Patricia Rockwell - Essie Cobb 02 - Papoosed (11 page)

            “Don’t tell her about the … you-know-who,” whispered Marjorie in Essie’s ear.  Essie waved her hand at Marjorie and Opal and then cupped it over the ear piece in an effort to drown out the distracting voices in the room.  Fay remained blissfully unaware (it seemed) of the little drama taking place around Essie’s telephone as she fed baby Antonio from the glove bottle.

            “Yes, dear,” replied Essie to her daughter, “Yes, I heard about the carolers, but I really wasn’t planning on trekking down to hear them.  I can usually hear them in my room.  They’re always fairly loud.”  Essie smiled at Marjorie and Opal who both appeared to catch on immediately to what Claudia was apparently suggesting to Essie on the telephone.  They scowled in unison as they watched their friend use her charm to finagle her way out of an obvious invitation from her daughter.  “Yes, dear,” continued Essie into the receiver, “I’m thrilled that Kurt has arrived early.  Yes, it’s lovely that the three of you want to take me out to dinner and come over to listen to the carolers with me this afternoon … .”

            Marjorie and Opal responded with wide eyes and open mouths when Essie paraphrased her daughter’s invitation.  Obviously, the last thing Essie needed  was to have her attention diverted from solving the problem of finding Antonio’s mother by having to entertain her three adult children at a Christmas music festival followed by a dinner out.  Marjorie began to gesture to Essie in an attempt to offer a suggestion.  Opal, with a competing suggestion in mind, restrained Marjorie’s hands with hers and also tried to get Essie’s attention.  Fay continued to feed the baby and smile.

            “But, dear!” cried Essie into the phone, “I’m just not up for going out to dinner today!”

            Opal and Marjorie nodded vociferously when they heard Essie’s latest excuse.  Obviously, if an elderly lady is not up to an outing, she is not up to it.  Surely, that would be the end of it.  The two women waited frozen for Essie to seal the deal.

            “But, Claudia!” exclaimed Essie, “Please!”  Essie listened a bit longer and then heaved a huge sigh.  “Yes, dear,” she intoned morosely into the phone, “I’ll see you at four.”  She slowly placed the receiver back on the phone.

            “Essie!” cried Marjorie, stomping her foot, “you can’t go out!  You can’t have your children over here!”  She stood up straight at her walker and placed her hands emphatically on her hips.

            “What about Antonio, Essie?” added Opal, pulling herself up to her full imposing height and expanding her chest.  She towered over Essie in her lounge chair.  “What about the baby?”

            “I’m sorry, girls,” replied Essie, a bit sheepishly, “but my Claudia simply will not take no for an answer.  It seems my son Kurt has arrived in town early for Christmas and now that all three children are here they want to take me out to dinner … and to the caroling concert this afternoon.  What can I say?  Claudia says the three of them will be here at four and she’s not taking no for an answer.  And she won’t.  She’s stubborn.”

            “You’re her mother, Essie!”  exclaimed Opal, her long, thin face awash with turmoil.    “Just tell her to stay home!”

            “Just tell her you’re not going,” said Marjorie, in her cheerful but insistent school teacher voice.  “Can’t you claim your arthritis is acting up, or something?”

            “She’d know that was a lie,” replied Essie with a grimace.  “I never let things like arthritis get in my way.”

            “That’s true,” agreed Opal.  “You’re as stubborn as your daughter, Essie.”  The four women sat quietly in a circle for several minutes.  The only sound was the occasional coo of a small baby.  Eventually, Essie stood up. 

            “I’m not just going to sit here,” said Essie, finally, with bravado.  “I’ve got hours before my children arrive.  There’s plenty we can do to find Antonio’s mother before then.  And then … if we haven’t found her … you three can take the baby to one of your rooms until I return from my dinner out.  What do you say?”

            “Okay,” replied the others enthusiastically.  Actually, Fay just nodded.

Chapter Twelve

“The hand that rocks the cradle is the hand that rules the world.”

–William Ross Wallace

            When baby Antonio had finally drifted off to sleep for his mid-morning nap, the women parted company and each returned to their own rooms for a while.  Essie zipped out to the Happy Haven family room and surreptitiously grabbed a copy of the morning newspaper which had been tossed haphazardly in sections on one of the square card tables in the middle of the room.  She glanced around to make sure that no one observed her making off with the paper.  Residents were expected to read the newspaper in the family room and then leave it there–in good condition–for other residents to read.  Essie ignored this stipulation, slipped the paper into her basket and rolled quickly back down her hallway and into her room.  She peeked into her bedroom to make sure that Antonio was still asleep–which he was–and then, she plopped herself down in her comfortable lounge chair and withdrew the newspaper from her walker’s basket. 

