A Cast of Killers

CHAPTER FOUR



Auntie Lil did not wait to hear the details, which was just as well since Dr. Millerton immediately became lost in a closer scrutiny of the body. His assistant peered over his shoulder and they conferred together in low tones, not even looking up when Auntie Lil dragged T.S. from the room and hustled him down the corridors toward the exit. Rodriquez pursued them, exclaiming that it was his job to show them out. But Auntie Lil, who remembered each turn with uncanny accuracy, was through with the morgue and its insignificant employees. Greater things lay ahead.

"She was poisoned!" Auntie Lil hollered across the sidewalk in the direction of Lilah's waiting limousine. T.S. scurried after her, smiling thinly at a couple passing by, who stopped and looked at one another, then examined the plaque on the building's door with interest. Mystified, they continued their stroll, dodging Auntie Lil as she darted across the pavement and began to pound on the limo windows. This breach of etiquette did not faze the occupant in the least. The window rolled down slowly, revealing Lilah's expectant face. She held a nearly empty drink in her hand.

"I beg your pardon?" Lilah asked politely. "Did you say what I thought you said?"

"Indeed I did." This time, Auntie Lil did not wait for the chauffeur's help and simply climbed unceremoniously over Lilah to claim her spot in the back seat. She gave a triumphant gasp, produced a white handkerchief from the depths of her cavernous pocketbook and began to fan herself in great excitement.

"This is it," she told Lilah and a blatantly nosy Grady. "I can feel it. Fate has steered us to this puzzle, handed us this predicament. We have been charged with the egregious task of uncovering justice in her name." She pointed a finger straight at the roof of the car and smiled mirthlessly. "I'll find them. Just you wait and see."

T.S. was not sure he had ever seen that particular smile cross her face—but he was glad Auntie Lil was not his enemy. The smile glittered with a calm rage cooled to concrete by her absolute conviction that justice would be done. He pitied the poor murderer so foolish as to have poisoned an old lady in front of this old lady. In fact, he felt compelled to keep a careful eye on her as he snagged the seat next to Lilah.

"She was poisoned?" Lilah asked T.S. breathlessly, leaning so close that he could smell the warm scent of her gardenia perfume.

"That's what the doctor and Aunt Lil say. Me, I'm just along for the ride."

"Not anymore you're not," Auntie Lil promised. "And she was most definitely poisoned. We'll know more when you get us a peek at the autopsy report, Lilah dear."

Lilah nodded calmly. Obtaining an autopsy report was child's play for her. T.S. wondered jealously if the task entailed another call to the gnomish Dr. Millerton.

"I'm sure the police can handle it from here," T.S. tried telling Auntie Lil. He knew protests were useless but felt that decorum called for some sort of halt to arms.

Auntie Lil stared at him. "I'm sure the police won't care a whit."

He sighed. Once she had it in her head that she was locking horns with the New York Police Department, there was no stopping Auntie Lil. She had a point to prove and honor to avenge, thanks to a long-simmering feud between them that had started more than three decades ago when a young patrolman had had the nerve to cite her for running a red light in broad daylight in front of a grammar school. Auntie Lil's defense—that the middle of the block was a stupid place for a red light and no children were around—had not played well in front of the judge. Especially since, in a display of rookie enthusiasm, the patrolman had actually showed up in court, describing Auntie Lil's impulsive behavior and colorful vocabulary with a flair for overacting not seen since the days of silent movies. Auntie Lil had zero tolerance for being imitated and promptly hit him with her pocket-book in front of the judge, thus ensuring an enormous fine and narrowly escaping a token jail term.

Thus had war been declared between Auntie Lil and the police, a feud underscored since by the City's continuous failure to instill its officers with the need for treating law-abiding citizens with a minimum of respect. Ever since the expensive incident, Auntie Lil had relentlessly kept track of her every contact with the NYPD and T.S. had to admit that very few had been pleasant, despite a lack of provocation from Auntie Lil. Even the most innocuous questions, such as asking directions, seemed to irritate the overworked force. And, of course, once Auntie Lil ran up against Lieutenant Abromowitz any residual respect or sympathy for the NYPD went right out the window. But that was another story.

There were more important matters on Auntie Lil's mind now. "Why would anyone kill a harmless old lady?" she asked, enraptured by the intricacies the mystery promised. She stared into space and slowly twirled a white curl absently around a finger.

"Perhaps it was a random killing?" Lilah suggested, impervious to the skeptical expression triggered by her remark. "Some nut case." Her voice slowed and she shivered delicately. "Perhaps they intended to kill someone else."

Now that was a good point, T.S. felt.

"No." Auntie Lil shook her head firmly. "She was the only one poisoned. It had to have been added to her portion alone. No one would know it was hers unless it was on her tray. I'm sure it was intended for her. How absolutely efficient they were."

"Thanks to your chili. The perfect disguise for poison," T.S. added pointedly.

"They'd have gotten her if we'd been serving egg custard," Auntie Lil protested. "And the caustic effect on her stomach lining was caused by the poison, not by my chili. I don't care what you say."

"Caustic effect on her stomach?" Lilah echoed faintly. She finished the rest of her drink in a sudden, unladylike gulp.

Grady rescued her before T.S. had the chance. "Perhaps, madam, you might care for another drink?" he suggested tactfully. Lilah's dismayed face dominated the rearview mirror.

