Sirens pierced the night, jolting most Meadow View residents from their slumber. The center was suddenly alive with curious onlookers. As the sirens blared through the walls, residents scrambled out of their bedrooms, each eager to investigate the disturbance.
Within moments, the sleepy inhabitants gathered in the living room, where they could watch the comings and goings on the second floor.
Charlie kept asking Homer what was going on, and Homer kept saying there had been an accident. He didn't tell anyone that Alfred was dead; he knew they would find out soon enough. Homer figured it would give the residents more time to accept the inevitable: that Alfred was dead.
Mary Rose went from person to person, leaning in close to each listener and whispering. She told them Alfred was gone, but she held back the juicy details about the man in the overcoat. As a former reporter, she knew you never waste a scoop on a one-on-one interview. You save it for the front page.
Homer watched her from a distance, his heart heavy with the knowledge she shared. But he assumed it was better to hear it from Mary Rose than from him. He couldn't believe that Alfred was gone.
Charlie was in his early seventies and a very nervous man, a trait that seemed to intensify with age. Anything could make him nervous, and when it did, he kept asking the same question over and over. It was exasperating.
Now, faced with this unsettling news, Charlie's nerves were frayed. His eyes darted around the room, seeking answers he already knew.
He stood, fidgeting and restless, a physical manifestation of his inner turmoil. He made his way toward Homer.
"Is it true? Is Alfred gone? Mary Rose said he was dead, Homer. Is that true? But how? How could this have happened?"
Each person in the living room had heard Mary Rose's whispers; now they all knew that Alfred was dead.
They waited to see what was happening upstairs. Charlie left Homer and went from person to person, asking the same questions. It was inevitable, but his friends knew about his condition, and most tried to calm his anxiety.
Charlie made his way back to Homer. Homer had expected him to return. "Homer, what's going on up there?" Charlie asked.
"I'm not sure, Charlie. Let's wait until the police come down," Homer said.
Mary Rose had gone from person to person, spreading her story. Now that the room was sufficiently terrified, she took the floor. "I'll tell you what happened," she said, her voice laced with mystery. "Someone broke into the home and killed Alfred. I know this because I saw the intruder."
The room came alive with whispers. Mary Rose, standing as proud as a peacock, raised her hand. The room fell quiet as the residents' curiosity piqued by what she might say next. Homer shook his head discreetly. "Here we go again," he muttered, a hint of exasperation in his voice. "She's off on a tangent."
Charlie nodded. "She's good at it."
If there was any good news that night, it was that the police and the coroner entered the upstairs hall from Alfred's bedroom. Mary Rose fell silent as all eyes turned to the two men.
The coroner stood on the steps. "I'm afraid Alfred Moore is dead. He fell in the bathroom and hit his head on the toilet. I'm sorry for your loss."
Two men came down the stairs with a gurney carrying a body, which was covered with a sheet.
Most of the women began to sob and turned away, unwilling to believe what had happened.
Most of the men stood watching, unsure of what to do next.
A policeman approached Homer and said, "I heard that woman over there say she thought there was an intruder and that Mr. Moore had been murdered. We checked and found no signs of a break-in; the doors were locked. The Coroner is signing off on this as a simple accident."
"I understand," Homer said. "Mary Rose is quite the eccentric. I'll speak to her; she means well."
The policeman smiled. "Again, we are sorry for your loss."
Homer watched the officer walk away. The local police were treating it as a slip-and-fall, and it looked like one. It also meant less paperwork for the officers. However, after talking to Mary Rose, Homer was more than a little suspicious. What if Mary Rose's story was true? He dismissed the thought.
If a killer was out there, the doors were locked from the inside, as they were every night. No signs of a break-in meant that, if there was a murderer, they must have had a key. Homer shook his head, trying to dismiss the thought again. "Don't make more of this than it is," he whispered.
One thing was certain: If the truth were uncovered, Homer would have to solve Alfred's death himself. After all, he was a detective.
Charlie stood beside Homer; his presence was welcome, but Homer wasn't in the mood to answer another question he had already answered several times.
However, Charlie's question made Homer pause and think. It wasn't a repetitive question; it was a serious one. "Homer, now that Alfred's dead, what will we do?"
Homer faced the horror of Charlie's question: What would they do now that Alfred was dead?
Alfred had been more than a friend; he was the glue holding Meadow View together. No one else knew the center's ins and outs, and no one knew whether Alfred had children. If he did, he never mentioned them. Charlie's question was indeed relevant.
Charlie stood waiting, but Homer's answer wasn't what Charlie expected. He replied, "Charlie, I wish I knew."
The two men stood together, watching as the center slowly returned to normal. The police, the coroner, and the EMTs had left, leaving only reality behind. What would they do now?
The residents of Meadow View didn't retire to their beds; instead, they went to the back of the center, to the lounge, where recliners, lamps, and tables waited. This was where they gathered and hung out each day. It was a place to talk, laugh, sew, or play cards.
But that morning, in small groups, only whispers from many conversations could be heard, and no one spoke aloud. Homer was sure there would be many questions, and he knew most would look to him for answers. The problem was, he had none.
Alfred ran Meadow View on pure love and barely broke even. He was generous, and each resident turned over their monthly income to stay, keeping just five percent for pocket money, barely enough for a pack of peppermints. They had no cars, and most had no surviving family. If Meadow View shut down, twenty seniors who relied on daily maid service, delicious hot meals, and a finicky automatic switchboard would be cast out onto the street with only the belongings they could fit into a single suitcase.
Homer had often wondered whether the center made a profit; he doubted it. At times, he could see worry on Alfred's face as the month drew to a close.
Alfred didn't manage Meadow View for profit but for the residents' sake. He loved them and didn't mind showing it.
Now that Alfred was dead, what would become of Meadow View? More importantly, what would happen to the twenty residents who lived there?
Alfred had dedicated himself to caring for the residents at Meadow View, ensuring they lived comfortably in a well-maintained environment.
Each room was designed to provide residents with privacy and comfort, including a private bath, internet access, cable, a TV, and a phone.
The center was impeccably clean, with maids cleaning each room daily and changing the sheets weekly.
The food was delicious and contributed to residents' overall happiness and well-being.
Despite the small home's excellent facilities, many residents faced the reality of being alone in the world. Most had no one to call, a poignant reminder of the loneliness that often accompanies aging.
However, at Meadow View, the twenty residents who called the center home fostered a sense of family. They were a tight-knit group, always supporting and caring for one another and always poking fun at each other. It was their way.
Meadow View's communication system was designed for efficiency. Calls were routed through an automatic switchboard that could be monitored if needed. However, because incoming calls were rare, no one really cared whether they were monitored. Only Alfred received outside calls.
As the sun rose over Meadow View, a sleek black sedan pulled into a parking space beside the recreation room. The driver sat, as if waiting for something or someone.
Half an hour later, a man stepped out of the car and stared at the lounge. He wore tactical clothing. Flashing a completely remorseless smile, he turned and entered the recreation building.
"Who's that?" Charlie asked.
"I wonder," Homer said, rubbing his chin. "Did you see his tattoo?"
Charlie looked confused. "No."
"On his right hand, a black scorpion with a red tail," Homer said softly. "That tattoo belongs to one of the Mexican cartels. That man is an enforcer. But what is he doing here?"