Read Online Patricia Rockwell - Essie Cobb 04 - Ghosted by Patricia Rockwell - Free Book Online
Authors: Patricia Rockwell
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played and, again, as in the previous call, the caller refused or neglected to provide a message.
“Take that, salesman!” said Essie to the machine.
CHAPTER EIGHT
“The most important sense to investigate the psychic sense is common sense.”
––William Roll
“Essie, where have you been all day?” asked Marjorie at dinner later that night.
“I was here,” responded Essie, thoroughly invested in her chicken pot pie. “This is the best chicken pie that Cook has ever made.” She scraped the bottom of the handled bowl and licked the sauce with gusto.
“I didn’t see you,” added Opal, eating her pie with less enthusiasm and much more delicacy.
“Fay likes it too,” said Essie, smiling across the table at their not-so-talkative friend who was also determined to get the last small bit from the bottom of the pot pie bowl. Fay perked up at the mention of her name and gave Essie a short grin.
“Did you go out again with your daughters?” asked Marjorie, sipping her coffee, leaning back in her chair.
“What?” repeated Essie, glancing over at Marjorie. “My daughters? Oh, no! I didn’t go out with them. That was last night. But they were here today cleaning my closets. We had fast food.”
“That sounds like fun,” said Opal in a somber, deadpan voice.
“It actually turned out better than I expected,” said Essie, pulling her own coffee cup closer and adding cream from a small paper container. “I just sat there and my daughters had a whole troupe of people in to clean me out.”
“A whole troupe?” asked Opal, neatly bringing her cup to her lips in a delicate smirk. “Like a circus?”
“Oh, Opal,” said Essie, “of course not! They brought two of my grandsons and one of their friends. You should see my closet now! It’s almost empty!”
“That doesn’t sound good,” said Marjorie. “What are you going to wear?”
“The same things I usually do,” replied Essie, looking down at her favorite polyester top. “Like this blouse. It’s something I always wear.”
“Several times a week,” noted Marjorie, one eyebrow raised.
“What does that mean, Marjorie?” asked Essie. “I wear clean clothes. I never wear a top two days in a row or trousers more than…well, not too often.”
“ That’s all right, Essie,” said Marjorie sweetly. “Your wardrobe is one of convenience rather than style, I’ve always said.”
“Purple potboilers, Marjorie!” cried Essie. “Why would I need to be stylish at Happy Haven? I’m a ninety-year-old woman. I’m not trying to impress anyone.”
“That’s true,” added Opal, nodding.
“Not even Felix Federico?” asked Marjorie.
“You’re the one who’s gaga over him,” said Essie, poking her finger at Marjorie’s coffee cup.
“Careful!” cried her friend . “You’ll spill it!” Marjorie set down her cup and straightened her sweater. This mannerism, thought Essie, was designed more to call attention to Marjorie’s still very nice bust line than to smooth out any wrinkles in her clothing.
“Speaking of gaga,” said Opal, obviously in an attempt to change topics before her two friends came to blows, “have either of you found out who that new resident is? The one with the nice mustache who told that story last night?”
“You mean Marjorie hasn’t tracked him down yet?” said Essie, still peeved. “I figured she’d be knocking on doors in all the wings until she found him.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Essie,” said Marjorie, fluffing her curls around her face. “I don’t need to chase after men. They chase after me.”
“Of course they do,” replied Essie, rolling her eyes.
“Probably because I don’t wear the same outfit every day,” she added.
“Really, Marjorie,” said Opal, “you’re just asking for trouble. “Now, Essie, you said your daughters
“Take that, salesman!” said Essie to the machine.
CHAPTER EIGHT
“The most important sense to investigate the psychic sense is common sense.”
––William Roll
“Essie, where have you been all day?” asked Marjorie at dinner later that night.
“I was here,” responded Essie, thoroughly invested in her chicken pot pie. “This is the best chicken pie that Cook has ever made.” She scraped the bottom of the handled bowl and licked the sauce with gusto.
“I didn’t see you,” added Opal, eating her pie with less enthusiasm and much more delicacy.
“Fay likes it too,” said Essie, smiling across the table at their not-so-talkative friend who was also determined to get the last small bit from the bottom of the pot pie bowl. Fay perked up at the mention of her name and gave Essie a short grin.
“Did you go out again with your daughters?” asked Marjorie, sipping her coffee, leaning back in her chair.
“What?” repeated Essie, glancing over at Marjorie. “My daughters? Oh, no! I didn’t go out with them. That was last night. But they were here today cleaning my closets. We had fast food.”
“That sounds like fun,” said Opal in a somber, deadpan voice.
“It actually turned out better than I expected,” said Essie, pulling her own coffee cup closer and adding cream from a small paper container. “I just sat there and my daughters had a whole troupe of people in to clean me out.”
“A whole troupe?” asked Opal, neatly bringing her cup to her lips in a delicate smirk. “Like a circus?”
“Oh, Opal,” said Essie, “of course not! They brought two of my grandsons and one of their friends. You should see my closet now! It’s almost empty!”
“That doesn’t sound good,” said Marjorie. “What are you going to wear?”
“The same things I usually do,” replied Essie, looking down at her favorite polyester top. “Like this blouse. It’s something I always wear.”
“Several times a week,” noted Marjorie, one eyebrow raised.
“What does that mean, Marjorie?” asked Essie. “I wear clean clothes. I never wear a top two days in a row or trousers more than…well, not too often.”
“ That’s all right, Essie,” said Marjorie sweetly. “Your wardrobe is one of convenience rather than style, I’ve always said.”
“Purple potboilers, Marjorie!” cried Essie. “Why would I need to be stylish at Happy Haven? I’m a ninety-year-old woman. I’m not trying to impress anyone.”
“That’s true,” added Opal, nodding.
“Not even Felix Federico?” asked Marjorie.
“You’re the one who’s gaga over him,” said Essie, poking her finger at Marjorie’s coffee cup.
“Careful!” cried her friend . “You’ll spill it!” Marjorie set down her cup and straightened her sweater. This mannerism, thought Essie, was designed more to call attention to Marjorie’s still very nice bust line than to smooth out any wrinkles in her clothing.
“Speaking of gaga,” said Opal, obviously in an attempt to change topics before her two friends came to blows, “have either of you found out who that new resident is? The one with the nice mustache who told that story last night?”
“You mean Marjorie hasn’t tracked him down yet?” said Essie, still peeved. “I figured she’d be knocking on doors in all the wings until she found him.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Essie,” said Marjorie, fluffing her curls around her face. “I don’t need to chase after men. They chase after me.”
“Of course they do,” replied Essie, rolling her eyes.
“Probably because I don’t wear the same outfit every day,” she added.
“Really, Marjorie,” said Opal, “you’re just asking for trouble. “Now, Essie, you said your daughters
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