"We haven't got time for that now," Auntie Lil declared. Her brow furrowed as she stared into the depths of her pocketbook for divine guidance. "We've got to come up with a plan at once and move quickly before the police take over everything and ruin it. Dr. Millerton will notify them tomorrow, I'm sure of it. We must have a plan in place by then."

T.S.—who did not share her eminent domain theory when it came to murder cases—patted Lilah's arm reassuringly. "Really, Aunt Lil. Not everyone relishes murder the way you do, you know."

"I'm not relishing murder," she protested. "I detest murder. I'm outraged. And I'm also too busy thinking to talk." She bit her lip and decided. "Take me home, Grady. I need to think this over at once."

"Before you commandeer Lilah's car," T.S. suggested tactfully, "perhaps you'd like to confer with us." He kept his voice calm but glared at his aunt. Otherwise, she would have totally missed his point.

The glare had a minimal effect. "Oh, for heaven's sake." She flapped her hankie at them. "Just because I'm going home doesn't mean you have to. We must get those photographs developed at once. Go to that twenty-four-hour place at Times Square. It only takes an hour or so. Then you two can go off and booze it up and whatever it is Theodore has in mind. I'm going to work."

"Boozing it up was not what I had in mind," T.S. protested firmly. "But now that you mention it, I wouldn't turn down a stiff drink in a dark bar."

"Neither would I," Lilah agreed faintly.

"Good. Get rid of me and we'll meet in the morning." Auntie Lil was already scribbling ideas in her small notebook, muttering key points of theories aloud. "Relatives?" she asked herself. "Jealousy? The past?" There was silence. "Love interest?" she shouted triumphantly, jotting it down on a page. "Perhaps corporate espionage? Or drug trafficking? Poison… that's a woman's method. Women are poisoners, not men. And what did that old man mean by 'The Eagle' . . . remember? He said he'd seen 'The Eagle' breathe evil into her mouth?"

The air was thick with possible theories as Auntie Lil's disjointed monologue continued while the limousine crawled slowly through the ever present construction jams that dotted the main roads toward Auntie Lil's Queens apartment house. T.S. did not attempt to translate the obscure and strange collection of possible motives tumbling from Auntie Lil's mouth. There was no talking to her at the moment, T.S. knew. Not when her brain had been seized by such an enticing puzzle. He could practically see the theories zinging wildly from synapse to synapse as Auntie Lil built, pooh-poohed and quickly replaced theories.

He ignored her mutterings and smoothly fixed Lilah a fresh drink from the limo's bar, pouring out a healthy Dewars and soda for himself. It was just as well that Auntie Lil was so preoccupied. He was in no mood to hear what she had to say. He, too, needed time to think. Why had someone murdered a harmless old woman? Good Lord, this was much more interesting than those stupid soap operas.


While Lilah waited for him in the limousine, T.S. chivalrously escorted Auntie Lil to her door. She scarcely noticed his presence.

"Want me to clear a table for you, so you can work?" he suggested. She nodded absently, too busy wrestling her Jolly Green Giant hat off her head to pay any attention to him.

Auntie Lil's apartment looked like a cyclone had recently blown through and deposited the contents of three other apartments and a museum or two throughout her four small rooms. He picked his way past waist-high stacks of books in the small hallway and managed to unearth a table at one end of the cluttered living room by shoving the bolts of material and magazines covering it onto the carpet where the mess would lie, unnoticed, for perhaps another century or so. He tripped over her bathrobe—which had been hanging from a knob on a china cabinet—when the terrycloth belt became wrapped around one of his pants legs. Untangling it, he noticed that an easel had been set up in the dining room area and that small tubes of acrylic paint cluttered those portions of the mahogany dining table not already covered by unopened Book-of-the-Month Club packages, baskets of letters, empty envelopes, stacks of stationery and a good three dozen pens and pencils. Not to mention the new pair of pink tennis shoes with Auntie Lil's initials etched on the side in gold glitter that protruded from the center of a forgotten bowl of fruit.

It was enough to make him drop to his knees and begin scrubbing, straightening, alphabetizing and bringing order into the utter chaos that was Auntie Lil's home.

Chaos to him, at least. With irritation, he noticed that she sailed directly through the debris to a large cabinet where she quickly found a thick volume with the physician's staff symbol on its spine. "You run along, Theodore," she told him absently, flipping through the pages with purpose. "Have a good time and I'll see you in the morning."

Have a good time? Doing what? Talking about murder? Not his idea of a romantic date. But definitely Auntie Lil's idea of a good time. She was already hard at work, flipping through pages and scribbling theories in her notebook. A pool of light from a nearby lamp cast a halo around her sturdy head, giving her a deceptively angelic look. He gave her an affectionate glance, then shut the door behind him, carefully locking both locks. He'd hate for a burglar to stumble in on Auntie Lil. The poor guy wouldn't stand a chance.

By the time he and Lilah reached Times Square again, it was past eight o'clock and the well-dressed crowds of theatergoers were safely ensconced in their plush cushioned seats. A momentary lull had descended on the busy streets. Neon lights blinked off and on brightly in the new twilight. The early evening slasher-and-action shows had already started at the many movie theaters nearby. It would be an hour or more before those audiences were disgorged onto the sidewalks, blinking in the artificial glow of New York night and—all pumped up with images of car chases and knife fights— anxious to spill their excitement onto the crowded sidewalks.

"I always find Times Square so overwhelming at night," Lilah admitted.

"I like it best from the back seat of your limo," T.S. replied firmly. They were slowing down in front of the twenty-four-hour photo store and several disreputable characters skulked around the nearby corner, passing off small packages and conferring in their nightly ballet of illicit drugs and small-time scams.

