Patricia Rockwell - Essie Cobb 03 - Valentined Read online

  VALENTINED

  (An Essie Cobb Senior Sleuth Mystery)

  Patricia Rockwell

  Chapter One

  “When love is in excess it brings a man no honor nor worthiness.”

  —Euripides

  Essie peered through the tiny window in her mailbox. She could see a hand holding a large, thick envelope heading directly towards her face. She pulled back as Phyllis, the front desk clerk at Happy Haven, squeezed the large-sized envelope carefully into her small cubicle. Essie waited patiently as Phyllis added several additional items—probably flyers for cemetery plots, which Essie received regularly in her mail by the bucketful. Not unusual for a ninety-year-old woman. She tapped her fingers on her walker handle bars as Phyllis continued to attempt to squeeze all of Essie’s mail into the small compartment. While she waited for Phyllis to finish her delivery duties, Essie glanced above the wall of mailboxes—probably at least a hundred or more of the little bronze squares—one for each resident at the Happy Haven Assisted Living Facility. Hanging above the wall of boxes was a dangling banner of sparkly red and pink cardboard hearts. Valentine’s Day was just a few days away and Happy Haven always went all out to decorate for each holiday. On the wall beside the mailboxes, a large poster advertised the facility’s big upcoming Valentine’s Day event—a speaker referred to on the ad as “Dr. Love–Guru of Valentine’s Day and its History.” Just what a bunch of old people need, Essie thought, lectures in love.

  She looked back at her mailbox door. Phyllis had finished squeezing Essie’s mail into her box and had moved on to another resident’s box. Essie reached out and carefully twisted her box’s combination lock to the correct code, opened the little door, and removed the pile of mail which included the large, thick envelope she had noticed Phyllis jamming in a few seconds ago. Probably some cheesy card from one of my children, she thought. Kurt, no doubt, she guessed. Of her three offspring, Kurt was the only boy and the only one who didn’t live nearby. He tended to send her more elaborate cards on holidays than her two girls—Claudia and Prudence—who were more likely to bring her something in person. Of course, Essie didn’t need cards from her children to feel appreciated, but it obviously gave them some pleasure to do these little things for her. Truthfully, she didn’t need anything. She had enough things. She glanced down at her handful of mail. More than usual. Typically, she’d wait until she returned to her small apartment to go through it all, but the large envelope was beckoning to her and she wanted to see what kind of card Kurt had selected. It was really big. Maybe her son was feeling guilty because he hadn’t visited in quite a while. She hoped that wasn’t the case. She knew it was difficult for him to come to see her as regularly as her girls did.

  Essie rolled her trusty red and black walker down the mailbox hallway and into the Happy Haven front lobby. On this cold February day, the fireplace in the lobby was lit and a crackling fire filled the large room with warmth. Large red cardboard hearts were placed strategically on the walls and a life-sized plastic Cupid that was supposed to appear to be marble graced the front entrance—the frozen archer boy apparently ready to shoot everyone entering with one of his trusty, love-drenched arrows. Essie maneuvered her vehicle over to a stuffed chair directly in front of the fire and plopped herself down. She placed the pieces of mail on her lap. There were so many items that they formed a large pile. Phyllis had exited from the tiny hallway behind the wall of mailboxes and had returned to her regular post behind the front desk on the other side of the lobby. Residents and staff moved across the lobby. Some were seated near Essie, apparently enjoying the fire too.

  “Good morning, Essie,” said a rotund man on a nearby sofa. His soft voice was barely audible, but Essie recognized it and she turned in her seat to face him.

  “Good morning, Hubert,” she replied. “Doesn’t this fire feel good?”

  “It does,” the man said, nervously fingering his red suspenders and glancing down.

  “Red suspenders for Valentine’s Day, Hubert?” she asked.

  “Yes,” he said, glancing up shyly. “It’s my favorite holiday, Miss Essie.”

  “Really?” she asked with a smile. “Why is that?”

  “Because,” he said, “because…well…I don’t really know, Miss Essie. But I really like Valentine’s Day.”

