“What do you guys want?” the man said. “I’m not buying anything, so don’t waste your time.”
“We just want to ask you something,” Randy said. “Did you live here in 1971?”
“What kind of question is that?” the man said. “How’s it your business to know where I lived and when?”
“We’re looking for somebody who used to live down the street,” Randy said. “We thought you might remember her. If you lived here then, I mean. If you didn’t, then just say so and we’ll be on our way.”
“Be on your way, then,” the man said. “I didn’t live here in 1971. I probably wouldn’t have been allowed to walk down this street in 1971.'
“Fine,” Randy said. “We’re sorry to bother you. Have a good day.”
Randy turned to go. I looked at the man one more time, and then I followed Randy.
“Hold it, guys,” the man said. He came down the steps after us.
We both stopped on the sidewalk.
“Look, I’m sorry,” he said. “I’ve had a bad day. I guess I don’t need to take it out on you.”
“It’s all right,” Randy said.
“Seriously, I’ve only lived here since 1993,” the man said. “I can’t help you with 1971. Although…”
“Yes?”
“The couple I bought this place from. I remember them pretty well. They were pretty old, the last white couple on the block, I think. The wife, she didn’t want to move, but the husband, well, I think they had been fighting about it for a long time. All during the closing, in fact, I thought they’d go over the table at each other.”
“Do you have any idea where they might be now?” I said.
“They said they were moving to an apartment over in Westland. One of those assisted-living places. Kind of like half a nursing home, you know what I mean? God, Mrs. Meisner just hated the thought of going there; you could tell.”
“That was their name, Meisner?”
“Fred and Muriel Meisner,” he said. “Imagine having to get married and change your name to Muriel Meisner.”
“You don’t remember where this place was they moved to?”
“No, but I’m sure it was Westland. I remember saying to myself, ‘Look out, Westland. You don’t know what’s about to hit you.’ If you ever meet them, you’ll know what I mean.”
We thanked the man, then walked down to Mr. Shannon’s house and knocked on his door. When he opened it, we made our introductions and answered his questions. Yes, I was a real private investigator. No, I didn’t carry a gun. Randy? No, he wasn’t a private investigator, but he had pitched for the Tigers. While Mr. Shannon settled down to hear the story, I asked if I could use his phone book. And his phone.
I looked under “Assisted Living” in the Yellow Pages. It said “See Nursing Homes,” so I did. There were two listed in Westland; Azelia Park and Peach Tree Senior Community. I tried Azelia Park first, asking if I could speak to the Meisners. They didn’t live there. I tried asking if there had been any Meisners living there in the past few years, but the woman wouldn’t go for that one. I was starting to get tired of people who wouldn’t give me information just because they didn’t want to.
I called Peach Tree Senior Community and asked for the Meisners. Three seconds later, my call was transferred. Six rings later, a man’s voice answered.
“Hello.”
“Mr. Meisner? Mr. Fred Meisner?”
“Speaking! Who is this?”
“My name is Alex McKnight. I’m a private investigator.”
“A private what? Muriel, for the love of God, will you turn that thing off!”
“A private investigator, sir. I wonder if you could help me. I’m looking for-”
“Muriel, did you hear me? Am I just talking to myself now?”
“Mr. Meisner…”
“Excuse me, what did you say you were?”
“A private investigator, sir.”
“Muriel, in the name of all that is holy, will you please turn that stupid thing off for one second! I have a man on the phone here! Can you see me standing here with the phone next to my head? Do you think I’m doing this just because I like the way it feels against my ear?”
“Sir, maybe we could just stop by. Would that be more convenient for you? I see you’re on Cherry Hill.”
“No, it’s Peach Tree! It’s the Peach Tree place! Not cherries!”
“I know, but it’s on Cherry Hill Road, isn’t it? I see it in the phone book here.”
“The Peach Tree Senior Community! It’s quite a place! Muriel, do you want me to drop dead right now? I swear to God, if you don’t turn that thing off, I’m going to have a massive stroke right in front of your eyes! Is that what you want?”
“Mr. Meisner! We’ll be there in twenty minutes!”
“You’re coming over here? Do you know how to get here? It’s on Cherry Hill Road!”
“We’ll see you in twenty minutes! Good-bye!”
I hung up the phone. When I went to look for Randy and Mr. Shannon, they were nowhere to be found. And then a voice floated down from upstairs. “We’re up here, Alex!”
I went up the stairs and found them standing in the guest bedroom.
“This is it, Alex. This is the room where I first met Maria. Tell me the truth, Mr. Shannon, do you ever get a strange feeling when you’re in this room?”
“How about right now?” he said.
“Randy, we gotta go,” I said. “I found the Meisners. They’re expecting us.”
“You found them?” he said. “The people who used to live right down the street?”
“Yes.”
“Her old neighbors. They’ll remember her. How could they not remember her? And her whole family.”
“We’ll see,” I said.
Randy grabbed me and hugged me. He picked me up in a bear hug and spun me around Mr. Shannon’s guest room. He put me down and went for Mr. Shannon, but the 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.