"You wait here. I'll only be a moment." T.S. scurried inside the brightly lit storefront and hurriedly left his order with a bored cashier. After extracting a promise of quick service (at least ninety minutes, never mind the one-hour promise on the sign), he dashed back out to the limo. Already, the hounds were sniffing out the fox. Three young men, nearly identically dressed in absurdly baggy pants, baseball hats and torn tee shirts, were eyeing the rear bumper of the limousine. T.S. saw a "you backed into me and now you're going to pay" scam coming and practically dove into the back seat, slamming the door behind him.

He could have stopped and challenged them, but why show off for Lilah? Restraint was the better part of valor.

Grady knew the score and pulled quickly away without incident. Which was exactly what life was like for Lilah—people protected her from the changing state of her world. It would have been a shame not to.

"That's that," T.S. announced. "The photos will be ready in a couple of hours."

"About that drink," Lilah murmured tactfully in reply.

"Yes? Shall we?" T.S. wondered where they might find a cozy spot nearby. He could not go to his usual haunt, Harvey's, because his every move would find its way back to Auntie Lil—courtesy of Frederick, the bartender there.

"I have a suggestion," Grady volunteered. "A friend of mine owns a nice little place over on Tenth Avenue called Robert's."

The limousine glided smoothly over an unexpected area of newly resurfaced avenues. The streets were the only new things in the whole neighborhood, however. As they drew further west toward the docks, shadows began to step from the darkness in eager anticipation of a wealthy customer. Women of all shapes and colors packed tightly into latex glitter and dirty lace leaned expectantly toward the back seat windows, trying to peer inside the tinted glass. Their faces—garishly attractive at a distance—came into horrifying focus just inches from T.S.'s face. He shrank back reflexively as their cheap glamour revealed itself as nothing more than bad skin, worse teeth, bruises, open sores and sagging flesh. Seductive glances widened into leers and the bright glint of heavily made-up eyes may have been lust—but for drugs, not love, T.S. knew. He shivered and moved away from the window.

"This is like being in a Fellini movie," Lilah declared, while T.S. double-checked the door locks.

"Sorry, ma'am. We're almost there." Grady made a wide turn onto Tenth Avenue and they were momentarily rescued from the onslaught of flesh peddlers.

"There were some awfully young old people back there," T.S. admitted, running a finger under his collar. "It's been a while since I've been here at night."

"Shall I wait?" Grady glided to a stop in front of a tiny but cheerful wood-paneled restaurant nestled between two dark and chained storefronts. Inside, Christmas lights blinked gaily around a single wide window that framed happy couples cozily clustered about small tables scattered over a wooden floor. Red-checked cloths adorned each table and there was not a paper napkin in sight. An old-fashioned oak bar dominated one-third of the room and hosted a handful of relatively respectable patrons relaxing against high-backed bar stools. An older woman, dressed completely in cream silk, furiously worked the keys of a piano backed against one brick wall. As they stepped from the limo, T.S. could detect the strains of a sad jazz tune. His shivers disappeared, as did all remembrance of the sad women behind them. Grady was a genius. He'd discovered an oasis of romantic charm in the heart of a pirate-infested desert.

Lilah peeked in the window. "This is wonderful, Theodore. How quaint." Her genteel enthusiasm made T.S. smile.

"Don't bother waiting for us, Grady," she told the chauffeur. "Just come get us in an hour." She cast a shy glance at T.S. "Better make it two," she decided.

Well. Two hours indeed. T.S. straightened his collar and carefully held the door open for Lilah. He smoothly guided her coat from her shoulders with the élan of a forties movie hero, then stashed it on the hook farthest from the door with the prudence of a nineties NYC resident.

Lilah was like a jewel, he decided. One that got more precious and beautiful with age. One that deserved treatment more royal than royalty.

Unfortunately, the establishment was not cooperating. No maitre d' appeared nor was there any sign of a waiter. Lilah finally dragged him over to a corner table. "Here," she decided for them. "It's not too close to the piano. So we can talk."

He gulped. Now came the real test. What would they talk about?

That part turned out to be easy. Once a tubby waiter appeared and their drink orders had been taken, Lilah was sufficiently composed to want to talk about murder.

"Auntie Lil will not rest until an answer is found," she warned T.S. "You and I have both seen her this way before." Lilah had a habit of lacing her long, elegant fingers together and resting them on the table while she talked. It made her look a bit like an obedient child. T.S. thought it was a very charming gesture. Of course, Lilah could have whipped off her bra and whirled it above her head while she danced on the bar, and T.S. would have thought that was a charming gesture, too.

"No, she won't give up," T.S. agreed. "I'm not even going to try to stop her."

"Will you help her?" Lilah asked huskily, leaning forward and searching his face in the candlelight. T.S. half expected the piano player to break into "As Time Goes By."

"Someone has to keep her out of trouble," he agreed gallantly, any thought of deserting Auntie Lil now fleeing at the sight of Lilah's expectant face. Their drinks arrived and the woman at the piano began a new tune, filling the bar with another melancholy melody. T.S. took a sip. The Scotch burned a tidy path down his throat and he sighed. Someone dimmed the lights in the bar and he became more aware of the candle flickering between them and the way Lilah's face grew even more radiant in the flattering light. The room's atmosphere thickened with unspoken sentiments as the music wove an air of unexpected intimacy about them. Even the dark oak of the restaurant's wainscoting seemed to deepen with the mood. Other diners around them also grew quiet, drawing their heads together to whisper.

