look of sheer terror on the man’s face stopped him.
We thanked the man and left. What he must have thought of us by then, I couldn’t even imagine.
As soon as we were out of there and in the truck, he started singing the song again.
“L’amour, l’amour . . . Oui, son ardeur . . .”
“Randy, either learn the rest of the words or stop singing that.”
“We’re getting closer, aren’t we.” he said. “I’ve got a good feeling about this.”
I didn’t know it at the time, but he was right about us getting closer. That good feeling, however, would be long gone before the day was over.
CHAPTER 8
The Peach Tree Senior Community was on Cherry Hill Road, just like the man had told us. Randy and I walked through the front door and right into a large room with a fireplace and lots of couches and chairs scattered around. We saw maybe fifty senior citizens in the room, either playing cards at one of the tables or just sitting there talking. Every head turned when we walked in.
“Looks like a nice place,” I said.
“Reminds me of your friend Jackie’s bar,” Randy said.
“I don’t see the resemblance.”
“Bunch of people sitting around by a fireplace,” he said. “You should make your reservation right now, Alex. A couple more years, you’ll be ready for this place. You won’t even have to change your lifestyle.”
I thought about that one while he walked around the place, looking for somebody in charge. He finally found a nurse sitting at a table in the corner. She had the
Detroit News
spread out under a reading lamp.
“We’re looking for the Meisners,” he said.
“Two seventeen,” she said. “Right down that way.”
We went down the wing she had indicated. It looked like a hotel hallway, with doors on either side. A woman passed us, pushing a walker. She smiled at us.
“Good evening, ma’am,” Randy said.
“Such handsome gentlemen,” she said.
“Hey, she included you, Alex.”
I looked at him. “Two seventeen’s right here,” I said.
We knocked on the door. There was yelling from inside the room, and then finally the door opened. The man who stood there had to be in his eighties. Maybe ninety. Ninety and still standing—I could only hope to be so lucky myself someday.
“Mr. Meisner?” I said. “I’m Alex McKnight. And this is Randy Wilkins. We spoke on the phone.”
“You’re the private guy,” he said.
“Um, a private investigator,” I said.
A voice called out from somewhere behind him. “Who is it?”
“It’s the man from the phone call,” Mr. Meisner said.
“Which man?”
“Muriel, the man who was—” He stopped and rolled his eyes at us. “Come in, gentlemen.”
We followed him into his apartment. It was well furnished, with a small efficiency kitchen attached to the main room, and a separate bedroom. There had to have been at least a hundred pictures in frames all over the place, on shelves, on the coffee table, on the walls themselves. Mrs. Meisner was sitting in a wheelchair in front of the television. She had the remote control in her lap.
“Turn the television off, Muriel! We have company!”
“Who is it?”
“It’s a Mr. . . .” He looked at me.
“McKnight,” I said. “Call me Alex.”
“It’s Alex!” he said. “And . . .” He looked at Randy.
“Call me Randy.”
“And Randy! Alex and Randy!”
“Pleased to meet you!” I said.
“Stop yelling!” she said. “I’m not deaf!”
“Sorry,” I said.
“Can I get you gentleman something to drink?”
“No, thank you,” I said.
“We have beer in the refrigerator!” Mrs. Meisner said.
“No, that’s all right,” I said.
“We’re out of beer!” Mr. Meisner said. “I was going to offer them coffee!”
“Men don’t drink coffee!” Mrs. Meisner said. “Give them beer!”
“Really, we’re fine,” I said.
“Of course men drink coffee!” Mr. Meisner said. “I drink coffee every damned day! Will you turn the television off
We thanked the man and left. What he must have thought of us by then, I couldn’t even imagine.
As soon as we were out of there and in the truck, he started singing the song again.
“L’amour, l’amour . . . Oui, son ardeur . . .”
“Randy, either learn the rest of the words or stop singing that.”
“We’re getting closer, aren’t we.” he said. “I’ve got a good feeling about this.”
I didn’t know it at the time, but he was right about us getting closer. That good feeling, however, would be long gone before the day was over.
CHAPTER 8
The Peach Tree Senior Community was on Cherry Hill Road, just like the man had told us. Randy and I walked through the front door and right into a large room with a fireplace and lots of couches and chairs scattered around. We saw maybe fifty senior citizens in the room, either playing cards at one of the tables or just sitting there talking. Every head turned when we walked in.
“Looks like a nice place,” I said.
“Reminds me of your friend Jackie’s bar,” Randy said.
“I don’t see the resemblance.”
“Bunch of people sitting around by a fireplace,” he said. “You should make your reservation right now, Alex. A couple more years, you’ll be ready for this place. You won’t even have to change your lifestyle.”
I thought about that one while he walked around the place, looking for somebody in charge. He finally found a nurse sitting at a table in the corner. She had the
Detroit News
spread out under a reading lamp.
“We’re looking for the Meisners,” he said.
“Two seventeen,” she said. “Right down that way.”
We went down the wing she had indicated. It looked like a hotel hallway, with doors on either side. A woman passed us, pushing a walker. She smiled at us.
“Good evening, ma’am,” Randy said.
“Such handsome gentlemen,” she said.
“Hey, she included you, Alex.”
I looked at him. “Two seventeen’s right here,” I said.
We knocked on the door. There was yelling from inside the room, and then finally the door opened. The man who stood there had to be in his eighties. Maybe ninety. Ninety and still standing—I could only hope to be so lucky myself someday.
“Mr. Meisner?” I said. “I’m Alex McKnight. And this is Randy Wilkins. We spoke on the phone.”
“You’re the private guy,” he said.
“Um, a private investigator,” I said.
A voice called out from somewhere behind him. “Who is it?”
“It’s the man from the phone call,” Mr. Meisner said.
“Which man?”
“Muriel, the man who was—” He stopped and rolled his eyes at us. “Come in, gentlemen.”
We followed him into his apartment. It was well furnished, with a small efficiency kitchen attached to the main room, and a separate bedroom. There had to have been at least a hundred pictures in frames all over the place, on shelves, on the coffee table, on the walls themselves. Mrs. Meisner was sitting in a wheelchair in front of the television. She had the remote control in her lap.
“Turn the television off, Muriel! We have company!”
“Who is it?”
“It’s a Mr. . . .” He looked at me.
“McKnight,” I said. “Call me Alex.”
“It’s Alex!” he said. “And . . .” He looked at Randy.
“Call me Randy.”
“And Randy! Alex and Randy!”
“Pleased to meet you!” I said.
“Stop yelling!” she said. “I’m not deaf!”
“Sorry,” I said.
“Can I get you gentleman something to drink?”
“No, thank you,” I said.
“We have beer in the refrigerator!” Mrs. Meisner said.
“No, that’s all right,” I said.
“We’re out of beer!” Mr. Meisner said. “I was going to offer them coffee!”
“Men don’t drink coffee!” Mrs. Meisner said. “Give them beer!”
“Really, we’re fine,” I said.
“Of course men drink coffee!” Mr. Meisner said. “I drink coffee every damned day! Will you turn the television off
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