by Abby Byne
“A gift from one of your grandkids?” Bitsie asked. Miss Fay had her room plastered with pictures of her grandchildren, so it should have been a safe question to ask, but it seemed to make Lavinia uncomfortable.
“Oh, no,” she said hastily. “Just some old thing my youngest grandson likes to play with when he comes to visit. I wanted to get rid of the annoying thing, offered to let him take it home with him, but his mother can’t stand it, either.” Lavinia giggled nervously and abruptly changed gears. “I expect you want to ask me who I think poisoned Malcolm Smith.”
Bitsie must have looked surprised because Lavinia laughed and said, “I believe in keeping my ears open and my nose to the ground, and I know that you’re just the same.”
“Well—“
“You do realize that old people have very little to do but sit around and gossip.”
Bitsie supposed that might be true, but she didn’t like to agree out loud.
“I do have a sort of a theory,” said Lavinia.
“Who do you think did it?”
“I don’t know.”
“I thought—“
“I’m pretty sure that the person who poisoned Malcolm Smith is hiding in plain sight, and I don’t think that you, or the police, or anyone else has a clue who it is.”
“But you do?”
“I have some clues, yes.”
“You don’t think it’s Roscoe, do you?”
“Good Heavens, no. I think the police might, but they’re barking up the wrong tree.”
“I thought for a while it might be James, the nurse,” said Bitsie, “but I found out quite recently that he was somewhere else the whole time.”
“No, I’m sure it wasn’t him.”
“What about Ruby Sheers?”
Lavinia Fay just laughed.
“Then who?” asked Bitsie. “Who do you think poisoned that cupcake?”
Lavinia reached into the knitting bag at her feet and pulled out a packet of letters tied up with a piece of yarn.
“I think whoever poisoned Malcolm is the same person who wrote these letters.”
Lavinia extended the packet of letters to Bitsie.
“You want me to read these?” Bitsie asked, taking the letters from Miss Fay’s hand.
“You don’t need to read many of them,” Lavinia said. “They’re all pretty much the same.”
Bitsie began to read. They were love-letters, sort-of. Creepy love-letters. There was lots of stuff about wanting to “be together forever” and “meant for each other,” and statements about how the writer didn’t know how much longer he could stand by and see Miss Fay “making eyes” at other men.
Each one was signed in exactly the same way, “The Man Who Loves You ‘Til Death Do Us Part.” “‘Til Death Do Us Part,” might be a romantic inclusion in marriage vows, but as a postscript to an anonymous love-letter, it took on a sinister tone.
“You really have no idea who sent you these?”
“No. I started getting them in early fall. Sometime in September, I think. I get one almost every morning. Someone shoves them under my door while I’m at breakfast.”
“You haven’t tried to catch him in the act?”
“I stopped going to breakfast for a few days, and the letters stopped. Whoever’s doing it must be checking the dining room to make sure I’m out before he shoves the notes under my door.”
“Can’t you enlist someone else to watch your room?”
“Who?”
“I’m sure that Roscoe or Malcolm would be happy to cut out at least a bit of the competition.”
Lavinia had the grace to blush.
“I’m too embarrassed to ask one of them to do that,” Lavinia insisted.
“Why not? You don’t seem to be pursuing a relationship with either of them.”
“I just couldn’t.”
Bitsie wanted to press her further on the subject of Roscoe, and why Lavinia was still stringing him along, but now was not the time to stray from the subject.
“What about one of your girlfriends?”
“Do you think a woman like me makes female friends easily?“
Bitsie supposed that the women of Shady Grove probably hadn’t welcomed Lavinia with open arms. Miss Fay was intelligent, talented, still quite beautiful, and purportedly rich. She also had a calculating quality that women in general, even Bitsie herself, found off-putting. Just the fact that people routinely referred to her as “Miss Fay” was extremely telling.
“So, you want me to catch this letter-writer?” Bitsie asked. “If it’s happening during breakfast, don’t see how I can. I work mornings for the next few weeks.”