Was this what it was like, T.S. wondered. Was this what he had been missing all those years that he'd buried himself in his books and in his career?

Lilah suddenly stared over his shoulder toward the bar, breaking the mood. "The bartender just made the funniest face."

T.S. turned in time to see the front door bang open with an intrusive thud. An extremely tall woman, lanky and awkward with drink or drugs, tottered in on high spike heels. She was squeezed into a long-sleeved spandex tube dress sprinkled with cheap silver spangles that sparkled against her cocoa-colored skin. A wide run in her silver hose snaked down the length of her long legs like a jagged scar. Dark hair was swirled in a tall pile atop her head in a style reminiscent of Motown in the mid-1960s. Garish earrings dangled from extremely prominent ears. She had a tiny round head that topped a long, skinny neck and her pinched face was covered with a heavy coating of cheap makeup. When she blinked her eyes sleepily, her small head arched forward like a turtle's. Her lipstick was a garish silvery pink that glittered in the reflected candlelight. But her fingernails were long and elegantly manicured into blood-red tapers.

The bartender's scowl deepened when the woman approached the bar, waving a dollar bill at him. "Change, sweetie?" she asked the bartender in a throaty whisper.

"Beat it, Leteisha. I told you. You've been eighty-sixed from here. Get lost." A man of few but pointed words, the bartender crossed his beefy arms and nodded grimly toward the door. The woman's expression did not change as she smoothly turned on her high heels and slunk as sulkily out the door as she'd entered.

"Just in case you'd forgotten where we were," T.S. noted.

"Now, now, Theodore. Don't be a snob." Lilah's rebuke was real. She was so thoroughly insulated from the crasser elements of society that she did not even understand the concept of being a snob and hated people that were, especially when they fawned all over her trying to sniff out the source of her money.

"I know." T.S. shook his head guiltily. "I've been awful about everything. About coming back to this neighborhood. About helping Aunt Lil in the soup kitchen. I've only been there two days, you know. I'm not the cheerful giver you think I am. And I didn't want to find out who the dead woman was at first. The truth is, I am being a snob. I don't want to be back here, traipsing all over these streets. My family lived here, you know. Before my grandparents moved upstate. I'm just two generations removed from Hell's Kitchen myself." There. He had said it. Now she would know he was just another common fortune seeker.

Lilah patted his hand reassuringly. "That only proves you have honest blood. Just because you feel like a snob doesn't mean you have to act like one. We all have our demons to face, remember?" Her own demons, compared to those of many, were quite mild. But they pricked at her conscience nonetheless. "I'm sure you'll be a big help to Auntie Lil. And I hope that you'll let me help you, too. I don't think anyone should be allowed to die that way, Theodore. Murdered and unknown. No matter how poor or old they might be."

She was right, of course. He would help Auntie Lil find the killer. He'd do whatever it took to unlock the secrets behind Emily's death.

Lilah asked him about his family, and the talk of murder passed. Their hours together went by quickly and dinner was forgotten. He would later be unable to really remember what they'd talked about. He would only recall, instead, the soft sound of the piano and the air heavy with cigarette smoke and secrets. He'd remember Lilah's laugh cutting through the surrounding noise, as if it were meant for his ears only, and the quavering high notes of a drunken old lady at the bar who stood up to sing an Irish ballad to herself. He and Lilah joined the rest of the crowd in applause and—if only for a few moments of alcohol and music-inspired togetherness in a lonely city—they were all part of the same family. He would remember the ache that the old woman's voice produced in his heart, and the recurring vision it conjured of sailing ships entering New York Harbor, crowded with people filled with meager hopes and facing a new land. Their dreams did not seem so ridiculous to him anymore.

It was as if he had disembarked in a strange land, where time stood still and strangers welcomed him with open arms. Best of all, he spoke their new language magically, while slipping effortlessly and without fear from one adventure to another. He did not want the feeling to end and was so lost in belonging and warmth for the people around him that he was shocked when Lilah waved at Grady through the window. How had two hours passed so quickly from his grasp? Yet, checking his watch, he discovered that three hours had gone by, with Grady waiting tactfully outside for Lilah's discreet signal. It was nearly midnight by the time they were ensconced again in the back seat of the limousine. They pulled away onto the streets of Hell's Kitchen at dark and New York's human night crawlers emerged from doorways to watch them glide past. The cozy comfort of Robert's was quickly left behind.

"Where do all these people come from?" he wondered out loud as they cut across Forty-Second Street to the photo store. The streets were clogged with hustlers of all colors and ages, eyeing one another for territorial transgressions and scrutinizing each unwary tourist for potential profit. Brightly attired in tee shirts and long shorts that reached to their knees (despite the cool night air), New York's night citizens clustered in ominous groups across from the chaotic entrance to the Forty-Second Street Port Authority bus station entrance, laughing and shouting insults as frightened visitors dashed to their cabs. Some hustlers tried to tug at their luggage or hail cabs for them, in hopes of extracting a bribe or two. But most simply watched with smug expressions of streetwise superiority, clutching small brown paper bags containing cans of beer as they waited for something bigger and better to come along.

The limousine crossed Eighth Avenue and made its way toward Broadway through the jangle and noise of the seedy Forty-Second Street strip. Boarded-up theaters awaited renovation that would never come, providing dark pools of shadows between the brightly lit storefronts of cheap electronic stores and fried chicken joints. The sidewalks churned with people jostling and seeking a fast score. Hardly anyone noticed or cared that a limousine was passing by—they all had their own sly business to conduct.

