Mrs. Joy's apartment and Holly David's home had nearly identical layouts, but the decor was entirely different. A faint scent of lavender lingered in the air; yellowed photographs—presumably of Mrs. Joy and her husband—hung on the walls. Next to the fireplace stood a coffee table with a crocheted cover. Everything exuded a gentle warmth of a bygone era.
"A cup of tea, dear? I just brewed some," came the old lady's voice from the kitchen.
"Thank you, Mrs. Joy, but there's really no need. I'll be done soon," Russell smiled, politely declining as he focused on his task.
"Would it be all right if I had a look in the bedroom?"
"Of course, just try not to mess up the bed, will you?"
"I won't, I promise."
Russell entered the bedroom, his gaze falling to the wall adjacent to Holly's bookshelf. Unlike in Holly's house, this wall here was lined with a massive and ornate oak wardrobe. Its design was old-fashioned, adorned with intricate baroque carvings.
Russell stepped forward, pretended to knock on the wall, and listened closely to the echo.
"Hmm...the resonance is firm, so there shouldn't be a structural issue," he muttered, placing his hand on the wardrobe and trying to push it. It didn't move at all. No surprise there.
"Is something wrong with this wardrobe, dearie?" Mrs. Joy emerged from the kitchen, holding a steaming tea cup, looking perplexed.
"Oh, it's nothing, ma'am," Russell straightened up with a friendly smile. "I was just checking for any gaps caused by humidity between the wall and the furniture."
He accepted her tea, thanked her, then looked back at the wardrobe. The switch had to be nearby. He began to examine every detail of the intricate carvings. His powers of observation, honed by C++, were in full force.
Patiently inspecting the wardrobe, he soon noticed something odd. On the lower part of the right door, there was a carved flower stamen, slightly recessed and darker than the surrounding patterns. Unless someone possessed Russell's sharp eyes, it would go unnoticed.
Found it.
But instead of activating the mechanism right away, Russell left the bedroom and returned to Mrs. Joy.
"Mrs. Joy, may I ask a slightly odd question?"
"A strange question?" She regarded him curiously. "If I can answer, ask anything, dear boy..."
"Have you noticed anything odd lately?" Russell asked. "For example, food running out faster than usual, or any noises in the night?"
At his question, a trace of confusion appeared on Mrs. Joy's wrinkled face. She placed her tea on the coffee table, sat down on the sofa, and seemed to search her memory.
"Something odd..." she repeated, thinking hard.
"You know, dearie, memory doesn't get any better with age," she chuckled self-deprecatingly, a hint of helplessness in the smile. "Sometimes I set down scissors and turn around only to forget where I left them. I haven't really paid attention to food and things like that."
"Any strange noises at night?" Russell pressed gently, voice as if speaking to a grandmother.
"Any noises?" Mrs. Joy thought, then shook her head. "My hearing isn't so good these days. When I sleep, I'm like a log—not even thunder wakes me. And this building is always very quiet."
She paused, then added, "But it wouldn't be right to say nothing unusual ever happens."
"Oh?" Russell's eyes lit up slightly. He drew a chair to face her and listened attentively.
"Lately, milk's been going bad quite fast," she said, frowning in thought. "Every morning the milkman delivers a bottle to my door—it usually lasts two days. But recently, and I don't know why, by the next morning it's already off."
"Could it be the recent warmer weather?" Russell offered helpfully.
"Maybe so," Mrs. Joy nodded, evidently satisfied with that explanation. "And I feel that the cookies I keep in the kitchen jar disappear faster than before." She shook her head, laughing. "Ah, look at me. Getting old, overthinking things. Maybe I just ate two more out of greed and forgot the next day."
Her voice was soft and gentle, like she was sharing a harmless anecdote.
Russell smiled, but the smile faded from his eyes.
"Do you live alone here, Mrs. Joy?" he asked casually.
"I do," the old lady's eyes grew slightly dim. She picked up a framed photo, gently tracing her fingers across the glass. The photo showed a handsome man in military uniform embracing a young Mrs. Joy, both smiling radiantly.
"My husband passed away early, and the children all have families in other cities. They're busy and don't come home even once a year."
Her tone was peaceful, without complaint, quietly accepting, even generous.
"Don't you get lonely?"
"You get used to it," she smiled again as she put the frame down. "Besides, sometimes volunteers from the nearby community center come by. It's a bit noisy, but better than total silence."
"Volunteers?" Russell lifted an eyebrow.
"Yes," Mrs. Joy nodded. "They're all good kids. They come by once or twice a week to help tidy up, chat, and sometimes bring homemade snacks."
"That's truly wonderful," Russell said sincerely. Who could suspect children who come to bring warmth and care to lonely elderly folks?
He had now a rough outline in his head, but the final piece was still missing: which agency did these volunteers come from?
"Mrs. Joy," Russell stood, returning his now half-cool tea to the table, "I think I may have figured out the problem. Just to be sure, can I check your bedroom again?"
"Of course, dear," Mrs. Joy replied kindly.
…