A Cast of Killers

CHAPTER SIX



They had gotten no farther than a few feet down the block when a tall black woman sauntered past them. She was dressed in an orange mini-dress that barely covered her butt in back and was stretched to within a millimeter of popping at the sides. It hugged her ample chest tightly and had long sleeves pulled so far down her shoulders that they resembled matching gloves. Unfortunately, the effect was spoiled by a large rip under one of her arms that exposed a strip of coffee-colored skin and a ragged black-lace bra. The woman wore one dangling fake diamond earring and swung a small black purse in idle circles. Her makeup-smudged eyes were wide and vacant and she took no notice of either Auntie Lil or T.S. Passing them slowly, she promptly bumped into a trash can and careened right off without missing a beat. Her eyes closed a bit as she focused on a nearby building and she began to mutter beneath her breath while swatting at imaginary flies with the pocketbook.

Auntie Lil stared after her. "My goodness. I guess she dresses in the dark."

"She dresses for the dark," T.S. corrected her. He stared after the woman's lanky form. "She looks familiar. I think I've seen her before, too.

Auntie Lil surveyed her with distaste. "I can't imagine where," she finally said. "And if you remember, I don't think I even want to know."

T.S. was trying to figure out how someone could move as slowly without simply freezing into one position. "I think she's on drugs," he told Auntie Lil.

"I should hope so. There must be some excuse for that outfit."

As they watched her curiously, the woman peered up at the numbers of several buildings, then abruptly turned and picked up speed. Eyes fixed on the front door, she wobbled up the front stairs of Emily's apartment building, her body teetering dangerously close to the edge of the top step as she attempted to unlock the front door while balanced on high spike heels. She dropped her keys, bent over to pick them up and managed the task only after hiking her skintight dress nearly to her waist.

"She's wearing a girdle," T.S. observed. "Another inch and I'll tell you the brand."

"That despicable overgrown Peter Pan man said there was no one over thirty in the entire building," Auntie Lil said indignantly. "That woman is forty if she's a day."

"And she certainly gives new meaning to his contention that the whole building was in the business," T.S. added. "You wait here."

He crept up behind the woman and caught a whiff of stale liquor mixed with Giorgio perfume. He considered either scent vile in its own right, but the combination was as deadly as mustard gas. He took a step back, which was, unfortunately, downwind, and waited. No wonder she was wobbling, mixing her drink and drugs in the middle of the afternoon like that. She finally succeeded in unlocking the door and lurched inside. T.S. scampered up the stairs and peeked through the front door window in an effort to see which floor she called home.

She chose the nearest floor—which just happened to be the entrance hallway—and slumped against a small storage door set into the wall. She closed her eyes as the door slowly opened and the upper half of her body tumbled into the closet, where she promptly fell asleep. Her thighs and legs, encased in torn black stockings and cheap heels, protruded anonymously into the hallway like an updated version of the Wicked Witch of the East in The Wizard of Oz. T.S. heard a faint buzz begin. At least she was not dying of an overdose before his eyes, and was still capable of lusty snoring.

He contemplated waiting to see what would happen when the bad-tempered superintendent discovered her tenant sprawled across the carpet. But then T.S. decided he'd had his fill of surly strangers for one day and hurried back to his aunt.

"Which floor?" she asked.

"The front hallway floor. She had just enough steam to get inside and now she's snoring away inside the janitor's closet, near the superintendent's door."

"They're good friends, no doubt." Auntie Lil shook her head and glanced at her watch. "It's nearly four. I have just enough time to check out the soup kitchen before it closes."

"The soup kitchen? You got tossed out on your ear, remember?"

"I was told I couldn't work there anymore," she reminded him. "No one said I couldn't go there for a meal."

T.S. stared at her without comment.

"The sign says that all who are hungry are welcome," she insisted petulantly. "Besides, I have to question Adelle and the ladies again."

T.S. sighed. "All right. Give it a whirl. But you're on your own. I'm heading down to Centre Street to see who owns this building and if Abromowitz throws you behind bars, you'll just have to find someone else to bail you out."

"Harvey's at eight?" she asked. "I'll call Herbert and invite him."

"Harvey's at eight." T.S. headed for the subway, thinking longingly of the bar at Harvey's. It would be hushed and dark right now, nearly deserted and at its most inviting. What he really wanted was a good stiff drink and no one to bother him while he drank it. He needed time to explore his memory. Where had he seen that dreadfully attired woman before?


Auntie Lil arrived at St. Barnabas just as the last of the hungry in line were entering the basement. She squeezed in behind them and looked around. Fran and Father Stebbins were both busy behind the counter. There were two obviously bored detectives sitting at far tables interviewing people, but Auntie Lil did not recognize any of them. She sniffed the air suspiciously. Yes, just as she had feared. Fran had overspiced the spaghetti sauce and ruined its flavor. Oh, well. After a giant hero sandwich, cheesecake and three meat pies, not even she was hungry again yet.

Just to be safe, she pulled her felt hat down over her face and sidled up to Adelle's table. She knew Fran would not hesitate to take the advantage Lieutenant Abromowitz had handed her and run with it.

