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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 days . . . 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.
    â€œPersonally, 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.
    â€œDid he find you?” Mrs. Bestler wanted to know.
    â€œDid who find me?”
    â€œThere was a man looking for you. Very polite. I let him off on your floor about ten minutes ago.”
    â€œHe never knocked on my door. I would have heard him. I was in the kitchen almost the whole time.”
    â€œIsn’t that odd.” The elevator door opened to the lobby, and Mrs. Bestler smiled. “First floor. Ladies’ handbags. Fine jewelry.”
    â€œWhat did the man look like?” I asked Mrs. Bestler.
    â€œOh, dear, he was big. Very big. And dark-skinned. African-American.”
    Not the man Mabel just called about. That guy was short and Caucasian.
    â€œDid he have long hair? Maybe pulled back into a ponytail?”
    â€œNo. 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.
    W INNIE 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.”
    â€œWhen did you see him last?”
    â€œThe day he disappeared. He stopped by for some coffee and cake. He did that sometimes. It was right after lunch. And he stayed for about an hour. Axel, my husband, was out getting the tires rotated on the Chrysler.”
    Axel was getting his tires rotated. Unh! Mental head slap. “Did Fred seem sick or worried? Did he give any indication that he might be going off somewhere?”
    â€œHe was . . . distracted. He said he had something big going on.”
    â€œDid he say any more about it?”
    â€œNo. But I got the feeling it had to do with the garbage company. He was having a problem with his account. Something about the computer deleting his name from the customer list. And Fred said he had the goods