"Is it my imagination or does this place look completely different than it did three hours ago?" T.S. asked out loud.

"Is it my imagination or do many of these people look like they ought to be in junior high school, not here?" Lilah answered.

She was right. The night had brought out New York's young runaways. They huddled in empty doorways, wan and unfed, their dark, bright eyes hungrily scrutinizing passers-by with a cynical knowledge far beyond their young years.

Lilah sighed and shook her head. "Thank God my daughters are at college."

The twenty-four-hour photo store was, apparently, a bustling center of cheap nightly entertainment. T.S. had to push through a crowd of twenty or more chattering teenagers to reach the front door. They stood clustered in front of the store's picture window watching a small, dark brown man tinker among the automatic photo-developing conveyor belts. The man straightened up wearily and stuck a screwdriver back into his rear pocket.

"Yo, man. It's fixed," someone in the crowd announced with satisfaction. "We gonna get us another peek now."

This crowd must really be bored, T.S. thought as he squeezed in the front door. Surely there were better things to do than watch bad photos of other people's birthday celebrations and vacations crawl by.

The optimistic voice in the crowd had been right. The machinery was fixed. The conveyor belt groaned slowly forward just as T.S. approached the front counter. The bored cashier was gone, replaced by a small Pakistani man who emerged from the elaborate developing contraption holding a wrench in one hand like a weapon.

"I pay much money for this franchise and equipment," he told T.S. "Damn thing breaks down every night. Holy shit."

"What a shame for the neighborhood," T.S. remarked drily as he handed over his receipt. "Looks like this is a real hotspot for cheap entertainment."

The proprietor shrugged philosophically. "Not always. But tonight, some pervert drop off whole roll of pictures of a poor dead woman. As old as my beloved mother. What someone want with such photos, I do not know. This is sick city. Sick city, indeed." He nodded toward the picture window. "The machine jammed in the middle of the order and the crowd that you see gathered. They love death, this bunch. Look at them. They salivate like animals at the kill."

T.S. froze. Outside, the crowd began pushing forward to get a better view. The strip of pictures affixed to the conveyor belt rounded a turn and approached the picture window once again. Eyes grew wide and the jokes began, boys nudging their girlfriends and grabbing the backs of their necks in hopes of eliciting squeals.

"Oh dear," T.S. murmured lightly, running a finger under his collar. It did no good. The flush began at the base of his neck and quickly spread across his face. He was humiliated. He was the pervert.

The proprietor had already discovered that fact. He stared at the number on T.S.'s receipt and raised his eyebrows in slow recognition. He surveyed T.S. from head to toe, then peered over his shoulder at the waiting limousine without comment. Then he inched away from T.S., making it plain that he preferred to stand by his conveyor belts rather than be in close proximity to such a clearly debauched human being. Crossing his arms primly, the proprietor took turns staring back and forth between T.S. and the crowd outside while he waited for the morbid photos to make their tortuous way through the labyrinth of belts. Some in the crowd got the proprietor's hint and began to eye T.S. with great interest.

T.S. carefully brushed dirt from his shoe, straightened his shirt collar and tried hard to imagine himself somewhere else. When that failed, he thought of the ways he might seek revenge against Auntie Lil for sending him on this mission. After a two-minute wait that seemed more like a two-year prison sentence, his pictures reached the end of their mechanical journey. As the strip of photos neared the automatic cutter, T.S. saw that his exposure settings and framing had, alas for his immediate reputation, been outstanding. The images of a dead Emily were crisp and relentless. At least fifty eyes stared at him intently as the proprietor made a great show of holding up each finished photo before ceremoniously placing it into the order bag.

Once the last damning photo had finally been plucked from the stares of the enraptured crowd, the proprietor marched across the room with the bag pinched between two fingers as if it smelled very bad indeed. He held it out toward T.S. "Twenty dollars," he said primly, holding out an open palm. "You surprise me, sir. Really. I feel compelled to inform you. You really do surprise me."

Humiliated, T.S. paid the hefty tab, suspecting it was at least five dollars over the regular charge. He did not have time to think much about it, however, as his eye had been caught by a small face whose expression was quite different from those surrounding him. A skinny black boy, not more than eleven or twelve years old, stood in the doorway staring at T.S. His eyes were wide and suspicious, his features hardened into a permanent accusatory stare. Yet, T.S. was sure that his unblinking eyes were filling with tears and that the young boy's mouth was trembling. The child stepped back in fright as T.S. opened the door, and he watched T.S. hurry to the limo with undisguised confusion before moving forward as if he had something to say. T.S. stopped with his hand on the door handle and stared at the child. Why had the photos upset him so much? Everyone else in the crowd loved the macabre real-life postscript to the slasher movies they'd probably just seen.

"Son?" he said to the young boy, who responded by darting forward. T.S. thought he was being attacked but the child veered at the last moment and took off down the block, running as fast as he could. T.S. was so astonished he made no move to get into the limousine until Lilah rolled down the window and called out his name.

"Theodore. We're attracting quite a crowd. Perhaps we should be on our way."

T.S. looked over at the picture window and the crowd of teenagers stared back at him in mystified curiosity and misdirected envy.

"Yo, pops. That's kinky!" someone called out. A few people laughed and that was more than enough for T.S. He quickly hopped into the back seat next to Lilah and thrust the bag of photos into her hands.