"What in the world?" Adelle demanded in a cultured voice. She had decided to be British for the day and her accent was impeccable.

"It's me," Auntie Lil hissed back.

"For heaven's sake, Lillian," Adelle sniffed. "Why the big disguise?"

"I've been thrown out of here," Auntie Lil told the assembled old actresses indignantly. "By the awful lieutenant in charge of investigating Emily's death."

"Can you believe it?" one old lady asked breathlessly. "Poisoned. One of us poisoned. But by who? And why?"

"Her secrets caught up with her," Eva declared. "That's what she gets for being so superior."

Adelle sighed. "Sit down Lillian. Take off that hat and just turn your back to the crowd. They can't tell one old lady from another, believe me."

Auntie Lil did as she suggested. "How was the sauce?" she demanded.

"Overspiced," Adelle answered promptly. "Honestly. That Fran woman doesn't know the meaning of subtle. She's the Marion Davies of the cooking set." Heads bobbed in agreement.

"So you've heard that Emily was poisoned," Auntie Lil said. "It was most astonishing. I helped discover it, you know." The crowd tittered in appreciation, but no one asked for details. They at least pretended to be a well-bred bunch.

"We've been exchanging theories," Adelle confessed. "And we can't come up with a thing."

"Not quite," one old lady ventured. "There is that Arnold Rothstein thing."

Eva sniffed. "It was me, not Emily, that he stood up that night."

"Is that so?" someone asked nastily. "Then you've been lying about your age all these years. Unless you were dating him when you were twelve years old."

"You have a lot of nerve," Eva countered. "You were in theaters before ladies' smoking rooms were." A murmur of approval ran through the crowd. It had been a most worthy insult.

"Oh, come, come," Adelle ordered them. "Her death is not connected to some gangland murder committed sixty years ago." She looked at Auntie Lil and rolled her well-painted eyes. "Eva here has fantasized for over six decades now that she was supposed to go out on a date with Arnold Rothstein the night he was gunned down."

"I was," Eva insisted. "He stood me up."

"You and a dozen others, sweetie," someone said. "He was not the faithful type."

"We thought, briefly, that maybe Emily had set him up somehow," Adelle told Auntie Lil. "And his gang had taken their time on the revenge. But I don't see how she could have. She didn't even come to New York until 1937 as near as we can tell."

"She was too plain for him anyway," Eva insisted, patting her absurdly black hair primly into place over her growing bald spot. "I ought to know."

Auntie Lil sighed deeply and drummed the table impatiently with her sturdy fingers. "We need to go about this in an organized fashion," she told the table. "You'll just have to trust me on this. After all, I am a professional, practically, and I'm sure you ladies can appreciate the difference between an amateur and a professional."

"Certainly," Adelle allowed graciously. "The show must go on."

"Exactly. So what I'd like to do is ask you some questions about Emily. I know you don't think you remember much, but you never know when a highly astute question from me can reveal the hidden truth."

No one seemed miffed at Auntie Lil's lack of modesty and they all nodded in agreement.

"If you have anything to add, please speak up," Auntie Lil instructed them. "Otherwise, it might be best to try and remain silent. Opinion is not what we are looking for here, just the facts." It was as diplomatic as Auntie Lil ever got and the old ladies nodded in solemn agreement again.

"My first question is, when did you originally meet Emily?"

"I met her in 1939," Adelle answered promptly. "We were chorus girls in Hellzapoppin together. I had a front-row spot and helped her along. She really wasn't a very good dancer, just well endowed."

"I met her right after she came to New York," Eva sniffed, "I think it was late 1938. We shared rooms in the same boarding house on Thirty-Sixth Street. She was already putting on airs about Our Town and going around calling herself Emily Toujours."

"What about the rest of you?" Auntie Lil asked the remaining actresses scattered around the table. After separating the babble of voices that answered, she determined that a few had known Emily briefly in the early forties and the remainder had not known her at all until the last few years.

"Why did you lose contact with her for so many years?" Auntie Lil asked those who had known Emily many years ago.

"I lost contact with her after the show," Adelle admitted. "We hadn't much in common and when the war started, I got a spot with A1 Jolson's revue. We went overseas, you know. The man was tireless. How the soldiers loved him. They loved me, too, of course. I was gone for nearly a year and when I returned, we never renewed our friendship. I saw her around town now and then, but that was all."

One of the actresses looked up sharply and stared at Adelle. Auntie Lil did not fail to notice it.

"I kept up with her," Eva volunteered. "Sort of like you'd keep your eye on a snake." She ignored the protests that met this slur. "We were on speaking terms for a few more years, but she moved away from New York in 1944, I believe it was. To marry some sappy officer in the Air Force."

"You don't know the name of the man she married?" Auntie Lil asked.

"No. He was from Kansas or Missouri or Illinois or Ohio or some place like that," Eva said glumly. "I think his first name was Homer or Harold or Horace, or something dreadfully Midwestern."

At least it had been his real name, Auntie Lil thought sourly.

"Adelle knew him, didn't you?" an otherwise quiet actress said. They all turned and stared at her, perhaps surprised that she had finally spoken up. "I thought Adelle went out with him first," she exclaimed, feeling a need to defend herself against the stares of her colleagues. "He was a quite handsome man…” Her voice trailed off.

