“Yes. And now that you mention it, he didn't give me his name.”
“What kind of business deal was he talking about?”
“I don't know. He didn't say.”
“Okay,” I said. “Let me know if he bothers you again.”
I checked in with the office to see if there were any new FTAs and was told no luck. I called my best friend, Mary Lou, but she couldn't talk because her youngest kid was sick with a cold, and the dog had eaten a sock and had just pooped it out on the living room rug.
I was contemplating Rex's soup can with new appreciation when the phone rang.
“I got it,” Grandma said. “I got a name for you. I was at the beauty parlor this morning getting a set, and Harriet Schnable was there for a perm, and she said she heard at bingo that Fred's been paying calls on Winnie Black. Harriet isn't one of those to make something of nothing.”
“Do you know Winnie Black?”
“Only through the seniors' club. She goes on the bus trip to Atlantic City sometimes. Her and her husband, Axel. I guess that's how Fred meets most of his honeys these da
ys . . . at the seniors' meetings. A lot of those women are real hot to trot, if you know what I mean. I even got Winnie's address,” Grandma said. “I called Ida Lukach. She's the club's membership chairman. She knows everything.”
I took down the address and thanked Grandma.
“Personally, I'm hoping it was aliens,” Grandma said. “But then I don't know what they'd want with an old fart like Fred.”
I settled my new hat on my brown bear cookie jar and traded my jeans for a beige suit and heels. I didn't know Winnie Black, and I thought it wouldn't hurt to look professional. Sometimes people responded better to a suit than to jeans. I grabbed my shoulder bag, locked the apartment, and joined Mrs. Bestler in the elevator.
“Did he find you?” Mrs. Bestler wanted to know.
“Did who find me?”
“There was a man looking for you. Very polite. I let him off on your floor about ten minutes ago.”
“He never knocked on my door. I would have heard him. I was in the kitchen almost the whole time.”
“Isn't that odd.” The elevator door opened to the lobby, and Mrs. Bestler smiled. “First floor. Ladies' handbags. Fine jewelry.”
“What did the man look like?” I asked Mrs. Bestler.
“Oh, dear, he was big. Very big. And dark-?skinned. African-?American.”
Not the man Mabel just called about. That guy was short and Caucasian.
“Did he have long hair? Maybe pulled back into a ponytail?”
“No. He almost didn't have any hair at all.”
I did a fast check of the lobby. No big guy lurking in the corners. I exited the building and looked around the lot. Nobody there either. My visitor had disappeared. Too bad, I thought. I'd love an excuse not to visit Winnie Black. I'd talk to a census taker, a vacuum-?cleaner salesman, a religious zealot. All preferable to Winnie Black. It was bad enough knowing cheapskate Uncle Fred had a girlfriend. I really didn't want to see her. I didn't want to confront Winnie Black and have to imagine her in the sack with duck-?footed Fred.
WINNIE LIVED IN a little bungalow on Low Street. White clapboard with blue shutters and a red door. Very patriotic. I parked, marched up to her front door, and rang the bell. I hadn't any idea what I was going to say to this woman. Probably something like, Excuse me, are you going around the block with my uncle Fred?
I was about to ring a second time when the door opened and Winnie Black peered out at me.
She had a pleasant, round face and a pleasant, round body, and she didn't look like the sort to boff someone's uncle.
I introduced myself and gave her my card. “I'm looking for Fred Shutz,” I said. “He's been missing since Friday, and I was hoping you might be able to give me some information.”
The pleasant expression froze on her face. “I'd heard he was missing, but I don't know what I can tell you.”
“When did you see him last?”