"Remind me to kill Auntie Lil in the morning," he told her. "And, Grady, for God's sake, get us out of here."


He was awakened early the next morning from a troubled dream in which he lay in a glass coffin, surrounded by leering women in cheap outfits and garish makeup. They leaned over him, grinning suggestively, their pink tongues licking at the glass and their features distorted as they pressed against the sides of the coffin. He woke suddenly, convinced that the tremendous pounding he heard was really his heartbeat, until he finally realized that someone was trying to break down his apartment door. He stumbled to it, still half-asleep, and found an impatient Auntie Lil waiting on the other side. She surveyed his pajamas with energetic disapproval.

"Mahmoud let me in," she explained cheerfully. "I've been up for hours. Here, I've brought you bagels. It's time to get to work."

T.S. made a mental note to cut the doorman's Christmas tip in half. He stared at the clock on the wall. It was barely eight o'clock in the morning.

"You're certainly serious about this thing," he told Auntie Lil grumpily, stepping aside to let her through before he was mowed down. Auntie Lil hated to get out of bed before 10:00 a.m. She claimed the human body had not been made to function before noon and customarily spent her mornings reading tabloids and detective magazines while she drank quarts of black coffee.

"We've got to find out who she was before we can find out who killed her," Auntie Lil announced loudly as she plopped her bag of goodies onto the immaculate surface of his dining room table. T.S. winced. It was the single heirloom he'd taken from his parents' house upstate and in the twenty-five years of his ownership, it had hardly sustained a scratch, despite what he considered flagrant abuse by Auntie Lil.

Brenda and Eddie wandered in belatedly, hating to give up their warm spot at the foot of T.S.'s bed. Letting them sleep there was his sole concession to affection when it came to his pets. They eyed him with suspicious hope. Would they get fed early? Would he come across with the chicken and cheese dinner?

"Feed them so they leave me alone," Auntie Lil ordered. She liked cats about as much as she liked the NYPD.

"I thought you weren't a morning person." The whirr of the can opener whipped Brenda and Eddie into their obese version of a frenzy: their tails switched back and forth, perfectly synchronized, and Brenda let out a ladylike meow.

"This morning, I am a morning person," Auntie Lil replied calmly. "How did the photos turn out? Can you see her face clearly?"

"I'll say. Our little photo exhibit made quite a stir last night. Who says culture is dead in NYC?" He slammed the refrigerator door and felt a little better. There was just enough fresh orange juice left for a single glass.

"Is that orange juice?" Auntie Lil asked with great interest. "If so, I'll take a glass."

"No, you won't." He was being rude, but he didn't care. She knew better than to wake him up. She'd just have to take her lumps.

"If you're going to be so grouchy, why don't you just go back to bed?" She stopped her scolding long enough to discover the package of photos lying on the coffee table next to his precisely aligned rows of The New Yorker and Cat Fancy. She thumbed through the stack of images with approval. "Say, these are very good, Theodore. You did a wonderful job." She looked at him from over the reading glasses she seldom wore because of her vanity. "I've been thinking about this. Our first step is to find out who she was. Then we can find out why she was killed."

"What do you want me to do?" He held up the photos and flipped through them. It would be good to dive into the puzzle and keep his mind off his personal confusion about Lilah.

"I'm going to start canvassing the neighborhood," she told him. "Show the photos around and find out where she lived. Someone has to know, even if she was very, very private. There's nothing else to go on. We need to question Adelle and her friends again, then try to track down the funny old man who saw Emily's pocketbook get stolen the day she died. We know so little about her."

"We know she was an understudy in the original Our Town," T.S. pointed out. "And that her stage name was Emily Toujours. I could go to the Lincoln Center library and check out the Playbill."

"All right. Of course, we don't know for sure she really was the understudy… and that name likely came after the show. But, I suppose we have no other choice. And it will keep you out of my way."

T.S. was slightly offended that she had not grasped the brilliance of his suggestion.

"You go this morning and then we'll meet back at the soup kitchen in the afternoon and compare notes," she decided.

"Do you really think the police will let the kitchen open up today?" T.S. asked incredulously. "After all, now it looks like someone was poisoned there."

"We don't know that for sure." Auntie Lil's chin jutted out when she was feeling her most stubborn and at the moment it looked like a Grand Canyon cliff. "They'll try to blame it on my chili, but I'm having none of that. Besides, no one died yesterday and people are as hungry as ever. They have to let us open."

T.S. shook his head. "I'd be surprised. But I'll meet you there at one.”


It felt good to have a mission again. T.S. whistled a Broadway tune as he dressed carefully in slacks, a new plaid shirt he'd prudently purchased on sale and his first sweater of the new fall season. It was the perfect library outfit—a sort of relaxed and quietly intellectual look. He selected a pair of Hush Puppies from his customized shoe rack, and chose socks that were whimsically embroidered with the logo from a Broadway show about tap dancing. He loved Broadway and all there was to do about Broadway. And now he even had a legitimate excuse to hang out at the Performing Arts Library. Why, it was even better than going into the office. In fact, he downright pitied those poor men and women still chained to their desks, marching into work like suited-up zombies each day, squabbling over petty office politics disputes, making minor decisions about unimportant matters, sitting behind their desks and accepting obsequious homage from underlings out to protect their own interests… well, he'd better stop thinking about it or he might start to miss it, after all.


