Patricia Rockwell - Essie Cobb 03 - Valentined

by Patricia Rockwell

  “That’s the UPC…the bar code,” said Mindy. “There’s no bar code on your secret admirer valentine like there is on this Christmas card or on any other card you might receive that was purchased in a store. This bar code is on everything purchased in a store because it’s what the clerk uses to determine how much to charge for the item when you buy it. See, your valentine doesn’t have a bar code. That means that it wasn’t purchased in a store. I would venture a guess that it was made and sent to you directly by the person who made it. Very unusual.”

  “You mean,” said Essie, trying to understand, “the person who sent me the valentine is the same person who made my valentine.”

  “I don’t know for sure,” said Mindy with a shrug, “but I would say probably yes.”

  “But why?” Essie asked, mystified. “Who would do that? Why would someone make such a beautiful card, making it look like it was bought, and then send it to me? Especially someone who doesn’t even sign their name?”

  “It seems the card designer and sender doesn’t want you to know who he is,” offered Mindy.

  “But why?” asked Essie, more to herself than her granddaughter. “Why go to all that effort for… nothing?”

  “Maybe it wasn’t for nothing,” suggested Mindy.

  “I don’t see what the person who sent me this card gets by sending it,” mused Essie.

  “He knows you know he cares for you,” said Mindy.

  “But I don’t know! I don’t know who he is! Oh, I’m so confused!” cried Essie, throwing her hands up.

  “Don’t be upset, Grandma,” said Mindy, reaching over and giving her grandmother a warm hug. “You have a secret admirer. Even if you don’t know who he is, you know someone out there really likes you. Actually, Grandma, I’m jealous! I wish some guy felt so strongly about me that he’d send me something as beautiful as this! And so would Mom!”

  “What?” asked Essie, turning back to her granddaughter, her thoughts now totally on Mindy. “What’s this about your mother?”

  “Oh, you know,” said Mindy, looking down as if ashamed. “She’s always hounding me about finding a guy and I’m just not very good at doing that.”

  “Your mother!” exclaimed Essie. “I should whip her little behind! She has no right to tell you how to run your love life. Oh, Mindy, I could tell you stories of Prudence and some of the boys she brought home when she was your age! Yikes and bikes! There was this one horrible fellow who always smelled like onions and looked like he slept in a garbage bin. Prudence was enamored of him for months before she discovered that he had lice. Then she dropped him like a hot potato. Hopefully, lice were all he had!”

  “This was Mom’s boyfriend?” asked a skeptical Mindy.

  “Oh, yes, dear,” said Essie, shaking her head. “I could tell you many stories about your mother’s romantic escapades. Would you like some additional stories to use in your future defense?”

  “Oh, thanks, Grandma,” replied Mindy, laughing, “but I think I can handle her. We just have two different viewpoints about the importance of men in my life right now.”

  “I hear you, dear,” said Essie. “At the moment, given this mystifying secret admirer, I’m about ready to give up on the whole sex!”

  “You go, Grandma!” said Mindy with an encouraging fist pump.

  “Girl power!” added Essie with a matching hand gesture. The two women, generations apart, smiled and hugged again.

  After offering her professional opinion in regards to all elements of the card, Mindy eventually gathered her belongings and headed off to work. Essie remained in her recliner, staring at her card, a bit wiser than she had been before her granddaughter’s arrival—both about the card and about Mindy.

  Chapter Six

  “Love sought is good, but given unsought is better.”

  —Shakespeare

  Later at dinner, Essie and her pals were continuing their analysis of the strange case of Essie’s valentine and secret admirer while they savored their after dinner coffee.

  “My granddaughter Mindy came over today and looked at the card,” Essie explained to her tablemates. “She’s a graphic designer.”

  “Have I met your granddaughter?” asked Opal.

  “I don’t know, Opal,” said Essie. “If you did, she probably didn’t say much; she’s typically very shy.”

  “She’s the one with the lovely, long, blonde hair, isn’t she?” asked Marjorie. “I believe your daughter brought her over to our table on one of her visits.”

