“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 already!”
“I’m sure they’d prefer beer!” Mrs. Meisner said.
“We don’t have any beer!”
“Please,” I said. “We don’t want to trouble you folks. We just wanted to ask you about Leverette Street.”
“We used to live there!” Mr. Meisner said. “Here, sit down already! You’re making me nervous standing around! Muriel, turn off the television!”
We sat down on the couch. Mr. Meisner sat in the chair next to Mrs. Meisner’s wheelchair.
“Mr. and Mrs. Meisner,” I said. “You were living on Leverette Street in 1971, right?”
“Yes,” Mr. Meisner said. His voice dropped down a couple notches in volume now that he was sitting down. “We bought that house in 1934, if you can believe it. Right after we got married.” He reached over and took his wife’s hand. “We raised four sons there. Here, you want to see pictures?”
For the next few minutes, we went through all four of the sons, their wives, the seven grandchildren, and the eleven great-grandchildren.
“That old house got to be too much for us,” Mr. Meisner said when we were done looking at the pictures. “We had to sell it and move here.”
“You are so full of crap,” Mrs. Meisner said.
“Muriel, please, we have company here.”
“I hate this place,” she said. “Peach Tree Senior Community? There’s not a peach tree within a hundred miles of this place. And please, senior community? Why don’t they just call it a nursing home?”
“It’s not a nursing home, Muriel. It’s ‘assisted living.’ Would you rather I be back there at the house, mowing the lawn? Shoveling the snow?”
“You pay a kid to mow the lawn! And shovel the snow!”
“The ice used to freeze in the gutters, remember? I’d have to get up there and chop it out in the springtime!”
“Alex’s partner just fell off the roof doing that,” Randy said. “He broke both his ankles.”
“Do you see?” Mr. Meisner said. “Do you see what happens? Do you want that to be me, falling off the roof and breaking both my ankles?”
“Mr. Meisner,” I said, “Mrs. Meisner. Do you happen to remember a family that lived down the street from you? The Valeskas?”
“Valeskas?” Mr. Meisner said. “Muriel, do you remember the Valeskas?”
“They lived over the Kowalskis. They rented the upstairs, I mean.”
“The Kowalskis,” Mrs. Meisner said. “We know the Kowalskis.”
“Mickey Kowalski,” Mr. Meisner said. “And his wife, Martha. We still get Christmas cards from them.”
“I think he’s sick, isn’t he?”
“Who, Mickey Kowalski? He’s not sick.”
“I think he’s sick.”
“He’s not sick. Don’t listen to my wife.”
“How about the Valeskas?” I said. “The people who rented the upstairs. Do you remember them?”
“I don’t remember the Valeskas,” Mr. Meisner said. “Muriel, do you remember the Valeskas?”
“Valeska, Valeska, Valeska,” she said. “No, doesn’t ring a bell.”
“She was a spiritual reader,” Randy said. “A fortune-teller.”
That hit them like a bolt of lightning. “The fortune-teller!” Mrs. Meisner said. “Oh my God, Fred! The fortune- teller!”
“Yes! Yes!” Mr. Meisner said. “And that family. What was their name?”
“It was Valeska,” I said. “You remember the family?”
“Oh good heavens, yes,” Mrs. Meisner said. “My, what a time that was. With that family down the street. And that sign she put out on the sidewalk! You remember, with the big hand?”
“Yes! The hand!” Mr. Meisner said. “Mickey rented the upstairs to those people. I think they were only there for nine months, maybe ten months. And then they were gone! Just like that! Mickey, he thought they were Gypsies or something.”
“But they paid their rent,” Mrs. Meisner said. “I remember Martha telling me that. And they kept the place clean.”
“Ah, but they were the strangest people,” Mr. Meisner said. “The husband-what was his first name?”
Here it comes, I thought. This is why we’re here. Randy and I were both hanging on their words now.
“It was an interesting name,” she said. “Something exotic.”
“The whole family was exotic. What were their names? There were four of them.”
“The man’s name was…” she said.
We held our breath.
“Gregor!” she said. “That was his name! I remember wondering what happened to the y at the end!”
