A Cast of Killers (15 page)

"I have my ways." She clutched her pocketbook
against her chest to calm the beating of her heart. She had thought
the lieutenant might be a bit peeved after she solved his last case
out from under him, but really… this was going too far. The man was
positively boorish.

"Well, I suggest you tell George here exactly
what ways." The lieutenant gestured toward a chair and cocked his
thumb. George took Auntie Lil by the elbow and led her to a table.
Lieutenant Abromowitz stood over them, glowering. "Interview this
woman very, very thoroughly," he ordered. "I want to know every
move she made the day the victim died." Then he whirled on his
heels and stomped out the door.

Auntie Lil turned back around for a
satisfying peek. He had put on weight since she'd last seen him and
his stomach jiggled over the top of his belt as he strode across
the room. To top it off, his hair was definitely thinning.
Practically gone. But wait—there was a wink of gold on one finger.
Oh, dear. Some poor woman had actually married the man and Auntie
Lil thought she knew who. He reached the door and slammed it shut
behind him.

The resounding crack served as a signal for
everyone assembled to turn back and stare at Auntie Lil. Father
Stebbins seemed both transfixed and perplexed, while Fran was too
baffled to display her usual resentment. Auntie Lil met the gaze of
everyone present with a very sweet smile.

"I see the lieutenant hasn't changed a bit,"
she said. "What a shame for you all."

Auntie Lil suspected that her detective,
whose full name turned out to be George Santos, didn't like
Lieutenant Abromowitz very much. His idea of grilling Auntie Lil
was a rather dispirited request to retrace her steps on the day
Emily died. This Auntie Lil was able to do in excruciating detail.
Her memory was excellent and she had already gone over the scene
many times in her own mind, searching for a clue as to how Emily
had been poisoned. It took nearly forty-five minutes for poor
Santos to take down her full statement. He wrote methodically and
without comment, only raising his eyebrows when she mentioned The
Eagle and explained their trip to the medical examiner's office.
When he was done, he promised to have it typed and to give her a
chance to look it over. She nodded, satisfied. She already knew it
would do fine. She had even managed to halfheartedly implicate Fran
with a vague reference or two to her having disappeared during the
cooking (which was true). It would serve as payback for those looks
she'd given Auntie Lil earlier.

"So, how do you know the lieutenant?" the
detective asked curiously as he tucked his small notebook back into
his shirt pocket.

"I had the misfortune of meeting him on a
previous case."

"Yes, it's always a misfortune to meet the
lieutenant, isn't it?" Santos patted his pocket and rose to go.
"They had to kick him somewhere, I guess. It was just my luck it
was Midtown North." He stopped to look Auntie Lil over carefully,
then assured her, "The lieutenant may want to suspect you, but you
seem like a straight-shooter to me. If we need anything else from
you, we'll get in touch."

"Will the kitchen be able to open today?"
Auntie Lil asked anxiously. She could see Father Stebbins and Fran
being questioned at separate tables by other detectives. Both
looked annoyed, worried, anxious and alarmed all at the same
time.

"Sure. Business as usual," Santos promised.
"We haven't found anything on the premises yet and, like you say,
only one person died. And nobody died yesterday, right?" He gave a
disinterested laugh. "If she was even poisoned here, which we won't
know until they run further tests, it must have been put into her
individual serving somehow. That means we're going to want to talk
to everyone who was sitting around her at the time."

"These are very transient people," Auntie Lil
told him. "I'm not sure you'll be able to find them."

"We're going to try," Santos promised,
patting his pocket again. "Starting today. That's why it's business
as usual."

They were shaking hands when Officer King
ambled up to glare down at Auntie Lil. He would be the type who
brown-nosed his way into the lieutenant's affections by assuming
his every grudge and posture. "Lieutenant says the kitchen can open
as always," he announced.

"Thanks, I've already told her that," Santos
said calmly. "Don't you have a drug dealer to beat up somewhere,
pal?"

Officer King ignored him. "Except for her,"
he said. He cocked a thumb at Auntie Lil. "The lieutenant says
she's not to be allowed back in the kitchen until we find out who
did it. He wants to be on the safe side."