  “Maybe,” replied Essie. “Anyway, she dropped by at my request and examined the card. She tells me she believes that my secret admirer is actually the one who made the card.”

  “What does that mean?” asked Opal sternly. “This card looks like it was purchased. And what about the logo of the card company on the back?”

  “Mindy says any good graphic designer could devise a logo like that,” replied Essie. She explained the significance of the lack of a bar code on the card. The women were impressed.

  “My goodness, Essie,” said Marjorie. “This sheds a whole new light on this valentine mystery. If your secret admirer made this beautiful card himself in addition to sending it, he must really be smitten with you!”

  “Humph,” snorted Essie.

  “And he must be a graphic designer,” added Opal.

  “That’s the more important piece of information,” agreed Marjorie. “You really need to find out who this man is, Essie.”

  “I know,” replied Essie. “It’s driving me crazy to keep looking at it and not be able to figure out who sent it. I keep thinking I must know this man from somewhere and he’s just teasing me, trying to get me to figure out who he is—to remember him from somewhere.”

  “What about his return address on the envelope?” asked Marjorie. “Is there any way you can locate him from that?”

  “I don’t know,” said Essie. “There’s just an address, no name. Obviously he wants to maintain his secret identity on the envelope as well as the card.”

  “Surely there’s a way to find out who he is from his address,” repeated Opal as she held up the envelope and peered at it. As Marjorie and Essie followed Opal’s eyes to the tiny, scratchy handwritten lines on the envelope, Fay, who had been apparently sleeping in her wheelchair on the far side of the table, reached across and grabbed the envelope from Opal’s hands.

  “Fay!” cried Opal, “I was studying that! Maybe I can figure out the sender from the address.”

  Fay peered at the address on the envelope. Then, placing it in her lap, she set her coffee cup on its saucer, turned the switch on her chair, and rolled around and down the center aisle of the dining hall.

  “Where’s she going?” exclaimed Marjorie.

  “How should I know?” replied Opal as the three women stared at Fay’s retreating form in the distance, now nearing the entrance to the hall.

  “Well, wherever she’s headed,” declared Essie, “I’m following her! She’s got my envelope!” Essie shoved her valentine into her walker basket under the seat, rose as quickly as she was able, and rolled her vehicle purposefully out of the dining hall. Opal and Marjorie, not to be left out, grabbed their walkers and joined in the chase. The foursome appeared to be an elderly railroad train with Fay the engine leading a line of cars behind her.

  Fay zoomed into the lobby, through the family room, and headed towards the far end of the family room where Happy Haven kept their one computer. This computer was provided for residents’ use, but few Happy Haveners were computer literate or even interested in computing, so the little machine stood vacant most of the time. Fay was one of the few residents who knew anything about computers, as Essie and her friends had discovered from previous exploits. They knew that Fay had worked as a research librarian and could track down all sorts of information on the Internet. Essie didn’t really understand the Internet, but Fay had assisted her before in her efforts. Essie often wished that she could ask Fay about the Internet and how she knew what she did,
but Fay was silent about herself so Essie had learned to accept Fay the way she was.

  The women followed Fay and when she arrived at the computer, they gathered around her expecting her to perform some of her computing magic as she had in the past. Fay tucked herself in front of the computer. Essie grabbed the computer chair and sat down beside her. Marjorie pulled over a nearby chair and sat to Fay’s right. Opal took a position directly behind Fay. All four women had a good view of the computer screen as Fay booted up and logged onto the Internet.

  “What’s she doing?” asked Marjorie.

  “I believe she’s going on the Internet,” replied Opal, probably the second most computer savvy of the group. Opal appeared to be able to follow Fay’s doings, but she certainly would never be able to conduct such a search herself.

  Fay picked up the envelope. She quickly clicked a word at the top of the screen that said “maps.” Essie watched as the screen filled with a large map of the United States. Glancing from the envelope to the screen, Fay typed in what appeared to be the return address on the envelope. The women observed what she wrote.