"Perhaps I did." Adelle shrugged. "It's so hard to remember when one has had so very many liaisons through the years." She sighed, as if begrudging the effort those liaisons had required.

"You told me you could learn a script in three readings flat," Auntie Lil pointed out. "And you can't even remember this man's name?"

Adelle was not fazed. "Men were never important to me. Only my characters meant anything."

Auntie Lil sighed. The information wasn't helping her much. "When did you begin to run into Emily again?" she asked the women.

"I recognized her about three years ago at a matinee of Les Miserables," Adelle explained. "Or rather, she recognized me. I guess I do look pretty much the same. Emily was much, much older, of course. But she still wore her hair in the same old roll and her cheekbones were unmistakable." She sighed with envy. "She really had the most marvelous cheekbones. She would have looked grand on screen."

"Obviously she didn't," Eva said nastily. "Or Mr. Zanuck would have put her under contract."

"That's right," Adelle admitted, and explained to Auntie Lil. "She was asked to go out to 20th Century in the early forties for a screen test. Right after our show together. They were scouring Broadway night and day for stars back then. But her speaking voice was her weakness."

"She sounded like a mouse," Eva put in. "A sick mouse."

"After that, the war interrupted everything just long enough to ruin what little chance she might have had," Adelle continued. "It was just bad timing more than anything else, really. Emily never had my sense of timing, poor thing. She came back to New York for a few more years of trying, not knowing, of course, that the war would throw Hollywood into a golden era. She really should have stayed on in Los Angeles. She was pretty enough. She could easily have been an extra. But by the time she figured it out, I think she had already married this man and moved away. I never saw or heard from her again until that matinee three years ago."

"And over the past three years," Auntie Lil asked, "you've learned nothing more of substance about her private life than that?"

"No," the table chorused in apology.

"She was very private about her life," someone explained. "Secretive, really."

"She didn't want us to know anything about her," another actress added.

"I think it's because she was poor and too proud to let us know," Eva insisted.

Adelle stared at her in warning. "Actually," she said in her even, well-modulated voice, "I think it was because she was rather well-off, compared to us, and didn't want us to know."

Auntie Lil was inclined to agree with Adelle. "I found out where she lived," she told the women, filling in only some of the details. "She had a rather nice little apartment on Forty-Sixth Street. It was filled with Playbills and ticket stubs. She certainly had enough money to go to the theater."

"That does take money these days," Adelle said. "Most of us sneak in. We know the usherettes and if there's an empty seat, who gets hurt?"

"But Emily would always buy orchestra seats," another lady remembered suddenly. "Does that help at all?"

"That's true. She was very fond of telling us so," Eva sniffed in disgust. "Of course, she was probably not eating or not buying shoes or something, just so she could lord it over us."

"That's not so," Adelle corrected her gently. "You were the one who always had to pull it out of her. What had she seen? Where had she sat? You were intent on torturing yourself, I believe."

"I'm not quite clear what the problem was between the two of you," Auntie Lil told Eva firmly. "But I think you had better tell me about it."

"That's right," someone else pointed out. "You'd better tell her, Eva. Or else you'll be a suspect."

Several old ladies found the prospect funny. Auntie Lil did not. Eva, in fact, was a suspect in her book. And Auntie Lil did not find it amusing to contemplate one old actress killing another. She found it perfectly plausible. Especially by the rather dramatic method of poison in a public place.

Adelle was adept at interpreting expressions and she correctly guessed at Auntie Lil's. "You better tell her everything, Eva," she ordered her friend. "It's really not the time to hold back."

Eva looked miserable. "She just never liked me," she admitted finally. "If she had been nice to me, I would have been nice back."

"Of course she didn't like you," someone pointed out. "You were horrid to her."

"She always seemed to get better parts than me," Eva defended herself.

"That wasn't her fault," Adelle interjected.

"Better men, too," Eva added stubbornly. "It was as if God sent her to follow me around and snatch everything I wanted right from my hands just as it was within my grasp."

"Nonsense." The tiny old woman who had crossed Eva before spoke up again. "You just enjoyed suffering so much that every time Emily got something, you convinced yourself that you had wanted it, too. It was you that created those situations, not her. Honestly. Sometimes I think you would have done a better job than Julie Harris in The Lark. You've had enough practice being a martyr."

Eva sniffed unhappily. "Maybe. Maybe not. But I did try to be friends with her these last three years. And she'd have nothing to do with me. She liked to have her secrets and she'd never tell me what they were."

"Secrets?" Auntie Lil asked. "Like what?" She saw Fran glancing over the dining room with a proprietary air and quickly bent her face down low. It might be best to remain discreet, considering that being thrown out by Fran was not in her plans at the moment. In fact, she'd rather die than endure the humiliation. Provided it was a peaceful death, of course.

"I don't know what her secrets were," Eva was saying indignantly. "Like I said, she wouldn't tell me."

"What did she tell you exactly?" Auntie Lil asked patiently.

"She said that things around here were not as innocent as they seemed," Eva announced mysteriously. "She said this neighborhood was like quicksand. Smooth on the surface and unholy underneath."