With Anabel gone, it was no time for Bitsie to skulking around Shady Grove, trying to catch an elderly stalker when she should be at the bakery. She wasn’t nearly as fast as Anabel, so she was no better than half a replacement, and she knew that sooner-or-later, the extra workload was going to start taking a toll on Hector. She didn’t like to ask Liz to fill in for her too often, certainly not for the purposes of lying in wait for some would-be geriatric Lothario at the local retirement home.
“Oh,” said Lavinia, looking genuinely disappointed. “I was hoping that you might try catching him in the act.”
Bitsie looked back down at the letter in her hand. She looked at the spidery printing on the spiral-bound page. She reread a couple of paragraphs of the rambling and overblown prose and then reached into her purse and withdrew the threat-letter she’d borrowed from Malcolm. She held them side-by-side.
There was no doubt about it. Both letters had been written by the same person. They shared the same spidery printing, the same yellowed paper torn from a spiral notebook, the same weird word choices, and the same lack of coherence; the similarities were unmistakable.
Lavinia might be wrong in her supposition that the letter-writer was also the poisoner, but one thing was clear. The letter writer was not Ruby Sheers. Ruby, out of anger at being rejected, might have penned a threat-letter to Malcolm, but it made no sense that she would have preceded that act by posing as a man and writing creepy missives claiming to be madly in love with Miss Lavinia Fay.
“Can I take these home and bring them back in a few days,” Bitsie asked.
There might be a clue in those letters somewhere, something which would lead her to the writer of the notes and, possibly, the poisoner.
Chapter Eight
Before Bitsie left Shady Grove in possession of Lavinia’s bundle of creepy love-letters, she stopped by Roscoe’s room. Lavinia hadn’t specifically asked Bitsie not to talk about the love-letters, but she thought it went without saying, and she certainly wasn’t going to go around blabbing about the threatening note that Malcolm had received. Whoever had written those letters was definitely a resident at Shady Grove, Bitsie decided, and it would be a lot easier to catch them in the act of delivering another letter if they had no idea that anyone was trying to blow their cover.
Bitsie wondered why Lavinia hadn’t complained to the staff. Wasn’t it their responsibility to protect their residents from being harassed by one-another? And then there Malcolm, who had shown no enthusiasm for reporting the threatening note he had received to the police.
Perhaps, Bitsie decided, old people stuck together. They might fight amongst themselves like children, but they refused to snitch on each other. It was an interesting theory, but she wasn’t sure it explained why Lavinia and Malcolm had chosen to confide in her instead of going to someone with actual authority to do something.
Roscoe wasn’t in his room. Bitsie found him in the common room sitting at a table with Clarence Crake. They weren’t speaking to each other. Roscoe was reading yesterday’s newspaper, and Clarence was playing a game of checkers against himself. Perhaps, Clarence had finally tired of chess and moved on to checkers.
Bitsie sat down at the table. Roscoe was happy to see her, but Clarence barely acknowledged her and went on with his game.
“I hear you are a mean chess player,” said Bitsie,
hoping to draw Clarence out.
“I’m not bad,” said Clarence. Bitsie wondered how a person got good at playing chess when the most skilled opponent they ever played was themselves.
“I used to be part of a chess club in college,” said Bitsie.
Clarence didn’t seem much interested in Bitsie’s collegiate extracellular-activities.
“Shall we play a game?” she suggested, “I haven’t played against someone good in ages.”
“No, thanks,” said Clarence.
“Oh, come on,” urged Roscoe. “Play one game with the girl. You’ll never get any better if you don’t play against real people.”
“Maybe I don’t want to get better,” said Clarence. He started picking up the checkers and putting them back in the box, even though he hadn’t finished his game. “Maybe,” he continued, “all I want is to be left alone.”
“Suit yourself,” said Roscoe. “I’ll have a game with you, Bitsie. I’m not so bad at chess myself.”