The detective looked back and forth between
Auntie Lil and the patrolman. "Who are you kidding?" he finally
said. "Abromowitz is just being an asshole. There's no reason to
keep her from helping out."

"That's what he says. And he's the
lieutenant." Officer King shrugged happily and walked away
whistling a very bad version of "Jailhouse Rock."

"Sorry," George apologized. "There's nothing
I can do."

Auntie Lil rose to make a dignified exit.
"That man will never make detective," she declared, nodding toward
the departing Officer King.

"What do you mean?"

"Anyone so stupid as to side with Lieutenant
Abromowitz on anything deserves to spend their life pounding the
pavement." Auntie Lil pinned her hat firmly on and left the
befuddled detective behind. She sailed past Fran, who glared at her
out of habit, patted Father Stebbins reassuringly on the back, and
escaped out the front door.

Well, she'd been kicked out of far worse—and
far better—places before. Besides, it had been a real learning
experience: it was just as she suspected. The police knew nothing.
And with Abromowitz in charge, they never would.

T.S.
was waiting for her outside. "What's going on?" he demanded.
"How come you were inside and they won't let me in?" Other
volunteers stood behind him, listening anxiously. Several people in
line were eavesdropping as well, their anxious faces lined with
both worry and hunger.

"The police wanted to question me about
Emily's death," was all Auntie Lil said. "I suggest we go elsewhere
to talk."

"Are we going to open up today?" one of the
volunteers asked. The early people in line looked at her in alarm,
their worried looks deepening.

Auntie Lil nodded. "Yes, but probably late.
Better get inside. They're going to need help with the cooking. I
was going to make spaghetti. Make sure you use plenty of oregano
and garlic and don't let Fran overdo the basil."

The volunteers scurried down the steps and
began to call through the gate. Auntie Lil led T.S. quickly away
down the block. "Let's get out of here," she said. "Adelle and the
ladies will be arriving soon. When they find out Emily was
poisoned, there's no telling what will happen. We have more
important things to do right now." She dragged him across Eighth
Avenue toward Forty-Sixth Street, neither one of them noticing that
an old actress who had been waiting in line was now scurrying away
in the opposite direction.

"Where are we going? What's more important?"
T.S. asked. He removed her hand from his arm and carefully brushed
the nap of his sweater back into shape.

"Lovely sweater," she said absently. "I gave
it to you, didn't I?"

"No. You most certainly did not." She was
always trying to take credit for his own good taste.

"I've found out that Emily lived on
Forty-Sixth Street. We just have to find out which building. And
you won't believe this, but Lieutenant Abromowitz is working out of
Midtown North now."

T.S. groaned. "Now it really is up to
us."

"I'll say. What did you find out at the
library?"

"No understudies were listed in the
Playbill," T.S. admitted reluctantly. "She might have been in the
chorus scene or worked backstage, but that's a lot of people. I
wrote them all down. There's no one named Emily at all, except for
the main character. I could start tracking the cast members down
and asking them if they remember her. If anyone's still alive. But
she could have been with the company for only a week, for all we
know." They were passing the man with the bulbous nose and Auntie
Lil gave him a cheery wave as if he were her very best friend. He
nodded back and stared at T.S.

"May as well try," Auntie Lil agreed. "But do
it in your spare time. We're more likely to have better luck once
we find out where she lived."

"That's true." T.S. scanned the now busy
block. "Where do we start?"

Auntie Lil took out the pack of photos from
her purse. "I doubt she was able to afford these expensive
restaurants," she said, looking up and down the sidewalks. "But we
can't afford to skip them. Someone besides Billy has to know
her."

"Who's Billy?" He held a photo in his hand
and suppressed an involuntary shudder at the sight of the dead
Emily.

"Billy owns the Delicious Deli back there,"
she explained. "He said she lived on this block."

Most of the block was taken up by expensive
restaurants either closed or filled with crowds of business people.
T.S. had to agree that it was unlikely Emily frequented any of
them, but just to be on the safe side Auntie Lil insisted on
entering every single establishment and showing Emily's photo to
the bartender or host. Flashing photos of a dead old lady in front
of waiting patrons did not prove to be a popular task and T.S.
began to feel more and more like a pariah as they worked their way
down the block.