Adelle flapped a hand. "Oh, please. Don't bring that up again."

"What up again?" Auntie Lil stared from one old lady to another.

"She means Fran and Father Stebbins," one actress finally answered. "Though I don't think there's a thing to it."

"Of course not." Adelle dismissed the idea with an elegant flap of her long hands. "Father Stebbins has far too much taste for the likes of her."

Auntie Lil glanced behind the counter. Fran was hovering near Father Stebbins, talking earnestly and getting little reaction from the preoccupied priest.

"I certainly hope you're right," Auntie Lil said.

"Of course I'm right," Adelle insisted. "I admit Father Stebbins is given to clichés, but breaking his vow of celibacy is not one of those clichés."

"She hinted at having younger friends," Eva added. Her brow was wrinkled in thought, an expression that turned her heavily lined eyebrows into twin questions laid on their sides. She really was trying to help Auntie Lil.

"Younger?" Auntie Lil said. "What gave you the impression they were younger?"

Eva shrugged. "She let it drop that she was bringing a younger man to see Cats, I think it was. She said something about hoping she could keep up." Eva glanced around the table, pleased at the effect her pronouncement had on the group. Mouths open wide, they gaped at her, trying to reconcile the image of an aloof Emily dating a younger man.

"Well, you could interpret that many ways," Auntie Lil said.

"That's what I mean," Eva agreed. "She was always hinting at things without ever really saying anything. Just because she knew it drove me crazy."

"It isn't much to go on," Auntie Lil told them. They looked ashamed and she stirred uneasily. "Look here," she added, hoping to brighten their moods. "Did any of you ever see her with anyone else?" They all shook their heads no. She opened her giant pocketbook and rummaged inside, producing the dime store strip of photos. "How about one of these boys?" she asked, passing the photo around the table.

They took turns scrutinizing it carefully, some of them holding the strip only inches from their eyes, but no one recognized either of the boys.

Auntie Lil sighed and packed the photos back inside her pocketbook. She saw that Fran had finished speaking to Father Stebbins and was eyeing the floor of the dining room as if intending to make a sweep through the tables. The image of Fran grabbing her elbow and marching her out on police orders was not a pleasant one. "I'd better go now," Auntie Lil decided. No sense throwing fuel on Fran's fire. "If you think of anything else, let me know."

"But you haven't told us how we could help," Adelle protested. "She was our friend and we want to help. We want to know where your investigation stands. How will we know what you've found out if we're not involved?"

Auntie Lil did not have time to evaluate the implications of this statement. She was too busy watching Fran approach one of the first tables. Soon, she would be headed their way. "This is serious business," she told the table quickly. "I can't let amateurs gum up the works."

"We are not amateurs," Adelle protested. "My God, we're trained professionals, highly skilled in our craft."

"But in acting, not detecting," Auntie Lil pointed out.

"Same thing," Adelle insisted loftily.

"If I can think of a way you can be of help, I certainly will let you know," Auntie Lil promised. She had to go now or risk ignominious exposure. "I've got to meet Theodore and I'm late," she lied, scurrying out the basement door.

Adelle stared after her. "Well, I never. Talk about poor timing for your exit." She sniffed and the other old actresses nodded their solemn agreement.


As usual, Auntie Lil was getting to do all the fun work while T.S. went off on a futile tangent. But he would still do his best, despite the fact that he wasn't having much luck down at City Hall. First he got lost in the maze of distinguished, Romanesque buildings which looked exactly alike to him and then he was crushed in a crowd of early commuters anxious to head home before the five o'clock rush. By the time he found the building holding housing records, it was nearly a quarter to five. Things were not looking good. He rode the elevator to the proper floor in gloomy silence, trying hard to ignore the surreptitious glances of several of his fellow riders. He straightened his shoulders, conscious of their scrutiny. Why in the world were they doing staring at him? He was the one properly dressed in stylish clothes. They all had on brown or checked suits at least two decades out of date and had let their bodies go to seed. They looked like a convention of ill-dressed penguins... or hair oil salesmen. As the elevator neared his floor, several of the men drew closer to T.S. The doors opened and one ventured a comment.

"Going to records?" he asked brightly.

"Yes," T.S. replied slowly, noting that a number of heads had turned his way. "I need to find out who the owner of a building is." As he spoke, four men accompanied him out of the elevator and began shouting and pushing to get close to T.S. He stared at them mystified, unable to separate their voices. They waved business cards in his face and babbled. One particularly portly gentleman finally succeeded in elbowing his competitors aside and dragging T.S. a short distance down the hall while the others watched enviously.

"Lenny Melk, real estate consultant," he assured T.S. smoothly. "Don't let those amateurs fool you. What you need is a pro. Someone who knows the lay of the land. Not to mention the clerks and the procedures. Are you aware that you could be lost in these hallways for days, without food or sustenance, seeking knowledge and enlightenment that, for a mere thirty-five dollars, I could obtain in five minutes?"

