Patricia Rockwell - Essie Cobb 03 - Valentined

by Patricia Rockwell

  “Nothing!” retorted Essie. “Nothing at all. In fact, if anything, I discourage them. I was a lot happier before this strange person sent me this valentine and I truly wish he’d never sent it in the first place!”

  “You’re kidding!” said Hazel. “I wouldn’t feel that way. I’m jealous of you, Essie.”

  “See, Essie,” noted Dave, now having disposed of his cards, the hand evidently over with Hubert’s departure, “the women here all want to be you! And the men all love you! At least, I know I do!” Dave stood elegantly, bowed to Essie in a majestic fashion, and then departed.

  Left alone with just the two lady card players, Essie took the seat that Dave had just deserted. Turning her back on the hallway, she faced the females, giving up her attempt to track Santos. I guess I’ll have to check out that room later, she thought.

  She sat with Mildred and Hazel, smiling politely while the two women continued to examine her valentine. Much later, when the women had apparently tired of looking at the card, Essie took her valentine and returned it to her basket. Rising and heading down her hallway, she glanced at her wristwatch. Oh, my! I spent over an hour sitting there chatting with those four! Surely that’s enough time for Santos to have left that room. I obviously missed him.

  As she rolled closer to her own doorway, she made a split second decision and continued on down the hallway. At the end of the corridor, she rounded the corner to the left. The corridor was empty. Essie pushed her walker slowly down the carpeted floor, counting and checking each doorway as she went. Her mind still contained a visual and mental picture of the doorway into which Santos had gone. It was the fifth one on the left, she said to herself. When she arrived at the doorway where she was certain that Santos had delivered the tray earlier, she paused her walker and stood at the door so she could read the name plate.

  Grace Bloom, she read to herself. I know Grace. I could swear that she’s not ill. She was at supper last night, I think.

  Essie hesitated as she tried to decide whether or not to knock. If she knocked and Grace was home, what excuse would she give for coming to visit? She pondered all sorts of excuses but none came to mind. She knew who Grace was but the two women didn’t share in any activities at Happy Haven so it wasn’t as if she could come calling on her about anything specific. Did they have anyone in common? Anyone she could reference when she spoke to the woman? No, she thought. I don’t know who she knows and I can’t even remember how I know who she is.

  What the hedges! she said to herself finally. Here goes!

  She knocked firmly on the door. There was a brief commotion sound inside and suddenly the door opened a crack and Grace Bloom’s head peeked out.

  “Yes?” she asked.

  “Grace Bloom?” asked Essie.

  “That’s me!” replied the woman, hanging on the door almost defensively.

  “I…I…I’m Essie Cobb,” said Essie. “I heard you were ill.”

  “Ill?” cried Grace, laughing. “Where did you get that idea?” The woman’s lively eyes sparkled behind her horn-rimmed glasses.

  “I…I… believe I heard one of the kitchen workers mention it,” lied Essie.

  “They must have been thinking of some other Grace,” said Grace Bloom. “Not me!”

  “So, you’re not sick?” asked Essie tentatively, stretching her head around in an attempt to see beyond the door and into Grace Bloom’s apartment. It was impossible. Grace had a tight grip on her door and was not apparently going to open it for anyone.

  “No!” replied Grace. She closed her mouth and stared at Essie as if to say, so what?

  “Well,” said Essie suddenly. “That’s wonderful!” She turned her walker abruptly and headed back down the hallway.

  Chapter Eleven

  “To fear love is to fear life, and those who fear life are already three parts dead.”

  —Bertrand Russell

  That was a dead-end in more ways than one, thought Essie as she rolled her walker into her apartment. She couldn’t get the picture of Grace Bloom out of her mind. The woman had clutched her front door as if it were a lifeboat. Obviously she wasn’t sick, but what was going on? And why did Santos bring her a breakfast tray when Grace obviously wasn’t ill or incapacitated. Essie moved over to her rocker/recliner and slid down into the cushion. She stared ahead, through the blinds on her outside window that fronted onto a small patio in the center of Happy Haven. She could see a squirrel zip up one of the snow-covered elm trees. She pushed her chair back and forth as if in rhythm with her fluctuating thoughts.