  “715 Tingleberry Lane, Boston, Massachusetts, 02106,” said Essie. “Is that what it looks like to you, Fay?”

  Fay nodded and then glanced from one woman to another. She hit one of the keys on the keyboard and the screen filled with a message that read “no such address listed.” Fay frowned and stared harder at the handwritten address.

  “I don’t think it’s Tingleberry,” said Marjorie, grabbing the envelope from Fay’s hands. “I think that’s a ‘j’ not a ‘t’!”

  “No, it’s an ‘l’ I think,” offered Opal, pulling the envelope from Marjorie’s hands and squinting at the lettering.

  Fay typed furiously and soon she had changed the address on the screen to read ‘Jingleberry” and entered that with a punch of a key. The screen provided the same message. There was no Jingleberry Lane in Boston either. Fay repeated the routine using an ‘l’ instead of a ‘j’ for the first letter and the results were the same. The three women tried to help Fay by offering different spellings of different words in the return address. Fay diligently checked each and every possible spelling of each and every permutation. After numerous tries, it soon became evident that the return address on the valentine simply did not exist.

  “What does this mean?” asked Essie.

  Fay sighed, and turning to her friends, gave a shrug.

  “I think Fay is saying that this return address doesn’t exist. It’s fictional,” said Opal.

  “But why?” asked Essie. “Why would my secret admirer put a non-existent return address on the envelope?”

  “Because he doesn’t want you to know who he is, obviously,” replied Marjorie. “I don’t know if that’s more romantic or less romantic. Why would your admirer not want you to ever figure out who he is? If he really likes you, you’d think he’d want you to know—ultimately.”

  “Yes,” agreed Essie.

  “Maybe there’s another reason,” suggested Opal. The three seated women turned around and looked up at their tall, serene friend. “Maybe he intentionally put a fake address on the card so that no one would know who he is. Not just Essie.”

  “That’s ridiculous, Opal,” declared Marjorie. “Essie is the recipient. Who else would her secret admirer be trying to hide his identity from?”

  “I don’t know,” mused Opal. “The Post Office?”

  “What?” said Essie, scowling. “Why would anyone want to keep their identity secret from the Post Office. The Post Office doesn’t care who sends me a valentine.”

  “I can’t answer that, Essie,” said Opal with a sigh. “However, if you think about it, you’re not the only person who won’t be able to track your secret admirer now. The purpose of a return address is so that if the Post Office can’t deliver a letter, they have a way to return it to the sender. Obviously, if the sender puts a fictitious return address on the envelope, the Post Office will not be able to return the card to the sender.”

  “I see that, Opal,” said Essie. “But, Haley’s Comet! What person would NOT want this card back if the Post Office couldn’t deliver it to me?”

  The women shook their heads and looked forlornly at the computer screen which provided absolutely no information.

  “Before we give up totally on this computer thing, Fay,” said Essie, “can you try one more thing?”

  Fay nodded. Essie picked up the envelope and turned it over.

  “Mindy says this card was made for me personally and that the logo on the back is made up. I mean, it’s a logo for a company that doesn’t really exist. Can we check the company logo, Fay? On the computer?”

  Fay took the card from Essie and glanced at the logo on the back. Then she typed the name of the company—Boston Bell Greeting Cards—into a box in the middle of the screen and hit a key. A list of items appeared. Fay ran her finger down each one, shaking her head as she went. Opal followed along. Fay clicked on several of the items, but when the screen filled with text and the women read the various articles, it became clear that none of them were about or even mentioned a “Boston Bell Greeting Card Company.”

  “Don’t worry, Fay,” said Essie. “This is not a bad thing. This just shows that there is no Boston Bell Greeting Card Company. It confirms my granddaughter’s conjecture that the card was created by one person, not manufactured and then purchased in a store. Now the question is, why? Why did my secret admirer not only send me this card, but why did he go to all the trouble of making it himself in the first place, and creating the impression that it was manufactured by this fictitious company?”

  “It’s a mystery, Essie,” said Opal forlornly. Fay nodded. Marjorie was staring off into space.