"What?" T.S. removed his elbow from the man's grasp and drew himself upright, trying not to stare. Lenny Melk was shaped like a middle-aged bear—he was all stomach and sloped shoulders. His gray suit had wide lines of red running through it, except for the three spots where a coffee stain had interrupted the pattern—and his shoulders were peppered with a healthy snowfall of dandruff. In fact, it was a blizzard. His clearly visible scalp shone gray beneath strands of greasy black hair and his doughy face was sprinkled with old acne scars.

"Do you mean to tell me that all of you are nothing but vultures, riding the elevators day after day looking for people to descend on?" T.S. asked.

"Certainly not." Lenny Melk was not the least bit miffed at being labeled a vulture. He thrust a heavily jeweled hand into his greasy hair and combed it back over a large bald spot. "I am an entrepreneur and well worth my modest fee. Of course, if you don't believe me, go right ahead and do it yourself." He waved his hand in the general direction of a large double doorway. T.S. peeked inside. Dozens of people were poring over pages of records at scarred, ancient library tables. Others were engaged in arguments with bored-looking clerks who stood behind a pair of counters at one end of the room. Rows and rows of card catalog drawers lined the walls and the clock on the far wall was ticking ominously closer to five o'clock.

"Better hurry. You got all of five minutes," Lenny Melk assured him smoothly. "These people are civil servants. They're going to start dragging their feet in about five minutes." He checked his watch—a bad Rolex imitation—and began to whistle the theme from Rocky.

"All right, all right," T.S. agreed. He dug into his pocket for the money. "But I'm waiting here. This is the address I need the info on." He handed the man a handful of bills plus Emily's apartment building number. "I want to know who owns it and if a condominium conversion plan has been filed. And anything else pertinent."

"No sweat," Lenny promised him, pocketing the money with practiced ease. "But I do need two more fivers, on account of the time."

T.S. raised his eyebrows and stared at the man.

"Not for me. For the clerk," Lenny explained defensively.

"Of course," T.S. murmured in resignation. "I forgot for a moment where 1 was." He handed over two more fives and watched as Lenny practiced his magic. The man was right. He was not an amateur at all. He was truly an entrepreneur. He quickly snatched an oversized bundle of building plans from an abandoned spot on a nearby table and sidled up ahead of several people waiting in line. He held one hammy finger to a spot on the plans and stared at it in mock confusion. Murmuring apologies to those behind him, he bellied up to the front of the counter and snapped his fingers at the clerk. The clerk, a skinny man blessed with the embalmed attitude of all civil servants, turned his way with an astonished glare that quickly changed to a look of barely concealed recognition and what T.S. suspected was a spark of greed. Shielding himself from the view of others with the large building plans, Lenny slipped a five to the clerk and quickly barked out a question. To the chagrin of the entire line, the clerk promptly disappeared in back, behind a stack of drawers that bulged with unfiled papers. Lenny half-turned and gave T.S. a coquettish wave. Feeling foolish, T.S. waved back.

It took several minutes, but when the clerk reappeared, he had a handful of papers that he handed over to Lenny. Lenny stuffed them under his arm and quickly shook the clerk's hand, passing another five to him as he did so. Smiling at the enraged line still waiting, he headed back to T.S., pretending to be unaware of the fact that the clerk was quickly sliding down a wooden barrier and closing his station. "Sorry," the clerk's expression conveyed to the line as he pointed to the clock. "But not really. Better luck next time."

"Let's get out of here before you get lynched," T.S. suggested. A large man, who had been elbowed aside while preoccupied with his official papers, was making a beeline for Lenny. His expression hinted that he was a man of action.

"No problem," Lenny said, glancing over his shoulder. He grabbed T.S.'s elbow and pulled him out into the hallway and into the first open door. It was the ladies' room and, fortunately, it was empty. Pink paint peeled from dingy walls and a cracked mirror had been decorated with a lipstick to read rosalyn loves randy forever.

"Here's the story," Lenny announced in a superior tone of voice. He scanned the papers quickly, his expressions ranging from professional boredom to slight interest and back again to boredom. "Looks like the building is owned by some kind of holding company, probably just a dummy corporation, that calls itself Worthy Enterprises, Inc. They've owned it just over two years. They give their address as 1515 Broadway. I never heard of them." He shrugged. "No conversion plan. It's all rental apartments." He glanced at the date. "A couple of them go for pretty cheap. Rent control, I guess. Real estate taxes are $8,567 a year. Paid on time. Sort of. Anything else you need to know?"

"Anything else you can tell me?" T.S. didn't think it was much to go on.

"Naw." Lenny finished scanning the pages and showed them to T.S. "See for yourself."

It didn't help. He couldn't decipher a thing. He simply verified the address of Worthy Enterprises and thanked Lenny Melk for his help.

"My pleasure," the man replied, giving a portly bow. "Here, please, take my card in case you ever find yourself in need again of real estate consultancy services."

T.S. tucked it in his pocket along with the business card of Gregory Rogers, Dance Master Extraordinaire, and made his getaway. He managed to squeeze into the first elevator that arrived, which put him smack in the middle of an angry crowd of patrons who had not made the five o'clock deadline. Fortunately, no one had connected him with Lenny Melk and he felt relatively safe, with the exception of his wallet, which he discreetly patted periodically. He was, after all, in New York.

