Papoosed: An Essie Cobb Senior Sleuth Mystery Read online

  As she turned into her hallway from the family room, she ran smack dab into Hubert Darby. Oh, dear! Why is he down this hallway? He doesn’t live in this wing of the building, she recalled. What if he is trying to find me?

  “Essie!” exclaimed Hubert, “Hello, Essie!”

  She was forced to stop. He was standing directly in front of her.

  “Essie,” continued Hubert, his suspenders still noticeably unhooked she noticed, “I . . . I dropped by your room.”

  “That’s nice of you, Hubert,” said Essie, then . . . with a quick maneuver to her left, she whizzed around Hubert, yelling back to him, “but I can’t stop to talk now. I really need to use the bathroom!” She couldn’t help but think how she would never have given any of her suitors any information about her bladder habits when she was younger, but senior status had somehow made her more forthcoming and less inhibited. Or maybe conniving. In truth, although her bladder often did make her rush to get to the nearest bathroom, this was not one of those moments.

  Hubert Darby stood totally befuddled, twisting his upper torso around to look at her as Essie stormed down the narrow hallway towards her room. He barely noticed as Opal and Marjorie whizzed by on either side of him with their walkers, led by Fay in her motor chair. Hubert just stood there, shaking his head and looking forlorn. Pulling a large white cloth hanky from his pants pocket, he wiped sweat from his forehead and headed back towards the lobby.

  Essie continued on down her hallway, oblivious of the string of three women following her. She reached her doorway. She knew it was hers not because of its location or even the “B114” plastered on the door. She knew it was hers because the door was festooned with a jaunty Christmas elf. Essie–like most residents–always decorated her door for upcoming holidays. As Christmas was only days away, she had put her cute little elf on her door because he always made her feel in a Christmas-y mood. That, and because her late husband John had always adored the little fellow and had insisted that he reside on the front door of their home every Christmas–no matter where they had lived. When Essie saw her Christmas elf she grabbed her door handle and opened her door. Carefully, she wheeled her walker inside and turned around to close the door behind her.

  “Oh, no you don’t!” cried Opal, arriving at the doorway along with Marjorie and Fay and barring Essie from closing it with the left front wheel of her walker. “Just what are you up to, Essie Cobb?”

  “Yes, Essie!” agreed Marjorie, pushing her walker through the door frame along with Opal, effectively preventing Essie from closing her own door. Fay remained in her wheelchair directly behind the two women.

  “I have to go!” cried Essie, giving them her little fake bladder dance.

  “Then go!” ordered Opal, “we’ll just wait until you’re done!” She barreled into Essie’s small apartment, followed by Marjorie and finally Fay. The three women lined up like a firing squad in the middle of Essie’s living room and Essie felt like a prisoner making her final request. She looked at her three friends and at her wide-open front door and then at the basket beneath her walker seat where the infant was hopefully still sleeping. Anyone could walk down the outside hallway at any moment, she thought. If a staff member walked by and the baby cried, I’d be in trouble. Worse, yet, the baby would be taken from me–and Maria might never see her child again!

  Making a quick decision, Essie rolled her walker over to the door and quietly closed it. She gestured for the three women to take seats, which they did. Fay remained in her wheelchair by Essie’s only outside window on the far side of her living room. A hanging row of Christmas lights decorated the top of her window. Through the blinds, Essie could see that a light snow had begun to fall.

  “I thought you said you had to pee,” said Marjorie.

  “Marjorie,” said Opal, aghast, “such language!”

  “She said it!” replied Marjorie. Essie’s living room smelled noticeably of Christmas because she had strategically placed several fragrance dispensers on tables around the room to elicit holiday memories whenever she entered her apartment.

  “Quiet, you two!” interjected Essie, looking at her arguing friends now seated together on Essie’s small sofa, their walkers parked in front of them. They looked like two petulant siblings being forced to sit next to each other for their annual Christmas photo. Essie rolled her walker over to her favorite lounge chair and sat. “I’m fine. I don’t have to pee. I just had to get back to my room.”

  “You’re here!” said Opal. “So what did Santos want with you in the kitchen? And why did you have to rush out of the dining room so fast that you couldn’t even stop long enough to tell us about it?”

  “Because,” said Essie, “Santos asked me to do him a favor. And I . . . uh . . . promised to keep something for him.”

  “What, Essie?” asked Marjorie. Her green eyes sparkled merrily. Marjorie was always up for a caper.

  “Why would one of the kitchen workers want you to keep something for him?” added Opal. Opal was more circumspect than Marjorie and would only become involved if the cause was just.

  “Is it drugs?” suggested Marjorie with a salacious grin.

  “Of course not, Marjorie!” replied Essie, “I guess he asked me because he had heard about everything I had done to help Bob Weiderley.” She fingered the little winter snow globe that she kept on the end table next to her lounger. The swirling snowstorm inside helped to calm her.

  “So?” continued Opal. “What did he give you to keep?” Fay motored closer. All three of Essie’s friends glared at her with wide-open eyes.