  Her eyes drifted to the top of her television set in the corner by the window. Essie didn’t keep many items on top of her TV because she worried that they might get too hot and catch fire. She did have a set of porcelain birds—each one a different type—arranged in a casual pattern. The cardinal and the bluebird usually were on the left and the robin and blue jay were on the right. What? She looked again. Somehow, the little decorative birds had apparently changed positions. Now, the cardinal and the robin were on the left and the bluebird and the blue jay were on the right. She knew that wasn’t how she had arranged them. Or had she? She was ninety years old. She supposed it was possible that she had put her bird collection in a different order and forgotten about it, but she truly didn’t think so. Ceramic birds didn’t walk about on the top of a television set all by themselves. They needed help.

  Essie let her eyes roam around her small apartment. From where she sat in her recliner against the far wall between her desk and the end table by her two-seater sofa, she could see every part of her little living room. She could also see her small kitchenette if she turned her head far to the right and looked over her shoulder. In this position she could also see the hallway that led to her bathroom and bedroom.

  Was anything else different or just the birds? She started with the television set and moved around her living room. Next to the right of the TV was her antique desk—not the one she used every day, but a fancy one she had brought with her from her personal furniture and that she used primarily to store important papers and items. The little desk with the curlicued legs had a front that closed and locked with a key that Essie kept with her at all times in her purse in her walker basket. On top of the desk stood a glass-covered golden clock that one of her grandsons had given her. It appeared to be slightly off-center. Essie was always very careful to place it in the direct center of the top of her antique desk. Next to this desk was another armchair. This one was gold and it circled around on rollers. Marjorie always liked to sit there when she visited. Several stuffed animals that Essie had received as prizes from various games and contests at Happy Haven resided on this chair—always ready to greet incoming visitors with their cheery faces. Essie typically had the purple bear sitting on the left and the brown bear sitting on the right of the seat cushion. Now they were reversed. Hmmm, she said to herself, pondering the change in her stuffies’ positions.

  She continued her examination of her living room, looking around carefully from one furniture item to the next. Immediately to Essie’s left was her regular desk. On this large piece of furniture, Essie kept all other important papers and reminders. She had a calendar propped upright in the back center of the desk. The calendar was open to the month of February, and Essie had penciled in various appointments she had scheduled during the month. She also had a container of pens and pencils on the top right hand corner and a stack of papers in the lower right hand corner. At least, that’s where those items were supposed to be. As she peered over her shoulder, she could tell that all of her desk items were just slightly out of place. The pile of papers on the right which included many envelopes and cards that she had received and wanted to keep was dramatically changed from the way it was as she last remembered it. The cards and envelopes in the pile had been rearranged and sort of shoved back together in a haphazard fashion.

  There didn’t appear to be anything different about her recliner or the sofa. Maybe some of the throw pillows were arranged different
ly on the short couch, but Essie couldn’t tell for sure. She was always puffing the pillows and placing them strategically on the sofa for maximum effect. She had read once that pillows placed at an angle in the corner of a sofa would make it appear larger—and as her sofa was about as small as sofas came, she was willing to do almost anything to increase its apparent size. No, she thought, the sofa looks the same.

  Next to the far side of the sofa was a large container which was originally intended for coal by a fireplace, but which Essie used to store magazines. As far as she could see, the magazines appeared to be the same as were in the container before. The one on top might be different, she mused. She wasn’t certain. Next to the magazine container was another chair, this one blue. There was a lace crocheted doily on the back of the chair. It was folded up—not the way Essie would ever have left it.