As he hurried from the building, he saw the small team of entrepreneurs lurking in the lobby and descending on the dissatisfied crowd, offering their services first thing in the morning. T.S. admired their nerve.

He stopped at the nearest public phone that worked, which turned out to be near Canal Street in the heart of Chinatown. Ignoring the shrieks of bargaining Chinese that whirled around him, he picked his way through the debris of a corner fish store and sought refuge in the gutter. Discarded lettuce lay across his shoe like a deflated balloon and he had to keep one finger firmly plugged in his free ear to hear the operator, but he finally obtained the number to Worthy Enterprises and, ignoring the glare of a waiting Chinese mother and small boy, quickly dialed it, not sure of what he would say.

"Good afternoon," a breathless voice answered. Another Marilyn Monroe wannabe. "This is the office of—" A garbage truck roared past, obliterating the rest of her sentence.

"Hello? Hello?" T.S. shouted. "Is this Worthy Enterprises?"

"Drop dead," the breathy voice replied. It was followed by a click.


It was a good thing Auntie Lil failed to warn him that she was also planning to invite Lilah to dinner as well as Herbert Wong. Had he known, T.S. would only have spent the few hours of preparation in being nervous. As it was, he had to endure a few seconds of a humiliating flush that crept up his neck when he spotted her waiting at the bar. Fortunately, Harvey's still believed that ambience required dim lighting and he knew his surprise had been well concealed.

"Got yourself a sunburn, Mr. Hubbert?" Frederick the bartender boomed.

"A sunburn?" he answered. "Why, no. I may have gotten a little more sun than anticipated today. It was quite warm, you know." He kept his eyes firmly away from Lilah.

"The usual?" Frederick asked him. "Auntie Lil has not yet arrived."

"The usual," T.S. confirmed. "My aunt called ahead?"

"No, but this lovely lady let me know the score." Frederick bowed briefly toward Lilah, who flashed T.S. a smile, giving him the opportunity to pretend that he had just spotted her.

"Lilah. What a lovely surprise." He slid onto the stool next to hers and immediately snagged the edge of his sweater on a splinter, pulling out a large loop of yellow yarn that gaped between them like spittle.

"Oh, your beautiful sweater," she fretted, unhooking him from the splinter. "Wait just a moment and I'll fix it." She produced a bobby pin from the depths of her upswept hair, releasing a charming lock of white strands that fell behind one ear. Holding the pin like a tiny sword, she reached one hand under T.S.'s sweater and he breathed in deeply, willing his potbelly to disappear, if only for the next fifteen seconds. She fumbled with the nap, located the offending string and hooked the pin around it, jerking it back through to the inside of his sweater with a quick tug. Holding the side seams tightly between two well-manicured hands, she stretched the nap smooth again. "There," she said, smiling shyly at T.S. "I used to do this for my daughters all the time."

"Not bad," Frederick interrupted from behind the bar. "I could use someone with your skills around my house." He set the Dewars and soda in front of T.S. It didn't stay there long.

"Thirsty?" Lilah inquired. "Have you had a hard day sleuthing?"

"Very hard," T.S. agreed. It seemed incredibly warm in Harvey's. You would think that with all the oak wainscoting and polished wood and brass and hanging plants that it would be at least a little bit cooler than outside. But no, it seemed hotter than a steam room in Hell, at least in his opinion.

"Look. There's Aunt Lil." Lilah turned on her stool and stared at the doorway. So did nearly everyone else in the restaurant. And no wonder. Auntie Lil was wearing a neon green pants suit of a diaphanous material. In response to the draft from the front door, it billowed about her like a cloud of poisonous gas. An enormous matching shawl exploding with bright purple flowers trailed off one of her shoulders onto the floor behind her. Suddenly, the front door opened again and a small man hurried inside, hot on the trail of the shawl's tail. Scooping it off the floor, he carefully brushed the dirt from the fabric and tucked it back over Auntie Lil's other shoulder.

"It's Herbert!" Lilah cried in delight.

Herbert Wong blinked his eyes slowly as he adjusted to the dim lighting. He was a petite Asian man of undeterminable age, with a military bearing and a small, rounded belly. His skin gave off a burnished glow and warm age spots dotted his pear-like complexion. Thinning hair was impeccably combed back from a jolly oval face that was dominated by sharply alert eyes. He was wearing a closely cut mustard-colored suit nicely set off by a gray and black diamond-patterned silk shirt. It was snazzy attire that any rock-and-roller would have been proud of, but on Herbert Wong it did not look out of place at all. Its gaudiness was tamed by an inner reserve evident in his regal bearing, and it suited him as appropriately as the colorful plumage of the male peacock. Preening ever so slightly, he scanned the restaurant's interior quickly and his face lit up with undisguised admiration when he spotted T.S. at the bar.

"Mr. Hubbert," he called across the foyer, following this respectful greeting with a tiny bow. Reflexively, T.S. tried to bow back and nearly toppled from his stool, saved only by the quick grasp of Lilah's surprisingly strong fingers. That first gulp of Scotch had gone straight to his head, he'd better slow it down.