  “You all promise not to tell?” Essie asked, looking directly at each of them one at a time.

  “It’s not a bomb, is it?” shouted Marjorie suddenly, her delicate, little mouth forming a wide ‘o’.

  “No,” replied Essie, “it’s totally not a bomb–or drugs–or anything dangerous. Why would you even think such a thing, Marjorie?”

  “So?” continued Opal, “What is it, Essie? Put up or shut up!” The women looked at Essie and then, before she could respond, an ear-splitting cry rocked the small room.

  Chapter Four

  “There are three reasons for breast-feeding: the milk is always at the right temperature; it comes in attractive containers; and the cat can’t get it.”

  –Irena Chalmers

  “Essie? What was that?” demanded Opal, her body frozen as her eyes darted around like one of those cat clocks with the bulging eyes. As another cry shot forth, the three women all turned their heads to the source of the loud noise--the seat of Essie’s walker, which sat in front of their hostess, her knees now flush against the leather seat and her hands firmly gripping the rubber handle bars.

  “I . . . uh . . .” stammered Essie, looking from one friend to another, leaning forward as if covering the source of the cry might make it disappear.

  “What do you have in your walker basket?” asked Marjorie. Essie scowled and looked around. It was obvious that she couldn’t hide her secret from her friends now. She’d been found out. She carefully lifted the leather seat and leaned it against the walker’s handlebars. Then, reaching inside the basket, she gathered the makeshift blankets together and gently removed the tiny baby, now squirming and whining pitifully. She scooted closer to Opal and Marjorie seated on the sofa to show them what she held.

  “Oh, my God!” intoned Opal. “It’s a baby!” Her hand went to her mouth.

  “Essie, where did you get a baby?” squealed Marjorie, her eyes bulging. Both women scooted closer to Essie on the sofa and bent towards the child. Fay pushed the button on her wheelchair and moved even closer into the group. She stopped her wheelchair when her knees bumped into the back of Essie’s walker. The foursome was now almost head to head, bending over the little tot.

  “His face is cut!” noted Opal with a cry.

  “Oh, Opal, look at his leg! See that bruise!” added Marjorie.

  “Yes,” said Essie, “that’s part of the problem. The baby’s father is evidently abu
sive . . . to the baby . . . and the mother.”

  “Where is the mother?” asked Opal.

  “It’s a long story,” replied Essie, “but I promised Santos I’d guard this little one until Santos’s friend Maria . . . the mother. . . returns . . . .”

  “When will that be?” demanded Opal, her long thin fingers gesturing emphatically. “You can’t keep a baby in your apartment, Essie. What if Violet finds out?”

  “Oh, yes!” agreed Marjorie, “Violet will have your hide, Essie, if she finds out!” Marjorie said this with such vigor that baby Antonio let out another of his loud yelps. As Essie tried unsuccessfully to rock the baby, Fay quietly bent across Essie’s walker handlebars and reached for the little bundle.

  “Fay wants to hold him!” said Marjorie. “Then me next!” Essie passed the baby to Fay across the walker. Immediately, Fay tightened the baby’s blankets and pulled the baby snuggly into her body. She placed her little finger in the baby’s mouth and he began to suck vigorously.

  “He’s hungry!” exclaimed Opal, observing the child’s reaction.

  “Oh, no!” cried Essie. “Santos didn’t give me any formula for him. I guess he thought Maria would be back by now to nurse him!”

  “Fay seems to know what to do with him for now,” noted Marjorie. “Look how she’s wrapped him up really tight. I’ve read that that helps keep babies calm. Indians used to wrap their babies like that.”

  “Yes,” said Opal, “and they held them tightly too; they called them a papoose.”

  “A sweet little papoose,” agreed Essie. All three women smiled at Fay who appeared oblivious to everything except the tiny child who was now starting to calm in her arms.

  “Essie,” said Marjorie, “you’re going to have to feed him, you know. You can’t wait for this Maria woman to return. Who knows when she’ll be back--if ever?”

  “If ever? Why do you say that?” demanded Essie.

  “Stop it, you two!” cried Opal, with a firm shake of her hands. “We can discuss the why’s and where for’s later. Right now, we have to figure out how to feed this child–and satisfy his obvious hunger before he cries again and notifies all of Happy Haven of his presence.”

  “How can we feed him, Opal?” asked Essie. “I don’t have any formula–and I doubt there’s anyone at Happy Haven who has any either. It’s not like we have a lot of pregnant women or new mothers here.”

  “Then, we’ll just have to make do with a substitute,” said Opal, rising and pushing her walker around the little group and towards Essie’s small kitchen area. She began opening cupboard doors. Essie always admired Opal’s typically professional, take-charge attitude.

  “What are you looking for, Opal?” asked Essie. “Tell me, and I’ll tell you where it is if I have it.”

  “Do you have any plastic gloves?” asked Opal, her straight back to the group, as she continued to fling cupboard doors open and shut.

  “You mean like mittens?” asked Essie.