Roscoe rose from the table and started walking towards the shelves that held the games. Clarence watched him go with a look Bitsie could only read as fear. Why would Clarence be afraid of her and Roscoe having a game of chess?
Roscoe had picked up the box containing the chess set and started walking back towards the table when Clarence flew into action.
He strode towards Roscoe and ripped the box out of his hand.
“That’s my chess set!” Clarence said, holding the box to his chest.
“No, it isn’t!” Roscoe protested. “That thing’s been sitting on that shelf for as long as I can remember. It was there long before you ever moved in.”
“Well, I’m the only one who plays with it!”
“I don’t see how that makes it yours!”
Roscoe was angry, and Clarence still looked scared, although Bitsie couldn’t fathom why. She tried to smooth things over by suggesting that they play a game of cards, but neither man even seemed to hear her.
Clarence was the first to back down, sort of. He turned on his heel and left the room, the box containing the chess set still clutched to his chest.
“What was that about?” Bitsie asked when he was gone.
“I have no idea,” said Roscoe. “But it looks like chess is out of the question. Care for a game of checkers before you go?” He motioned to the checkers Clarence had abandoned on the table.
“Not really,” said Bitsie, “but since we’re alone, there is something I wanted to ask you.”
“Ask away.”
“Apparently, Lavinia has another admirer.”
“Lavinia has lots of admirers. She’s the best looking woman we’ve got here.”
“Sure, but I mean something way beyond that. More like an obsession. A secret obsession.”
“You mean like someone who’s secretly in love with her?”
Bitsie wouldn’t describe the sentiments expressed in those letters as love, but she wasn’t at liberty to discuss the details, so she said, “Yeah. Have you noticed anyone showing a covert interest in her? Things like never sitting near her in the dining room, but instead always choosing a spot where they’d have a good view of her.”
“I don’t keep track of people’s seating arrangements,” said Roscoe. “But people do pretty much choose to sit in the same spots most of the time.”
“True,” said Bitsie, “and that could be very revealing.”
“I don’t think it would tell you a whole lot.”
“No?”
“Well, I don’t have a lot to occupy my mind these days, so I’ll humor you. Do you want to know where everyone sits in the dining room? Shall I draw you a seating chart?”
“Yes. Do,” said Bitsie. Roscoe had been joking. She wasn’t.
“You’re serious?”
“Yes. I’m also interested in who arrives at what time for breakfast and also when they leave.”
“You want me to sit in the dining room with a little notebook and write down when everyone arrives and leaves.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“I have my reasons.”
“Sounds tedious to me, but I guess I’ll just trust you on this one. I know your heart’s in the right place.” Roscoe sighed. “Will you at least spring for a new notebook?”
“Sure,” said Bitsie, as she rose from the table. “I’ll bring one by tomorrow afternoon.”
“And some new pens?”
“Sure.”
“I like the retractable kind.”
“Sure.”
“With blue ink?”
“Whatever kind of pens you want.”
Roscoe grinned up at her. “I was wrong,” he said. “I feel like a spy. This might be fun.”
Bitsie told Roscoe she was going, but she didn’t leave the building. Instead, she headed for Clarence’s room. Something was fishy about his reaction to Roscoe messing with the chess set, and she wanted to find out what it was. She knocked on Clarence’s door, but there was no answer. From within, she could faintly hear a voice. Maybe, Clarence had the television turned on low. She put her ear to the door, so she could hear better.
“I love you beary much!” a robotic voice murmured on the other side of the door.
That’s where I heard it! Bitsie thought to herself. She’d heard that robotic recorded “I love you beary much!” on endless repeat once when she’d been walking past Clarence’s door to visit Malcolm in his room.
Now that she thought about it, she remembered another time catching a glimpse into Clarence’s room and seeing a big white teddy bear sitting on his bed. She hadn’t gotten a really good look at the bear, but it could easily be a twin to the one Lavinia had. Was it just an odd coincidence?
