Essie
hated field trips.  She hated being more than a quick roll from the nearest
bathroom and she wasn’t going to be forced to wear those disgusting adult
diapers.    She continued to look at the clipboards of sheets on the counter.  

“You surely won’t miss Dr. Love this afternoon, will you?”
the desk clerk asked Essie breathlessly. 
You’d think it was Clark Gable
making an appearance today rather than some academic with a made-up nickname.
 
She doubted that Dr. Love really knew anything about love—or at least any more
about love than the average person.

“I don’t know,” she said sweetly.  “I’ll have to see what’s
on my schedule.”

“You could show the Doctor that valentine you got!”
suggested Phyllis suddenly. 

“Oh, I wouldn’t feel comfortable doing that,” replied
Essie.  “It’s rather personal and I really don’t want to tell everyone about
it.” 
Ooops
, she thought.

“Really?” asked Phyllis skeptically.  “I thought I saw you
showing that card around all over the place.”

“Just to a few friends,” said Essie, cringing.  “Phyllis,
that does remind me, I wanted to ask you about the mail.”

“You mean more than you asked the other day?” asked the
clerk, tipping her head incredulously.

“Yes, actually,” said Essie.  “I’m just curious.  You know,
all this valentine talk has got me to thinking about the mail and how we get
our mail.  We do get mail every day and you are the person responsible for
delivering it!”  Essie felt she was buttering up Phyllis properly.

“It’s not always me,” noted Phyllis.  “Sometimes one of the
other staff members distributes it when I’m busy doing something else.”

“Oh?” asked Essie.  “How often does that happen?”

“I don’t know,” replied Phyllis. “I don’t keep a record. 
Most of the staff are willing to jump in and help when one of us gets behind.” 
She smiled cordially at Essie as if to say
that should answer your question
.

“I’m just curious, Phyllis, about that little hallway behind
the mailboxes,” said Essie.  “I can see you moving around back there sometimes
when you’re putting our mail in our boxes, and sometimes I even see other people
back there.  Is it some open area for the staff?”

“Actually,” replied Phyllis, “it’s a small hallway that runs
around the back of the facility, from the back entrance to the kitchen.  There
are several entrance spots.  We also use it for storage.  You wouldn’t believe
all the boxes that are back there!”  She laughed and then realized that Essie
was not as caught up in this behind the scene look at Happy Haven as she was.

“So all staff members have access to that hallway?” asked
Essie.

“Of course,” replied Phyllis.  “Most of us use it as a
short-cut to the parking lot too.”

“Hmm,” noted Essie.  “So, any staff member going through
this back hallway could feasibly stop at the residents’ mailboxes and remove
their mail.”

“Oh, no, Essie!” exclaimed Phyllis.  “No one would do such a
thing!  Besides, the mailboxes can only be opened from behind with the mail
master key—and I keep that at the front desk.”  She nodded succinctly as if to
say that that should calm all of Essie’s concerns.

“Who has access to that key?” Essie asked.

“Now, Essie,” said Phyllis, “I can’t understand why you’re
so concerned about the safety of your mail.  Are you missing a letter you were
expecting?”  She eyed Essie with dismay.

“Oh, no!” said Essie, laughing lightly.  “Nothing like that! 
Just curious, Phyllis.  You know me, I’m curious about everything!”

“I do know you, Essie, and you are the curious one for
sure!  It’s probably all this excitement over that secret admirer of yours. 
Maybe you think he’s sent you another card and we’ve somehow failed to get it
in your mailbox?”  She tipped her head to the side, as if anticipating Essie’s
response.

“No, nothing like that,” said Essie.  “I have every faith
that you deliver my mail correctly every single day, Phyllis.  It’s probably
true, though, that getting that valentine from my secret admirer has made me
much more interested in the mail these days.”

“Well, that’s understandable,” said Phyllis.  “I hear you
carry that card with you everywhere!”

Hmm,
thought Essie. 
You’ve heard that, have you? 
That’s good.  It means my plan is working.
 Essie reached down and opened
her seat lid.  She pulled out the envelope and held it up so Phyllis could see
it.

“I do carry it with me,” Essie said.   She clutched the
envelope with both hands and gave Phyllis a sickeningly sweet facial
expression.

“Oh, Essie, dear,” Phyllis sighed.  “You don’t need to
worry.  I know residents get worried about their mail.  We once had a man who
thought we had lost his Social Security check.  We hadn’t, of course.  It was
simply a day or two late in arriving, but the poor man was inconsolable.  He
contacted the government and was about ready to set forth a major
investigation.  We’re really very careful about your mail.  I promise.”

Essie nodded as if she was a child and Phyllis was her
mother giving her a lecture.  All the while, she was contemplating the maze of
hallways behind the mailboxes and the various people who had access to them. 
She looked around the front desk as Phyllis continued to ramble on about how
careful Happy Haven was with residents’ mail.  On a small bulletin board on the
wall behind the desk, a variety of keys hung from hooks.  Each key had a
marking on it.  Essie guessed that the master key to the mailboxes that Phyllis
had mentioned was hanging on this board—right out in public for anyone to grab,
assuming they knew which key it was.  And probably many staff members knew
which key it was.

Phyllis continued to drone on and Essie continued to smile
at her.  As far as she could tell, almost any staff member would be able to
extract mail from a resident’s mailbox, or possibly grab a particular envelope
before it even got placed in the resident’s box.  She started to think about
things in reverse order, from the point of view of the dealer at Happy Haven. 
Whoever the person was must have some method for indicating to the Boston
dealer who to send a particular cocaine-filled envelope to.  It was likely that
the Happy Haven dealer chose a resident at random and sent that resident’s name
and address to the Boston dealer who then sent the appropriate amount of
cocaine to the Happy Haven dealer, via the mailbox of the indicated resident. 
The Happy Haven dealer would then be on the lookout for a certain type of
envelope arriving for that particular resident that he or she had already
indicated to the Boston dealer.  Obviously, the Happy Haven dealer was not
going to use the same resident over and over again for the drop, because if an
envelope happened to slip through—as it had in Essie’s case when Phyllis put it
directly into her hands—the Happy Haven dealer would not want to use that
resident again.  Essie reasoned that a similar situation had probably happened
with Betsy last year.  Somehow, the cocaine-filled envelope slipped through the
Happy Haven dealer’s routine and got in Betsy’s hands before the dealer could
grab it.  However, in Betsy’s case, the dealer just waited until Betsy put the
pretty valentine on her television set, slipped into Betsy’s room when she was
out, and grabbed it, with Betsy being none the wiser.