  “No, plastic gloves, like nurses use when they give you an injection,” Opal replied over her shoulder.

  “I don’t think . . . . Wait! I do have a pair of rubber cleaning gloves under my bathroom sink, I think. Claudia brought them over once when she planned to clean my bathroom and just left them here. She never used them. They’re still in the package.”

  “I’ll get them, Opal,” offered Marjorie, already on her feet and pushing her walker towards Essie’s small bathroom.

  “Fay,” ordered Opal from the kitchen, “you just keep that child quiet while the three of us figure out what and how to feed him. That’s the first order of business. Because if we don’t feed him soon, we won’t be able to keep him quiet much longer.” She pulled out a can from the cupboard above Essie’s sink. “How long have you had this can, Essie? Oh, never mind. The expiration date says . . . oh, it’s okay. It’s still good.”

  “What is it?” asked Essie, rising and heading her walker toward Opal. “I don’t have any formula.”

  “No,” agreed Opal, “but you do have Vigor, which has . . .” Opal squinted as she read the miniscule words on the side of the blue can. “Oh, how do they expect anyone to read this?” She gyrated her glasses around on her face in an attempt to make the small letters come into focus. “But it’s ‘full of protein’ and it’s ‘easily digestible’ according to the label. That’s what we want for the baby, don’t we?”

  “I guess,” said Essie. She grabbed the can from Opal and turned on the sink faucet, shaking the can and running it under the hot water. Finally, she opened a drawer next to her small sink and removed a punch-top can opener. With Opal holding the can steady on the counter, Essie used both hands to punch two holes in the top of the protein drink can. “It’s been quite a while since I’ve had to open a can with one of these things! There’s nothing like having arthritis in your fingers!”

  “I found them!” exclaimed Marjorie, returning from the bathroom, and holding out a plastic container which showed a pair of yellow rubber gloves inside. Opal grabbed the box and ripped it open.

  “I need scissors, Essie,” said Opal, examining the length and width of the different fingers on one of the gloves. Essie scooted her walker back to her desk in the living room and extracted a small pair of shears from a container on the top of her desk. She quickly returned to the kitchen and handed them to Opal.

  “Not sure how much to cut off,” pondered Opal, as she held up one of the fingers of the glove and placed the scissors at the very tip.

  “Maybe you should use a needle,” suggested Marjorie, “most nipples on bottles have extremely small openings if I remember.”

  “Do you have a needle, Essie?” asked Opal.

  “I have a sewing kit somewhere, I think,” said Essie, rolling her walker towards the bedroom. At this point, the baby let out another cry and Fay increased her rocking speed and held him even tighter. She lowered her head to the baby’s face and started making soft humming noises in his ear.

  “Keep that little papoose quiet, Fay,” called Opal from across the room.

  “Fay does seem to have a way with babies,” whispered Marjorie to Opal.

  “She does,” agreed Opal, “but even she can’t make him not hungry just by rocking him.”

  Essie returned from her bedroom with a plastic box on the seat of her walker. She moved towards Opal and Marjorie and opened the small container and carefully lifted out a small apple-shaped pin cushion. From it, she pulled a long silver needle.

  “I can do it,” said Essie, as she placed the box on the ground and sat down on her walker, needle in hand. Opal handed her the rubber glove. Bringing glove and needle within an inch of her eyes, Essie stabbed the tiniest glove finger with the needle several times. “There! I think that will do! Try it out, Opal.”

  With that, Opal grabbed the glove and moved back to Essie’s sink. She turned on the faucet and allowed the hot water to fill the rubber glove. Essie and Marjorie gathered around her and watched as a small stream of water squirted out of the end of the punctured glove finger. Opal ran more hot water through the glove, shaking it up and down in an attempt to sanitize it.

  “That looks about right!” declared Essie. Opal held up the glove over the sink and held it open while Marjorie poured protein drink from the opened can into the glove. As the can had not been refrigerated, the liquid was a pleasant room temperature.

  “Wait!” cried Essie, running back to her desk, “We need this!” She grabbed a large rubber band from a ring of many bands that surrounded a small can full of pencils. Bringing the rubber band to the kitchen, she wound it around the top of the glove while Marjorie kept her fingers pinched on the end of the glove finger where Essie had created a hole. Then the three women carefully brought the entire glove-drinking contraption over to the middle of the living room where Fay was seated still rocking the baby. They slipped the glove under Fay’s hand and Fay grabbed onto the makeshift nipple and gently substituted it for her finger in the hungry baby’s mouth. All four women rem
ained breathless as they waited to see if baby Antonio would be able to drink from the glove-bottle they had just made and, more important, if he would accept Vigor, the adult protein drink as a substitute for baby formula. In a few seconds, the sounds of contented sucking replaced the pitiful cries of before.

  “He seems to like it,” noted Essie. They all smiled and ever so quietly returned to their seats while Fay continued to feed the infant.

  “That was a close call, Essie,” said Opal, “but if any staff member heard that baby cry, they’re going to come checking on your room . . . and you’re going to be in trouble.”