By the time T.S. had emerged from the subway near Lincoln Center, Auntie Lil was hard at work just twenty blocks due south, the photos of Emily carefully stowed in her enormous handbag. She began with the handful of people already in line for the soup kitchen, but they were not regulars and claimed to never have seen Emily before. Auntie Lil kept a careful eye out for the strange man who had seen "The Eagle" breathe evil into Emily's mouth, but she did not find him or even Franklin, his more coherent tablemate. Using a list she had prepared the night before from a booklet on volunteering, she visited seven separate shelters in the vicinity of St. Barnabas but none of the workers or residents recognized Emily. She even waylaid three postmen and one Federal Express delivery woman, but none of them could help. Being New Yorkers, not a single person so much as blinked at what was clearly a photo of a dead woman.

Because it was mid-morning on a workday, few people occupied the neighborhood stoops. She did show Emily's photo to a family of plump Hispanic women who were fanning themselves with large paper fans while they enjoyed the morning sunshine. They passed the photos eagerly among themselves, then reluctantly confessed that, so far as they were concerned, Emily was a stranger.

Discouraged, Auntie Lil wandered up Forty-Sixth Street between Eighth and Ninth Avenues. Called Restaurant Row, the block was home to over a dozen eating establishments, interspersed between largely middle-class apartment brownstones. Restaurant Row was even more deserted than the residential blocks around it. A few deliverymen hurried from their trucks toward restaurants, pushing carts and supplies ahead of them, and a couple of busboys were slowly sweeping their patches of sidewalk clean.

The autumn day was growing warmer by the moment and Auntie Lil began to regret wearing the heavy felt hat she'd purchased on a recent visit to the Austrian Alps. As she neared Eighth Avenue, she spotted a man sitting in a lawn chair in front of a boarded-up hotel. From far away, he looked like just another old soul, slumped and potbellied, tired and discouraged, with nothing better to do but sit and watch life pass him by on a dirty street corner in New York City. His hands were enormous and hung to the sidewalk as he slouched low in the sagging chair. As Auntie Lil grew closer, she perceived an oddity in his profile. His face was unnaturally flattened and the silhouette marred by an enormous lump of a nose that, on even closer inspection, resembled a huge bulb of cauliflower intersected by blood vessels. Above this monstrosity, his milky green eyes were large and placid, and his white hair swept straight back from his broad forehead in carefully combed strands. His clothes were clean and such innocuous shades of brown and beige that he seemed to melt into the dirty concrete wall behind him. Auntie Lil approached him politely and showed him Emily's photos.

"I'm trying to locate a dear old friend of mine," she told the man. He stared at her lips intently as she spoke, then looked back down at the photo and nodded.

"You know her?" Auntie Lil asked in excitement, touching his arm. He looked up and she repeated her question. Again, he stared intently at her lips, then back down at the photo. Slowly, he shook his head and shrugged philosophically.

Auntie Lil could not mask her disappointment. Her shoulders fell and her head sagged along with her hopes, adding a good ten years to her frame. The old man nodded sympathetically and patted her arm in reassurance. Then he smiled and pointed across Eighth Avenue. He was indicating either a boarded-up storefront peppered by half-torn posters and obscene graffiti, or a small delicatessen with a bright yellow awning. The old man pointed again to the deli and made a pushing gesture with his hands.

"I should go there?" Auntie Lil asked. "Will they know her?"

The old man shrugged and spread his hands wide. Maybe. Maybe not. But it was the best answer she'd gotten so far.

Auntie Lil hurried across the avenue, dodging unemployed actors, construction workers in search of coffee, grumpy mothers and squalling children in baby carriages. The deli was cheery and immaculate, its outside walls painted a paler version of the bright yellow splashed across the awning, the delicious deli, promised a sign in the window. you won't believe our coffee, and our he-man heroes are the biggest bargain in manhattan.

That decided it for Auntie Lil. She was definitely going in. It was nearly noon, she was famished from walking around and, worst of all, had not been able to enjoy her customary five cups of coffee that morning. Whether they knew Emily there or not, she was paying the Delicious Deli a visit.

A long counter ran down the right half of the small store, stopping just short of the window. Two small cafe tables had been squeezed into the tiny space left over. All were empty, awaiting the lunch rush. Auntie Lil sank gratefully into a small wrought-iron chair and eyed the man behind the counter. He was of medium build, around thirty-five years of age, she judged, with sandy hair and an open, cheery face. He had large round cheeks, wide-set brown eyes and a perfectly chiseled nose. His hair fell across his face and he brushed his unruly bangs aside impatiently. He was leaning against an enormous coffee machine, carefully hand-lettering the day's special on a portable chalkboard. He wore a short-sleeved white restaurant shirt and an apron smeared with chocolate. His enormous biceps were evidence that he did most of the work around the deli. Indeed, there was no one else in sight.

"Can I get you something, ma'am?" he asked Auntie Lil. The smile that lit up his face was broad and genuine. She knew, at once, that this was his deli and that he had worked very hard to make a go of it.

"You said you had good coffee," she told him, pointing to the sign. "I'll decide for myself, if you don't mind."

"Like the sign says, it's the best in New York." He poured her out a cup and admired her hat. "That's some hat you've got there," he told her cheerfully. "Wait until the ladies get a load of it."

"The ladies?" she asked him. The coffee did smell delicious. Her stomach rumbled with a loud growl.

"How about some cheesecake?" the proprietor offered with a smile as he set her cup down in front of her. "It's on me."

"That sounds wonderful." Auntie Lil rummaged through her enormous handbag in search of her wallet. "I will have a piece. And one of your he-man heros, too. But I've got money to pay for it."