  The window to the outside was directly behind the blue chair. Essie now realized that the blinds were slightly closed, not open to bring in the sunshine as she typically left them. Had someone come in and changed her blinds? Of course, she realized, cleaning people often entered her apartment and cleaned. But they generally didn’t change the location or arrangement of any of a resident’s belongings. In fact, she couldn’t remember any time in the past where a staff member cleaning ever did anything to affect anything in any of her rooms at all. This was very strange.

  Essie pushed herself out of her recliner and rolled herself into her bedroom. Her bed looked pretty much the same as it had that morning. Yes, the bed was made. DeeDee, her morning aide, usually did that for her. The coverlet looked very much like it did every day after DeeDee made it. Moving over to her end table, Essie sat on her bed so she could see the items on her nightstand better. Here she kept a lot of personal items—her phone, a small phone book, a glowing light, some cough drops, and other things she felt she might need in the middle of the night. She could clearly remember how she had left these personal items this morning. All of the items appeared to have been rearranged. Oh, they still had the appearance of casual disarray, but they were not the same as they had been this morning. Essie rolled over to the end table on the other side of her bed. Here she kept some books and other personal papers. These items too were changed or had been moved. She was certain.

  She looked around her bedroom attempting to see any other obvious changes. The top of her long, low dresser caught her attention and she rolled over. There were framed photographs, two decorative lamps, and some other small china items. Essie’s keen eye alerted her to small differences in the arrangement of all of them.

  She rolled into her tiny bathroom. Expecting to see her bathroom in upheaval, she saw only the same small changes here that she had seen in her living room and in her bedroom. The items on her sink had been rearranged. Her toothbrush and tube of toothpaste were still on the left of the sink, but they were sitting at different angles than she had placed them this morning. She opened the cabinet doors under her sink. Her containers of adult diapers which she hated to use, but did rely on from time to time, were still there but had been turned sideways. Her package of toilet paper had also changed position.

  Essie had seen enough. She pushed her walker slowly back into her living room and lowered herself into her recliner. Shaking her head, she thought, someone has been going through my things. Her mind contemplated this invasion of her privacy. It was definitely more than just a cleaning crew doing their regular job. This was someone who had come into her apartment while she was away and rummaged through her private belongings. It didn’t take a genius to figure out that the person must have been looking for the secret admirer valentine. The same thing probably happened to Betsy Rollingford last year. Only, with Betsy, the person found the card without much searching. In my case, the person had no idea where it was so they went through everything, hoping to find it. And, of course, they didn’t find it because I’ve had that valentine with me ever since I received it. Of course, the thief doesn’t know that.

  Doggone dog biscuits! Why should one little card cause so much trouble? She reached over to her walker and lifted up the seat. She grabbed the valentine and removed it from its envelope. I’m so annoyed with you, Mr. Secret Admirer! Why couldn’t you just sign your real name? What’s all this secrecy about anyway? And why me? What did I ever do to you?

  She rocked back and forth furiously in a steady rhythm, rubbing the card with annoyance. Suddenly, she stopped and pulled up on the little heart in the center. Sure enough, the original glue was still holding. She pulled harder. Eventually, the heart popped up and away from the card and into Essie’s hands. She turned the heart over and reexamined the back—the thick layer of glue and the fine line of stitches down the middle of it. She reached over to her desk and opened the top right hand drawer and brought out a nail file. Using the tip of the file, she began to saw and poke at the back of the heart. Slowly, after extensive effort, a small opening was created. Essie used the tip of the file to poke inside the little heart. She could feel the interior.

  I wonder what’s inside? she mused. She poked deeper. Sue Barber had suggested that the heart might be filled with sawdust or sachet powder. She couldn’t tell. Maybe it was sand. She brought the heart up close to her nose to see if she could smell anything now that a small opening had been created and the material inside had access to the outside air. No odor emanated from the heart. Why had the card’s creator made it so difficult to open the little heart? Essie’s imagination went wild. Maybe it wasn’t just sawdust or even a sachet. Maybe the heart contains jewels! Maybe a cache of diamonds!