  “I do too,” agreed Essie with a broad smile and a pat on Hubert’s knee. The slight touch she gave him obviously was more than the man was expecting and he giggled and pulled—no, snapped—his suspenders in response. With a grin, Essie pulled back from Hubert. She knew he had a serious crush on her and she didn’t want to encourage him too much. For her, Hubert Darby was a friend—a sweet friend—but certainly there was no romantic future there, at least for her. Her great love had been her late husband John. There wouldn’t be another.

  She thumbed through her mail, ignoring the obvious bills and advertisements. Selecting the large envelope, she read the front. Yes, it was addressed to her—Essie Cobb at Happy Haven Assisted Living Facility, with the correct street address in Reardon. But, the return address wasn’t one she recognized. It certainly wasn’t Kurt’s address in a nearby state, which she knew by heart. She peered intently at the squiggly handwriting in the upper left-hand corner. She couldn’t quite make out the numbers or the name of the street, but it appeared that the state was Massachusetts. Boston, in fact. Hmm. As she glanced to the right of the address, she noticed the stamp on the envelope. It had been postmarked yesterday in Boston, Massachusetts. How strange, she thought. I don’t know anyone in Boston.

  Santos, her favorite waiter from the dining room, walked purposely across the lobby bearing a food tray. He headed down her hallway to the far right of the family room. Essie realized that he was probably taking a meal to a resident in her wing. She tried to think what person in her wing might be ill or incapacitated enough to require a meal to be delivered, but she couldn’t think of anyone. She’d have to ask Santos at lunch who it was who was getting the tray.

  Phyllis was now speaking with Violet Hendrickson, Happy Haven’s administrator, who had just come out of her office near the front entrance. The two women were talking in an animated fashion at the front desk. Essie always stayed far away from Violet because she had had more than her share of run-ins with the authoritarian woman. Violet ran a tight ship at Happy Haven and Essie had a tendency to circumvent rules when they didn’t suit her. She and Violet had butted heads a number of times in the past and Essie had learned that it was probably best to just avoid the stern director. So she did just that. Turning her body away from the front desk, she faced the fireplace more directly, and refocused her attention on the elegant envelope resting on her lap.

  Normally if she were in her room, she would use her plastic letter opener to nudge the flap up on the envelope. But as she didn’t have this device with her at the moment, she resorted to using her not very sharp fingernails to scrape open the back of the envelope a bit until she was able to grab a larger portion of the flap and pull it up and away from the back of the envelope. Her curiosity was really getting to her now. She knew that she didn’t know anyone in Boston. Who would be sending her a card from there? She reached into the envelope and tugged at the card inside. The fit was snug but Essie carefully removed the thick card from its container and then turned it over to view it from the front.

  What she saw amazed her. It was definitely a valentine. The card was extremely elaborate—complete with a doily, ribbons, and a large, pink, three-dimensional silk heart placed right in the center. Gold lettering declared, “Happy Valentine’s Day to My Beloved.” What? thought Essie. This is not a card from a friend or relative. S
he quickly opened the card and read the gushy sentimental poem inside. Fairly standard drivel, she concluded. Then the signature. She expected this little mystery to be solved as soon as she saw who had sent this masterpiece of mush, but the card was signed “Your Secret Admirer.” What? I don’t know anyone in Boston, she argued with herself. How could I have a secret admirer there?

  Phyllis and Violet were continuing their discussion at the front desk. In fact, it was becoming more heated. Phyllis came out from behind the desk and headed towards the mailboxes. Violet followed her close behind. The two women appeared oblivious to Essie and the few other residents who were sitting in the lobby. As they passed, Violet glanced over and noticed Essie and the other residents ensconced in front of the fireplace. She stopped abruptly; leaving Phyllis stranded in the middle of the hallway, clearly uncertain whether to continue on or to wait for Violet. Violet moved slowly and purposefully over to the residents by the fireplace, smiling warmly at them.