  “Marjorie,” said Essie, giving her typically peppy friend a jab, “where are you?”

  “I just remembered,” said Marjorie, turning back to the group. “I played cards this morning with Betsy Rollingford.”

  “That’s lovely, Marjorie,” noted Opal. “But how does that pertain to Essie’s secret admirer valentine?”

  “Actually,” said Marjorie, “it might pertain a lot. I’m not sure. I happened to mention to the group about your valentine, Essie. Betsy said that she had received a valentine from a secret admirer last year. The way she described it, it sounded a lot like your card.”

  “Why didn’t you tell us this sooner, Marjorie?” asked Essie, annoyed.

  “I’m sorry, but it slipped my mind,” said Marjorie.

  “Slip! Slide! Marjorie!” exclaimed Essie. “Betsy Rollingford? I don’t think I know her. What floor is she on?”

  “I don’t know,” said Marjorie, “but I know she plays Bingo. You can probably catch her there tonight!”

  “I hope for your sake, I do,” snorted Essie as she grabbed her walker and headed out of the family room, leaving her three friends sitting at the computer.

  Chapter Seven

  “One’s first love is always perfect until one meets one’s second love.”

  —Elizabeth Aston

  Essie was waiting in the dining hall long before the scheduled start of Bingo that night. She wanted to make certain that she was able to find Betsy Rollingford and have a chat with her about her secret admirer valentine before the Bingo action commenced. Breathing heavily, she tapped her fingers rhythmically on her walker handlebars.

  A tall man with grey and black hair entered the room and smiled when he saw Essie sitting alone at one of the tables.

  “Essie!” he cried. “You’re really early for Bingo!”

  “Hello, Dave,” she replied politely. Dave was one of the more gregarious men at Happy Haven. That was a polite way to put it. Flirtatious would be another way. Essie might have been flattered with his constant compliments if she hadn’t noticed that Dave Esperti tended to pour on the flowery remarks to just about all the female residents.

  “My, Essie, you’re looking especially stunning tonight,” Dave said as he approached.

  Essie grimaced
. She was not moved by this type of silliness.

  “I’m here because I’m trying to track down Betsy Rollingford,” she replied, all business.

  “Betsy?” asked Dave. “No! And I thought you were waiting for me!” He smiled and laughed flirtatiously as he moved over and took a seat next to her.

  “She does play Bingo, doesn’t she?”

  “Oh, yes,” replied Dave, bending in. “She’s a regular. You’ve played Bingo a lot, I thought. You’ve seen her here.”

  “Actually, I’m not sure I know who she is,” replied Essie uncertainly.

  “I’ll point her out to you,” said Dave, “for a kiss.” He wiggled his bushy mustache lasciviously. Essie tried not to gag.

  “My kissing days are over, Dave,” she said breezily. “I would appreciate it if you’d point her out, though.”

  As she spoke, residents began to enter the dining hall. Dave moved away from Essie to a more proper distance. He glanced over to the entrance apparently looking for Betsy.

  “Hey, Essie,” he said while keeping his eyes on the newcomers. “I hear you’ve got a secret admirer. Is that why I’m getting the brush-off?”

  “You’re not getting the brush-off, Dave,” explained Essie. “No one is getting the brush-off. I treat you as I treat all the men here at Happy Haven. As for the secret admirer, that’s what I want to talk to Betsy about. So, please, if you will, continue to be on the lookout.”

  “Ooops!” he said suddenly. “There she is!” He pointed at a slight woman entering the dining hall. Betsy Rollingford was a small, but regal-looking woman, moving slowly through the use of a three-prong cane. She wore a simple linen dress with a long, bulky white sweater that looked much too big for her tiny frame.

  “Thanks, Dave,” said Essie. “Here’s your kiss.” She blew him a discreet kiss from the side of her mouth and headed over towards Betsy Rollingford.

  “Betsy,” she said. “Are you Betsy Rollingford?”

  “Yes,” replied the woman cautiously. “That’s me.”