  Essie sawed furiously with her nail file, attempting to widen the small opening at the back of the heart so she could see what was inside. Eventually, with her diligent efforts, some of the small stitches gave way along with the glue, and a tiny opening appeared, revealing the contents. As Essie peered inside wondering what she’d see, a puff of fine white powder blew upwards and slowly drifted onto her lap.

  Chapter Twelve

  “O, then, what graces in my love do dwell, that he hath turn’d a heaven unto hell!”

  —Shakespeare

  “Wiggling weasels!” she exclaimed.

  Essie froze as she stared at the thin layer of powder on the knees of her trousers. She didn’t move. She couldn’t move. What in the world was it? It certainly didn’t appear to be normal stuffing material. She recalled how once one of her stuffed bears that kept watch over her living room from the armchair across from her recliner had developed a hole on his bottom. His stuffing had started to ooze out and she had to get out her needle and thread and sew up his wound. Her bear’s insides were nothing like this. He seemed to be full of bits of foam rubber, as she recalled. Of course, this little heart was a different situation and she reasoned that there were many possible materials that people could use to stuff things. But as she stared at the powder now forming little rivulets in the creases of her pants, she couldn’t imagine what the substance might be and why her secret admirer would use it to fill the tiny heart.

  Without moving, she attempted to peer into the heart. She wished she could reach over to her desk and get her flashlight out of her desk drawer but she didn’t want to move and disturb the powder on her lap. Although she couldn’t see inside, it appeared to be full of the substance. She held the heart gingerly, not wishing to disperse any more of the material than she already had.

  This powder was simply not what she’d expected to find inside of the heart. She’d anticipated sawdust or sand. She stared at the powder on her lap and the few grains she could see within the heart. It certainly wasn’t flour. It might be sand but she thought it was much too white and too fine for that.

  Suddenly her mind brought up images of news reports from years before. She remembered those horrible days when some maniac had mailed anthrax powder to various government officials and the entire country had come to a virtual standstill as law enforcement attempted to track down a mass murderer who remained elusive. Could this be like that? Could this fine white po
wder in her little heart be some deadly poison sent to her by a terrorist? Her entire body froze as the possibility engulfed her. She considered the possibilities. It had been sent in the mail. The sender was unknown. She and her friends had already attempted to track down her ‘secret admirer’ with no results. If this was an attempt at terrorism, surely the terrorist had covered his tracks.

  Essie, you elephant! she scolded herself. Why in the world would some international terrorist target you? You’re just a little old lady in an assisted living facility. You’re not an important political or government official or military leader. You are probably the least likely of targets of a terrorist. And besides, she reasoned, if this was terrorism, the terrorist surely was making it hard for you to even be affected by the poison. I mean, he has it so thoroughly wrapped up in this heart that it would be unlikely that anyone would ever tumble to the fact that this substance was inside unless they were actively looking for it. It’s probably nothing. It’s probably just some simple household ingredient that this person had on hand.

  Okay, then what is it? Why can’t I come up with any probable answer? What should I do?

  Essie sat rigid in her recliner, not moving any part of her body as she focused intently on the powder on her lap. She thought if she concentrated hard enough, the answer would come to her and she would be able to put an end to the frightening possibility that the white powder was dangerous. As she pondered, she realized that if the powder truly was poisonous, she was making matters worse by continuing to sit there as the fine white grains were no doubt drifting into the atmosphere and ultimately into her lungs. She attempted to breathe more shallowly.

  This is ridiculous! I have to do something about this. I can’t continue to sit here immobile with this stuff all over me. Should I call Phyllis at the front desk? she wondered. No. What could she do? If this truly is poison, then I will have just exposed an additional person to danger. She also realized that she couldn’t just stand up and brush herself off and then go somewhere looking for help. If she did and if the powder was poison, she would be leaving a trail of death throughout Happy Haven. No, she would have to remain exactly where she was and have help come to her. At least, until she knew for certain that the material on her lap was not dangerous. Better to be safe than sorry, her own mother’s words echoed in her mind.