  “Good morning, everyone,” she said to the few people gathered around the fireplace. “I see you’re all enjoying the warmth of the fire on this cold day.” Some of the residents mumbled a response, but most—including Essie—were dumbstruck that their illustrious leader had deigned to make an appearance in the lobby, let alone speak to any of them. They were far more used to having her spend her days in her office and allow her surrogates such as Phyllis and Sue Barber, the activities director, do all of the interacting with residents. Of course, Essie had had a few direct interactions with Violet Hendrickson and none of them had been pleasant. Violet was quite capable of making the Happy Haven residents feel more like misbehaving teenagers than responsible adults.

  Violet looked around at the residents sitting in front of the fireplace. Her eyes focused on Essie. Essie cringed, although there was no reason for her to feel guilty—at least, this time. She wasn’t doing anything wrong. Oh, horrors of Henry! she cried to herself. Why does this woman always make me feel like a criminal? Stop this, Essie! You live here. Happy Haven is your home.

  “Good morning, Miss Hendrickson,” she said to Violet, giving her a big, cheesy smile and fluttering her sparse eyelashes.

  “Good morning, Essie,” replied Violet. She stood tall, her beautiful posture enhanced by the trim blue designer suit she wore. She tapped her long, elegantly polished fingernails along the edge of her ever present clipboard. Phyllis edged in closer behind her.

  “Miss Hendrickson,” whispered Phyllis in Violet’s ear, “you wanted to check on that—problem—in the back.”

  Violet continued staring at Essie—ignoring Phyllis—as Essie and the other residents returned her glare with frozen, smiling faces. Suddenly, Violet broke her eyes away from Essie, turned abruptly, and headed out the back with Phyllis following rapidly behind her. Essie looked around at the other residents sitting in front of the fireplace and shrugged. The residents scowled and returned to their reverie. One woman said, “She’s a strange bird.” Hubert Darby nodded and sighed. Essie couldn’t have agreed more.

  Her opinion of Violet Hendrickson did not weigh on her mind for long, however. She was soon drawn back into contemplation about the elegant, romantic valentine that rested on her lap. She had a secret admirer. In Boston, no less! Now who would be sending me a valentine all the way from across the country? So beautiful! And in secret! She picked up the card and turned it over and over, examining it. She glanced over at Hubert who still had his head down. She knew he would be able and willing to send her a valentine—maybe even one he’d signed as a secret admirer. But she couldn’t imagine how he’d manage to have it sent from Boston. She didn’t see Hubert as that clever or designing. Indeed, as she looked over at him, he seemed oblivious of the card she was reading and more just shy in her presence—which was the way he always seemed.

  No, she reasoned. There is another story to this card. A secret admirer. Hmm. Who could it be? Who would have a crush on a ninety-year-old widow in an assisted living facility? Like me?

  Chapter Two

  “The first duty of love is to listen.”

  —Paul Tillich

  Much later, she was still sitting in the lobby staring at the beautiful valentine when she looked up and realized that the residents in the first lunch seating were lining up at the dining hall door waiting to be allowed to enter. She was in the group of residents who ate their meals first. She could see her tablemates already in line, so she gathered her belongings, placed her mail and her secret admirer valentine in the little basket directly beneath the seat of her walker, and headed over to join them. Just as she arrived, Santos opened the doors to the dining hall and the residents began pouring into the large room. Essie often thought that sometimes the residents (and she included herself) acted like school children waiting to get into a circus rather than mature adults simply waiting for their dinners. For many residents, however, meals were the highlight of their days at Happy Haven. It was the time when they got out of their rooms and had a chance to socialize with other residents. A chance to find out what was happening in their little community. A chance to gossip, Essie admitted to herself. She pushed her walker through the dining hall entrance and towards her table.

  When she arrived at her assigned table in the approximate center of the large dining hall, she saw that her three friends were already seated. She scooted her walker into position beside her chair, just as her tablemates had parked theirs. The only exception was Fay on the far side of the table who used a motorized wheelchair. One of the kitchen workers always made sure that the chair in Fay’s place was removed so Fay could drive her power vehicle directly to her spot at the table. Essie parked her walker abruptly, slammed on the handbrake, and eased into her chair.