            Quickly she scanned the pages, looking for anything that might provide more information about Gerald Compton’s fatal accident the day before.  She knew that local newspapers invariably provided more detailed reports of events that occurred in their area than did local television stations.  It was simply a matter of logistics, she reasoned.  The television news programs only had a half hour to present the most important, or as Essie often thought, the most salacious, details.  Newspapers could get to the deeper aspects of a story.  Using her handheld magnifying glass, Essie’s eyes went up and down the columns in Reardon’s small daily paper.  Towards the end of the first section, she found a story headlined, “Multi-car collision claims life of local resident.”  She immediately began reading the contents of the article, searching for any tidbit that might not have been presented in the television report of the crash.   Here she learned again that Gerald Compton was 35.  He had worked at Rose Brothers’ Construction.  His address was given and she recognized the street as one she knew that was close to Happy Haven, which made sense because Santos had said that Maria walked to work.  The article claimed that Gerald Compton was a life-long resident of Reardon and was survived by his father. 
What?
  She re-read the last line. 
What about his wife?
  Quickly scanning the article, she realized that Gerald’s wife Maria was not even mentioned.  That was strange.  What did that mean?  Did the reporter just do a shoddy job of checking the facts about Gerald or–worse–could it be that Gerald and Maria were not legally married?  If that was the case, the situation for baby Antonio was even more precarious–his citizenship status definitely in question.  She would have to be extremely cautious to protect the little fellow until she could find his mother and determine what was going on.  If Antonio was discovered and his mother was not, it would very likely mean that he’d be put in a foster home. 

            She listened for Antonio, but the baby made no sound.  Luckily, it appeared that he was not bothered by all the drama going on around him, all of which affected him so directly.  Essie re-read the newspaper article.  She contemplated the information about Gerald Compton being listed as a life-long resident of Reardon and his only relative being his father.  She tried to imagine how this information would have come to light.  Gerald Compton had been in a fatal car crash.  When this occurred, the police probably looked for identification on him–or in his car–and that information somehow led them to Gerald’s father, not to Maria.  Essie reasoned that Gerald must not have had any identifying material on himself or in his car that even mentioned his wife, Maria, but that somehow did mention his father.  Possibly, she mused, Gerald was driving his father’s car.  If that were the case, the police would immediately contact the father and report to him that Gerald had been killed in the car. 

            “Yes,” said Essie to herself.  “That’s quite likely.  Maybe the father had an old clunker and was letting his son drive it–particularly if the son couldn’t afford a car of his own.  Gerald did have a job at Rose Brothers’ Construction,” she remembered.  “Maybe there was some information on Gerald or in the car that led the police to Rose Brothers’ Construction and someone who knew him there directed the police to Gerald’s father.  There were various possibilities.”

            Essie scowled and stood up and rolled her walker over to her outside window.  The snow had stopped falling and a layer of white several inches thick was now glistening on the ground.  The bright sunlight made the scene directly outside of Essie’s window sparkle like an icy wonderland.  She imagined baby Antonio all dressed up in a bright red snowsuit being pulled on a little wooden sled, laughing his chubby little cheeks off.   She tapped her fingers on her handlebars as she tried to imagine what might have happened last night that led to the fateful death of Gerald Compton and the disappearance of his wife Maria.  She needed more information, she realized.

            Quickly, she rolled back and sat in her lounge chair and pulled out her telephone book.  Using her magnifying glass again, she turned to the yellow pages and looked under “Newspapers.”  It infuriated her that the telephone company always produced their books with such small print.  Holding her glass over the column of local papers, she moved it down the column until she located the one she sought–Reardon Daily Times.  Then, with her index finger pointed directly at the target telephone number, she grabbed her telephone receiver and punched in the digits.

            “Hello,” she said when an operator answered with, “Reardon Daily Times.  How may I direct your call?” 

            “I’d like to speak to one of your reporters, please.  A Bernice McVickers?”  Essie moved her index finger from the telephone number to the byline of the reporter above the newspaper article that had reported Gerald Compton’s death.

            “One moment,” replied the efficient operator, “I’ll connect you to that office.”

           
 Hmm
, thought Essie, as she waited to speak to the reporter.  She had never spoken to an actual newspaper reporter before.  The idea of it was somewhat daunting and a little bit exciting.

            “Watts here,” said a male voice in her ear. 