Auntie Lil did not call out a greeting. She was too busy tussling with the new maître d', who had obviously not yet had the pleasure of making her acquaintance. If he had, he would not have been wrestling with her or trying to convince her to give the shawl to the coat-check girl. As it was, he held one end of the enormous wrap and was tugging on it firmly while Auntie Lil gripped the other end with no intention of letting go. T.S. slid from his stool to intervene. He wanted the evening to start off smoothly.

"Madam, this is as big as a tablecloth," the maître d' was growling. "I really must insist that you check it." He was a small trim man with a pretentious pencil mustache, squeezed into a too-tight tuxedo. He was obviously singlehandedly trying hard to restore 1940s elegance to an unwilling Harvey's Chelsea Restaurant.

"Let go of my clothing, you worm," Auntie Lil said calmly. "This is a Donna Karan original and I'm not giving it up."

"Aunt Lil," T.S. interrupted. "Who would steal it? It screams louder than a burglar alarm. I don't think anyone will even try."

"I don't care. I like my clothing near my body. That is why I wear it." She and the maître d' squared off again and pulled, neither of them willing to let go.

Noticing the skirmish, a waiter hurried up, anxious to placate Auntie Lil. She was a notorious overtipper and thus, a favorite customer. The waiter had wisely decided that it would do no good to antagonize a valuable source of his income.

"Pierre," the waiter cried frantically. "It's no problem. I've plenty of room in my section." Before Pierre—who was more probably named Chip or Bruce—could protest, the waiter led Auntie Lil to her usual table at the rear of the dining room where she had an equally good view of the front door and the huge dessert cart. Herbert darted forward and pulled out her chair for her after cleverly outflanking the overly attentive waiter. The waiter countered by carefully wrapping the shawl around Auntie Lil's chair so many times that it was left looking positively upholstered. T.S. contented himself with helping Lilah to her seat and grabbing the spot next to hers.

"A lovely outfit," Lilah murmured Auntie Lil's way.

"Isn't it?" Auntie Lil turned proudly in her seat. "These are the latest colors. A bit bright, so I decided not to wear a hat. It stands on its own, don't you think?"

"Indeed," T.S. affirmed. "I'd say it more likely races." He greeted Herbert politely and, after the usual round of inquiring after everyone's health and settling a few matters of an ingrown toenail here and a vacation to Mexico there, they all settled into ordering a new round of drinks and letting Auntie Lil order everyone's dinner.

"We'll pretend this is a Chinese restaurant," she said. "And we'll sample each other's entrees."

"Excellent idea," Herbert Wong beamed, but he was prone to beaming at anything Auntie Lil suggested. They had become constant companions as both were infused with inexhaustible energy and insatiable appetites for new adventures and friends.

"Don't forget that we are here to work," Auntie Lil reminded them as soon as their appetizers arrived. (Appetizers always arrived shortly after Auntie Lil did.)

Lilah volunteered to begin with a report on the medical examiner's findings. It was brief. Emily had indeed been poisoned. The substance was formally identified as a nitroprusside, a form of cyanide easily accessible to photographers, jewelers, metallurgists and goldsmiths, all of whom relied on it for various chemical synthesis purposes. It could have been put in her food in either powder or liquid form; there had not been enough evidence to support a particular finding either way. Emily had been thin, even considering her age, but not ill nourished. She had not eaten much that day, which had probably contributed to an almost instantaneous reaction to the minute amount of poison that she'd had time to consume before her death. Her age was estimated at between seventy and eighty-five. It was the assistant medical examiner's opinion (Lilah did not refer to him by name, much to T.S.'s satisfaction) that Emily had borne at least one child in the past and that she had suffered from a slight bone deformity in one leg, which may have helped explain Adelle's belief that she had been a poor dancer. Her teeth were in good shape and indicated regular professional care. She had dyed her hair with a popular silver coloring agent. Finally, she had no tattoos, scars or birthmarks that might help distinguish her from a million other little old ladies. And there was no mention made of her marvelous cheekbones.

They were silent, contemplating the method of murder.

"Women are poisoners," Auntie Lil remarked darkly. "I knew a woman in Montreal once who went through four husbands before they caught her. She even tried to poison the horse of the Royal Canadian Mounted Policeman who finally apprehended her."

"Men poison, too," Herbert politely disagreed. "At home in Singapore, there was a man whose wives always mysteriously died once their bloom of youth had withered. Curiously enough, his mother-in-laws died soon after. We all suspected, but what could we do? One night he drowned off the coast and was eaten by sharks."

Well, good God. There was no way T.S. could top those two when it came to anecdotes about death. He contented himself with a small critical comment instead. "Whether it was a man or a woman, it was a good choice of method. It would almost certainly have gone undetected," he pointed out. "If the coroner had not been training a new assistant, I doubt the poison would have been found. Without an identity, there was no family to insist on an autopsy."

"Indeed," Auntie Lil agreed. "It was ingenious. Right there in a public place, with witnesses present to attest to her heart attack. No identity left on the body. But the killer obviously didn't know that she had friends there who might have been able to provide her name and address. That was a risk. He thought she was a loner."

"Which means the killer had not been stalking her long enough to know that the other actresses were her friends," Herbert added.