"Maybe we should come back when they're not
so busy," he suggested.

"We have to do it while they're open," Auntie
Lil argued reasonably. "Besides, now we're getting somewhere. This
is more her style." They had reached the end of the block nearer to
Ninth Avenue. Large restaurants gave way to smaller shops and
cheaper eating places.

"I'm getting hungry," Auntie Lil declared. "I
had a hero earlier, but that must have been three hours ago." She
eyed the brightly painted sign of a tiny Jamaican restaurant named
Nellie's. "That place looks good."

T.S. peered inside. A small black man sat at
a lone table eating a stew of unidentified, grayish origins piled
over bright yellow rice. A plump woman the color of toffee was
perched on a table behind the counter, staring out at the street
with half-closed eyes. She had a beautiful face, broad and
polished, that was lightly touched by the fine wrinkles of a
satisfied woman in her mid-thirties. Her hair was braided in dozens
of tiny plaits with brightly colored beads studding their length.
The braids bobbed and swayed as she turned her regal neck, watching
people go by.

"It looks like a real popular eating spot,"
T.S. said sarcastically. Just then, the woman's gaze met his and
his words froze in his mouth. Her eyes were dark and sparkling.
They seemed to see right through him. Unlike so many eyes in New
York City, hers were not cloaked in suspicion but held a sharp
intelligence and, yes, maybe even a little bit of kindness. The
woman surveyed T.S. with unabashed thoroughness and when she was
through, her brightly painted red lips curled back over white teeth
in a hint of a grin.

"That woman smiled at me," T.S. said
incredulously. "Someone just smiled at me right in the middle of
New York City."

"I told you it was a good place to eat,"
Auntie Lil declared. She marched inside and he had no choice but to
follow.

"Hello, granny," the woman greeted them in a
musical voice full of lilting Caribbean tones. "You in the mood for
a little goat curry today? I make it myself."

The small black man eating looked up briefly,
dismissed them, and returned to his stew.

"I'm not that hungry," Auntie Lil decided.
"Besides, I had it twice last week."

T.S. would have expected this statement to
have been received with extreme skepticism, but the woman simply
nodded in slow approval. "You more in the mood for a snack,
granny?"

"Yes. That's quite right. A snack." Auntie
Lil eyed some meat pies with garishly orange crusts that were
baking beneath a heat light. She gave no sign of objecting to being
called "granny." Not that there was a need to object, the title had
been uttered in quite respectful tones.

"No, granny. You don't want those pies," the
woman told Auntie Lil. She hopped down from her perch and the
beaded braids tinkled as they swayed with her every move. "Those
are frozen. Cheap for people who don't know any better. You want
one of my homemade pies. A dollar more, but worth it." She slid a
tray out of a small warming oven against one wall and placed it on
the countertop. A spicy aroma filled the tiny shop and, against his
will, T.S.'s stomach grumbled. "Maybe your son there like one,
too," the woman suggested, her eyes twinkling.

"He's my nephew. But he'll take one." Auntie
Lil sniffed deeply. "You made the crust yourself?"

"Of course. That's why it's not that
Halloweeny orange."

"In that case, I'll take two."

"Very spicy, granny. Maybe try one, then
another."

"Oh, no. I like spicy. Give me two." Auntie
Lil accepted the pies wrapped in white paper as if she ate them
from a roadside stand every day of her life. She bit into hers with
characteristic gusto and groaned in approval.

"Delicious," she said, sputtering a fine
spray of crumbs over the front of T.S.'s sweater. "Don't you agree,
Theodore?"

He did not. He had discovered a raisin in his
pie filling. T.S. loathed, hated, positively despised raisins in
any form whatsoever.

"There're raisins in here," he said faintly,
holding the offending pie out to his aunt.

"For heaven's sake, Theodore. Aren't you ever
going to outgrow that fetish?" Auntie Lil and the woman giggled
together. T.S. was just grateful that the small black man didn't
join in at laughing at him, the amusing white middle-class
male.