"You're lucky," the young man told her. "A lot of old ladies in this neighborhood don't have two dimes to rub together." He considered his words and blushed.

Auntie Lil laughed at his embarrassment. "It's quite all right, young man. It's no secret that I'm old."

He nodded sheepishly and ducked behind the counter to pile enormous hunks of meat and cheese topped with shredded lettuce and tomato slices on a long hard roll. He had no intention of stiffing any little old lady on the he-man. It was truly of heroic proportions.

"My name's Billy Finnegan." He set the enormous sandwich in front of Auntie Lil and held out a hand roughened by hard work. She gripped it in a firm handshake, pleased at his confidence. It bespoke an honest heart. He was probably someone she could trust.

"Why don't you sit down and take a break? I bet you've never seen anyone as old as me eat a whole hero."

"No way you can eat all that," he told her. "But I'm willing to sit and watch." He pulled out a chair and sighed heavily as he sank into it. "One day I'll be able to afford some help around here."

"Who did you mean by 'the ladies'?" Auntie Lil asked, the hero poised before her open mouth. She surveyed it carefully then decided the best strategy was to simply dive in and put her hearty eating skills to their best use. She took a huge bite and chewed lustily, muttering muffled and barely intelligible compliments to the chef. Billy was too busy staring at her to answer.

She swallowed carefully. "Are you referring by any chance to the actresses who live here and frequent the St. Barnabas soup kitchen?" she asked politely before diving into another bite.

"Sure. You know them? I've never seen you with them before." He forced himself to stop staring at her incredible eating and looked her up and down with a practiced air of evaluation. He was no stranger to the streets and realized that Auntie Lil's clothes were too modern and expensive to place her in the same class as the old actresses who scraped by in the neighborhood.

"I work at the kitchen," Auntie Lil confessed. She was a third of her way through the hero and still going strong. "Don't forget my cheesecake," she reminded him.

Billy got up incredulously and returned with an enormous slice of cheesecake. "Do you always eat like that?" he asked, watching her vacuum down the last half of the sandwich and occasionally checking his watch in astonishment.

"I'm very hungry," she admitted, which was as close as she ever came to apologizing for her eating habits. "Besides, it's delicious."

"I make the secret sauce myself."

"Very good." She nodded and carefully wiped her mouth, pulling the cheesecake over and smelling it with approval. "How well do you know the ladies?"

"Pretty well. I give them credit." He shrugged his shoulders. "Not many stores around here will. But they always pay me back when their checks come the first of the month. And they don't eat much, bless them. I guess they don't have the money."

Auntie Lil slid one of Emily's photos from the packet and pushed it across the table toward him. "Did you know this one?"

Billy picked up the photo and winced. He turned it around several times while he examined it carefully. "That's the Pineapple Lady," he finally said. "She stopped here every morning for a small glass of pineapple juice. I've been wondering where she was." He handed the photo back. "What happened to her?"

"She's dead," Auntie Lil said. She would not mention murder yet. "We're trying to find out where she lived and who she was."

"I don't know her name. Sorry." He shrugged. "She paid cash. Always had exact change, even. Sixty-five cents, right down to the penny. I didn't even know she knew the others. I never saw her with them. But I think that she lived in an apartment building somewhere on Forty-Sixth Street."

"An apartment building? Not a shelter?" Auntie Lil asked.

"I think an apartment building. Once I saw her walk by here really late one night. I have to stay open until midnight to catch the theater people coming home from work. It helps me earn enough to cover the rent. She shouldn't have been on the streets so late, and I was surprised to see her out. So I kind of stood in the doorway and watched her walk down Forty-Sixth Street to make sure she'd be safe. I saw her turn into some building there in the middle of the block."

"Which building?" Auntie Lil leaned forward eagerly, her cheesecake forgotten.

"I don't remember." He shrugged his apology. "Wish I could help more. But it was over a month ago. I think it was the south side of the street, though."

She was disappointed but not undaunted. It was a start.

The front door bells chimed and three construction workers stepped inside, eager to try the he-man hero and best coffee in New York. Billy scurried back to work behind the counter and Auntie Lil finished her cheesecake while she watched him. He would see a lot, hanging out in the deli all day, just inches from the big picture window. She had to remember that. He’d know everyone in the neighborhood. It would not be her last visit to the Delicious Deli.

She left her money next to the register, waved goodbye, and headed back to the streets. She had enough time to knock on a few doors before she was to meet T.S. at the soup kitchen. Just then, a patrol car zoomed past and she followed its path up the avenue two blocks to Forty-Eighth Street. It turned right and slid in quickly beside the curb, its bumper protruding into the avenue. She hurried up the block and saw two men dressed in dark suits climb out of the back seat of the police car and wave away the uniformed men in the front seat. She reached the corner just in time to see the plainclothesmen push their way through the waiting crowd and disappear down the steps to the St. Barnabas soup kitchen.

Auntie Lil scurried up the block and cut through the line of waiting patrons, reaching the stairs in time to see Officer King, the bad-tempered patrolman with the Marine haircut letting the two plainclothesmen in the back gate. It clanked shut just as she reached it. Officer King did not seem to recognize her; he simply turned away and led the other officers through the soup kitchen door.

So, Dr. Millerton had notified the police of Emily's poisoning. That meant there was no sense grasping at straws on Forty-Sixth Street, when there might be an entire scarecrow waiting here at St. Barnabas. She waited resolutely at the entrance steps. Someone else would come along soon. And if the police knew anything, she'd soon find out what it was.