"That's right. Probably, he'd known her only in the last few months or so," T.S. decided. "She'd been feuding with the other actresses for about that long. Before then, I'm sure she probably sat at the same table with Adelle and the others. So you're right. He hadn't known her very long."

"He?" Lilah asked and they told her about The Eagle.

"The Eagle?" Herbert Wong repeated thoughtfully. "That's interesting. Did he mean an American Indian?" They stared at him silently and he defended himself. "A wise man covers all possibilities."

"That's right," Auntie Lil agreed, pushing her bowl away. She had already finished her soup and couldn't have done a faster job with a straw. "Which is why we need to cover all the bases in the weeks ahead."

"You have a plan?" Lilah asked, though the others knew this was a rhetorical question. Auntie Lil always had a plan in mind and it usually involved the efforts of others.

"Yes. I've asked Herbert to begin watching the apartment building where she lived. And I'm going to go to the police for help." She added this last sentence as if it were a great sacrifice on her part. "Theodore—did you find out who owned the building?"

He told them what he had learned and it was decided that he would try to track down the person or persons behind the dummy corporation, Worthy Enterprises.

"Excuse me," Herbert Wong then announced politely. They turned to him and waited. "I am most happy to devote all waking hours to my appointed task. But there are times when I must sleep," he admitted reluctantly.

"Of course. You'll have to have help watching the building." Auntie Lil drummed her fingers impatiently and the waiter, misinterpreting her movement, brought them another large basket of bread. She bit absently into a huge breadstick, which immediately crumbled into a small anthill on a spot of the tablecloth directly beneath the chin. She brushed the crumbs idly onto the floor, her brow furrowed in deep thought. "I've got it," she finally said, then swallowed. "Adelle and the other old actresses want to help," she quickly explained. "Herbert, you can supervise them in shifts. We'll watch that building like a hawk, or eagle as it were. There are enough of them to follow anyone who leaves the building. Keep track of their descriptions and the addresses where they go. It won't be easy, but then we won't be doing the work, will we? And it could be most informative." She smiled, extremely pleased at her logic.

That decided, Lilah asked how she might help. Without missing a beat, Auntie Lil explained how it was important for her dear Theodore to have someone he could call on night and day for aid.

Her extreme lack of subtlety went unnoticed by everyone but T.S., who was acutely embarrassed by the "night" part. But Lilah was unfazed and happily agreed, pleased to be a part of their plan.

"I'm going to keep interviewing neighborhood people," Auntie Lil assured them. "I'll go back to the Delicious Deli owner first. He mentioned she'd been out quite late at night a month or so ago. It was a change in her pattern and there must have been a reason for that change." She rooted around in her pocketbook while they waited, and finally produced the strip of dime store photos. "I'm also going to try and find out who these young boys are and what their connection to Emily might be."

T.S. was silent for a moment, but knew that he needed to speak up. He did not want to tell them what he'd seen going on next door to Emily's apartment, but there might be a connection. If so, Auntie Lil needed to be told. The trick would be to do so tactfully. T.S. was a big believer in tact.

He cleared his throat but was saved from immediate action when their entrees arrived. The apportioning, tasting and exclaiming that followed made it easier for him to broach the subject.

"Those young boys," he told his aunt as she shoveled shepherd's pie into her mouth. "I have a feeling about them," T.S. continued. "I think you'll probably find that they live on the streets. And earn their living doing… odd jobs and stuff around the neighborhood."

Auntie Lil looked at T.S. as if he were daft. "Odd jobs?" she repeated skeptically. "There are no lawns to mow in Hell's Kitchen."

T.S. sighed. "No. But there are plenty of disgusting and perverted human beings willing to take advantage of starving runaways forced to make a dollar any way they can."

Auntie Lil stopped chewing and stared at him. She swallowed slowly and blinked. "Oh, dear. You don't say."

"I say," T.S. confirmed grimly.

"All right, then. I promise to be careful." Auntie Lil's shoulders slumped a little as she returned to her meal and Lilah gazed anxiously at T.S. Herbert patted Auntie Lil's hand and murmured something soothing. She was not overly fond of children, but Auntie Lil did delight in innocence.

"Perhaps you should try to speak to someone who works with runaways in the area," Herbert suggested diplomatically. "They may know the young boys."

"Brilliant!" Auntie Lil perked back up and patted his tiny hand fondly. "Herbert, you're a man after my own heart."

Carried away by her enthusiasm and praise, Herbert puffed up and made a rash promise. "On my part, I will search without ceasing for this man you call The Eagle," he announced. "I, too, believe he must have given Miss Emily that poison. I will not rest until he has been exposed."

"Then you had better start with trying to find the old man who saw him sitting next to Emily the day she died," Lilah said. She smiled at the group. "See? I have a good idea every now and then, too." Her smile focused on T.S. and he smiled happily back. Lilah was one big good idea, in his book.

By the end of the evening, they'd carefully laid out their plans and each of them had assigned tasks to perform. And although they'd not gotten very far yet, they all felt better knowing that their words would soon become actions.

The only thing left to decide was who would pay the check. After a brief tussle with Auntie Lil and Lilah, T.S. won. Herbert Wong took care of the tip. T.S. was not surprised to notice that it was as excessive as any Auntie Lil had ever left behind.