Bitsie withdrew her ear from the door and knocked again, more loudly this time. Malcolm, who lived across the hall and two doors down, opened his door and poked his head out.
“Are you looking for Clarence?” he demanded peevishly. “It won’t do you any good, knocking like that.”
“He’s not in there?” Bitsie asked.
“No, he probably is in there,” Malcolm replied. “He does that sometimes, locks himself in and won’t come out. I’ve seen the nurses have to use a key to get in. They’ll come to knock on the door, but he won’t answer, so they get worried and use the master key to get in and there he’ll be, sitting on the edge of his bed, staring into space like he didn’t hear a thing and hugging that blasted teddy bear of his. ‘I love you beary much! I love you beary much!’” Malcolm imitated the robotic voice of the bear so perfectly that Bitsie almost laughed out loud. “Blasted thing is enough to drive me insane. One of these days I’m going to take that bear and—“
“Maybe he’s going deaf,” Bitsie suggested. “Maybe Clarence can’t hear the knocking.”
“No, he’s not going deaf. I’d say he’s about fifty percent blind, though.”
Bitsie decided to give up on Clarence. She crossed the hall to Malcolm and withdrew the threat-letter she’d borrowed from her handbag.
“This was slipped under your door, right?” Bitsie asked.
“Yeah.”
“When do you think it was delivered?”
“I found it one morning when I came back from breakfast. I’ve forgotten what day it was.”
Bitsie texted Nick before she pulled out of the parking lot at Shady Grove. She might not be ready to face him, but she still should be a responsible boss and make sure things were going smoothly back at the bakery.
Nick texted back that everything was fine. It had been a slow afternoon, so she didn’t need to come back in. He’d be fine closing on his own.
Bitsie sighed. If business didn’t pick up soon, she’d end up in the red for the month of November.
The next morning, after completing the morning bake with a great deal of assistance from Hector, Bitsie forced herself to stay until Nick arrived. She wanted nothing more than to go home. She was dead on her feet. She’d stayed up far too late the night before reading through Lavinia’
s love-letters. She’d read until her eyes wouldn’t focus any longer, but Bitsie had found nothing which could be used to conclusively identify the writer.
She’d finally given up with half the stack to go and gone to sleep, only to dream of being chased down deserted streets by a faceless old man armed with an enormous carrot that he brandished like a club. In her dream, her pursuer kept yelling, “’ Til death do us part,” over and over until he finally collapsed in an alley and turned into a giant bunny. The bunny/scary old man just lay there, but she was too frightened to go back and see if he was still breathing, and this made her feel like a terrible person. It was a horrible dream, and she was relieved when her alarm went off at two AM.
That day, Bitsie forced herself to remain the entire morning shift. Ten minutes before Nick was scheduled to arrive, she locked herself in the bathroom and practiced smiling brightly into the mirror. She must look happy, she told herself. She must not betray her emotions. It would be too humiliating if Nick even suspected that she’d been developing more than friendly feelings for him. Just in case the fake smile wasn’t enough, she applied lipstick and gave her blond curly mop of hair a fluff with a brush.
Bitsie examined her reflection in the mirror. She wasn’t bad looking, a bit plump, perhaps, but plenty of men liked that. She was very pleasant-looking, actually. Sure, she had lines around her eyes and mouth—who didn’t at fifty—but those lines were the result of a lifetime of smiling. She had no reason to feel inferior to that gorgeous creature who used to be Nick’s wife, Bitsie told herself, and she almost believed it.
When Bitsie finally pried herself away from the mirror and emerged from the bathroom, Nick had arrived. He was unlocking the register as she entered the display area.
“Hi,” she said.
“You have a good weekend?” asked Nick without looking at her.
It was Thursday; the weekend was long past.
“My weekend was fine.”
Nick seemed to be having trouble getting the register open.
“Something wrong with the register?” Bitsie asked. “Did the key get bent or something?”
