Bingoed by Patricia Rockwell Page A

and thought. No crossword puzzle this morning for me, she thought. As she had contemplated her options during her sleepless night, she had come to only a few conclusions. First, she had concluded that she was going to do something. That is, she wasn’t going to just return the letter to Bob’s room and pretend as if nothing had happened. She firmly believed that this letter was the event that had led to Bob’s collapse and ultimately his coma. She knew she had to do something about it, but she didn’t know exactly what.
    What were her options? She could confess her theft and take the letter to Violet and let her deal with this Ben Jericho. No, that wouldn’t work. Violet was strictly hands-off residents’ private business. She would just chastise Essie for breaking into Bob’s room, return the letter, and then do nothing about the scam artist Jericho. No, telling Violet or anyone else in authority was not an option. She—and Opal and Marjorie (and Fay)—would have to handle this themselves. But how?
    As it was impossible to take the letter to Bob or discuss it with him (and she wasn’t sure that she would do that even if Bob were not in a coma), it meant that she would have to find out if this Jericho’s story of his birth as described in the letter was true. If it was true, well, then that would be Bob’s concern if and when he recovered. If it was not true (which it probably wasn’t), then maybe she could do something about it so that Bob would not have this one more thing to worry about when (if) he did come out of his coma.
    But how? How to track down Ben Jericho? She knew his name, address, and town from the return address on the envelope. She had his photo. She had no phone number. Even if she could get his phone number from long distance information, she didn’t believe she should confront him directly. That would give him an unnecessary advantage—to let him know that someone was on to him. She needed to find out what she could about him without him knowing what she was doing.
    A small, niggling idea began to form in the back of her brain. Hmmm. She had to be careful and approach things carefully, she thought to herself. She would begin with a phone call. She reached for her appointment book and turned to the B’s. Ned Brannigan was the name she was looking for, her grandson. Claudia’s oldest son was some sort of computer wizard (so she was told) and now the CEO of his own computer firm. Claudia often gushed about his accomplishments whenever she visited Essie. A charming, outgoing young man, Ned had inherited Essie’s vigor and cleverness, she thought, so she didn’t feel as if asking for his assistance would be any imposition—even though it was 7:30 a.m.
    “Hello, Ned,” she spoke into her telephone receiver, probably a little louder than necessary. She always found it a bit hard to hear people on the other end. People tended to whisper when they spoke on the phone, she found. “Hello, Ned. This is your Grandma Essie.”
    “Grandma!” responded a cheerful voice. “Wow! It’s early! I’m still in bed. Are you okay?”
    “No, no! I’m just fine,” she laughed. “I’m calling you, Ned, because I need your help.”
    “Of course, Grandma,” replied the young man. “What can I do? Something that Mom can’t help you with? Do you need me to move some furniture for you?”
    “No,” she said. “I need computer help!”
    “Wow, Grandma!” chuckled Ned, “I sure wasn’t expecting to hear you say that! I thought you considered computers the Devil’s instruments.”
    “No, no!” she said, “they’re just way too fancy for me. But, Ned, I have this friend, uh, friend here at Happy Haven who is having a problem. I wonder if maybe you can advise me how to help this . . . friend with a computer question.”
    “I’ll sure try, Grandma,” responded Ned. “What’s the problem?”
    “I don’t even know if it is a computer problem, but if it isn’t, just tell me that too,” she