            “Excuse me,” replied Essie to the man.  “I’m looking for Bernice McVickers.”

            “Not here today,” replied the man curtly.  “This is Don Watts. Can I help?”

            “I … uh … don’t know,” answered Essie.  “I wanted to talk to her about the article she wrote about that multi-car accident that occurred last night.”

            “Oh, yeah,” interjected the male voice, “That was a bad one!  The guy really rammed that other car.  Going about eighty, police thought.  Oops, sorry.  You a relative?”

            “Uh, no,” said Essie, now wondering if she could possibly extract any information from this reporter.  “I … uh, live in the area …”  She reasoned that was not a total fabrication as she did live maybe ten or so blocks from where the accident occurred.  “… and I was worried about the safety of … the location.”

            “Oh, lady,” replied the man, “I know that corner.  From what Bernice was saying the other day here in the office, it was totally the dead guy’s fault.  Not to speak ill of the … you know … but he must have been drunk or something.  The guy in the other car is lucky to be alive.”

            “It was a guy … a man … in the other car?” she asked.

            “Yeah,” he said, “but I don’t think the police have released that yet.  Still trying to track down next of kin.  Hey, but if you live around there, you know that corner has a stop sign.  I wouldn’t worry if I were you.”

            “Yes, thank you,” she replied.  “Uh, when will Miss McVickers be in?”

            “Probably not till tomorrow,” he said casually, “but with Bernice you never know.  Depends on the story.”  He chuckled.

            “Yes, well, I may try to call her then,” said Essie, “Uh, thank you, Mr., uh, Don.”

             The man said, “Yup,” and hung up without another word.

            “Oh, dear,” said Essie.  “That was no help at all.  Well, maybe a bit of help.  At least I know Maria wasn’t in either of the cars involved in that crash.  So, where is she?  What happened last night after she dropped that baby off in the Happy Haven kitchen?”  She drummed her fingers on the open phone book.

            After a thoughtful pause, she quickly thumbed through the yellow pages and again found the number for the Rose Brothers’ Construction Company that she had dialed earlier.  She touched each number on her phone and listened as the number rang at Rose Brothers.

            “Rose Brothers’ Construction,” said a pleasant female voice.

            “Yes,” said Essie.  “I’m sorry to bother you.  This may seem like an odd request …”

            The receptionist chuckled.  “Excuse me,” she said, “but we get a lot of odd requests.  Just yesterday, someone wanted us to actually build an outhouse!  Can you believe it?  In this day and age, with indoor plumbing?  Why would anyone want to actually construct an outhouse?”

            Essie was warming to the woman who seemed so willing to share private information with a casual caller.  Possibly she would share the information that Essie needed.

            “That is strange,” agreed Essie, in an attempt to ingratiate herself with the operator.  “So, I guess my request won’t seem so unusual then.  I’m trying to find out about one of your employees who, I understand, died recently … a Gerald Compton.”

            “That’s Harold’s son!” exclaimed the woman.  “It’s just horrible!  Did you know Gerald?  Harold is just broken up!”

            “Yes, I can imagine that he is,” said Essie, digesting this additional information.  “And what about Gerald’s wife?”

            “Wife?” cried the voice on the phone. “Gerald didn’t have a wife!  Oh, you mean that woman he met in Mexico?”

            “Yes,” said Essie, “I understand that they were married in Mexico …”

            “Harold is furious about her!  He always told Gerald that that woman was just using him to get her green card! I’m not supposed to know,” she whispered to Essie. “I just work the desk, but I heard Harold and Gerald going at it a number of times about that woman.  Harold blames her for all of Gerald’s problems, I think.”

            “Why would he blame her?”

            “I don’t know, ma’am,” responded the woman on the phone, “I just know Harold and his son were always fighting about her.  Mr. Rose said Harold wouldn’t be in today … because of Gerald being killed in the accident.  Everybody here is pretty shook up.”

            “You mean they all liked Gerald?”

            “Oh, no,” she said in an even softer voice, “nobody liked Gerald … or Harold, but, geez they are … were really good workers.  Mr. Rose would never fire Harold; he’s been with the company for years, and Gerald is like a … package deal with Harold.  Besides, Gerald is a hard worker  too…
was
a hard worker.”

            “Uh, do you by any chance know where this … where Gerald’s wife is?” asked Essie cautiously, trying to secure the most important piece of information before the operator’s patience ran out.

            “No, I don’t have a clue!” she replied flippantly, “I never saw the woman.  Only heard them argue about her.  Truthfully, I think she was just a figment of Gerald’s imagination.”

            “Why do you say that?”