  “Essie,” said the tall, grey-haired woman to her right, “you’re late! So unlike you.”

  “Yes,” agreed the lively brunette to her left, “you’re usually here before us! Always so impatient to eat!”

  “Oh, jiggle jingles, Marjorie!” replied Essie to her critical friend. “I’m no more interested in eating than anyone else.” And, of course, she realized that most residents were very interested in eating.

  “Maybe not,” said the other woman, “but you usually are here first!”

  “I like to be on time, Opal,” replied Essie to her other companion. “It’s just one of my habits.”

  “So,” said Marjorie with curiosity, “why are you late today? I think I saw you talking to Hubert Darby out in the lobby when I got in line. Don’t tell me he’s romancing you again?”

  “It is closing in on Valentine’s Day,” noted Opal to Marjorie. “Hubert is notoriously romantic. And we all know what a crush he has on Essie… .”

  “Stop it, Opal,” interjected Essie. “Hubert and I were just making polite conversation.”

  “That’s where it starts,” said Marjorie with a sly shake of her shoulders. Her sparkling brown curls belied her age which was only evidenced by her facial wrinkles. Marjorie is obviously enjoying this, thought Essie. Whenever Marjorie puffed out her sweater as she was doing now, Essie knew that Marjorie was no doubt reliving some of her past youthful follies.

  “Not every conversation between a man and a woman is destined to lead to romance, Marjorie,” said Essie with finality.

  “Maybe not for you,” agreed Marjorie, “but I view such conversations as rife with possibilities.” She flipped her hands in the air, tossing her curls up in the process. Essie huffed.

  “We can probably present this situation to our upcoming guest speaker,” observed Opal, maintaining her distance. Unlike Marjorie, Opal never had a hair out of place on her neatly coifed grey head. She was always well groomed and totally inconspicuous, just as she had been in her career as an administrative assistant to one of the top lawyers in Reardon.

  “Guest speaker?” asked Essie, happy to change the subject.

  “Yes,” said Opal, nodding. “You may have noticed the signs. Some gentleman named ‘Dr. Love.’” Opal raised her eyebrows dramatically. “It
appears that he’s an anthropologist who has studied the history of romantic love. He’s scheduled to speak here in a few days.”

  “Oh, yes!” said an excited Marjorie. “On Valentine’s Day! How appropriate!”

  “Boiled bodkins,” said Essie. “Not something that interests me in the slightest. Or apparently Fay either.” She glanced across the table at the fourth member of the group who had nodded off in her wheelchair. “Was it something we said, Fay?” When her name was mentioned, the plump little lady awakened abruptly and gave a puzzled smile to all three of her tablemates.

  At that point, Santos arrived at the table with his pad. The ladies quickly picked up the menus placed on their plates and glanced down at the few entree selections for the luncheon meal.

  “Ladies need more time to make decision?” he asked. “Santos can return.” He started to turn, but Essie grabbed his jacket.

  “No, Santos,” she said to the young Hispanic waiter, “we’re ready. Aren’t we, ladies?”

  As each woman rattled off her choice of items from the menu, Santos busily jotted down their preferences on his pad. When he finished, he turned to leave.

  “Santos,” said Essie, pulling him back. “I saw you headed down my hallway this morning with a food tray. Is someone sick down there? I think I know everyone in my hall and I wasn’t aware that anyone there was ill.” She smiled sweetly, waiting for Santos to respond.

  “Not sure, Miss Essie,” he said, furrowing his brow and biting his lower lip. “Can’t remember. I take meals to so many residents. Sorry.” With that, he turned away and retreated into the kitchen.

  “How strange!” said Essie. “I can’t believe Santos wouldn’t remember whom he delivered breakfast to so quickly. He’s usually so sharp.”

  “Maybe he doesn’t want to tell you, Essie,” said Marjorie, poking her finger into Essie’s shoulder. “You are a bit of a busybody.”

  “Me!” replied Essie. “If anyone should win an award for gossip-monger of the year, Marjorie, it should be…”