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We could go incognito.”
    Grandma sat forward. “I could say I’m interested in moving there on account of my son-in-law is a horse’s patoot.”
    “And your mother wouldn’t get so mad at you if she foundout you took Granny to see about moving into the old people’s home,” Lula said.
    A half hour later we parked in the visitors’ lot and entered Cranberry Manor through the front door. It was a typical senior living complex, with a pleasant reception area and two wings for residents.
    “This is real pretty,” Grandma said. “They have flowers growing outside and everything looks fresh painted.”
    “That’s not going to last long being that they’re broke,” Lula said.
    We stopped at the small informal reception desk in the lobby and told the woman we’d like a tour.
    “I’m interested in living here,” Grandma said. “I want to see everything.”
    “Wonderful,” the woman said, taking in Grandma’s hair and tank top, trying to maintain a friendly smile. “I’ll ring Carol. She’s our salesperson.”
    Carol appeared immediately, undoubtedly excited at the thought of extracting money from someone who might not have heard Cranberry Manor was filing for bankruptcy.
    “Just down the hall is the dining room,” Carol said, leading the way.
    “I like the sound of that,” Grandma said. “Do they serve cocktails?”
    “Not cocktails, but residents can have wine with dinner.”
    Grandma peeked inside the dining room. “Just like beingat a fancy restaurant with tablecloths and everything. Can I have oatmeal and eggs and bacon at breakfast?”
    “Yes.”
    “And coffee cake?”
    “Yes.”
    “Sign me up,” Grandma said.
    “We have more to see,” I told her.
    “Yeah, don’t get carried away with the oatmeal,” Lula said.
    “We have two identical wings,” Carol said. “They each have their own social center.”
    The social center we visited looked like a big living room. Large-screen television, three game tables, couches and chairs arranged in conversational groups. Four women were playing bridge at one of the game tables. Two men were watching a Wheel of Fortune rerun on the television.
    “Excuse me,” Grandma said to the women. “I might move here, and I was wondering what you thought of the place.”
    “They use powdered eggs at breakfast,” one of the women said. “They tell us they’re real eggs, but I know a powdered egg when I see one.”
    “And they buy cheap toilet paper,” another woman said. “Single ply. And it’s all because of that Geoffrey Cubbin.”
    “And he was a womanizer,” the first woman said. “He was having affairs with some of the ladies here.”
    “You mean some of the ladies who live here?” Grandma asked.
    The woman nodded. “There have been rumors.”
    “I wouldn’t mind having an affair,” Grandma said.
    “Good riddance to bad rubbish,” the woman said. “He’s gone, and he’s not coming back.”
    The women all nodded in agreement.
    “You don’t know that for sure,” Grandma said. “He could pop up.”
    “He better not pop up here,” the woman said. “It wouldn’t be healthy for him, if you know what I mean. We would have put a hit out on him but he stole all our money.”
    “Let’s move on to the exercise area,” Carol said, steering Grandma away.
    “Do you have any idea what happened to Geoffrey Cubbin?” I asked Carol. “I understand he had his appendix removed and then disappeared from the hospital.”
    “I don’t know anything about that,” Carol said. “I have my hands full here, trying to keep the crew from mutiny.”
    We toured the rest of the building, talked to about forty people, got a brochure and an application from Carol, and returned to the Firebird.
    “I could have my own bathroom if I lived here,” Grandma said. “That’s on the plus side. On the other side I wouldn’t have anything to do at night. How would I get to the funeral home for viewings?”
    “Yeah, and those Cranberry people were all