A Motive For Murder (30 page)

“Then he may be alive,” Auntie Lil said.

Emili shook her head. “No. Erik is dead. I can feel
it.” Tears welled from her eyes and trickled down her face. She
made no move to wipe them away. “So you see, that is why I could
not have harmed that Morgan man. I have already had a hand in one
man’s death. Because of me, a man’s life has been cut short before
his time. I would not be a party to such a thing again.”

Before Auntie Lil could reply, a clatter in the front
hall signaled the arrival of Rudy. Books tumbled to the floor in
the distance, a chair was bumped, and light footsteps padded
rapidly down the hallway toward them. He shouted a question in
Russian, his voice cracking as it struggled to escape that elusive
mixture of child and man.

“Another fifteen minutes,” Emili answered in English.
“I’m heating it up now. Come into my bedroom, Rudy. We have a
visitor.” She stood and wiped the tears from her face, replacing
her grief with a smile. Rudy dashed into the room but stopped short
when he saw Auntie Lil. He was tall and well muscled yet almost
impossibly graceful. He had a thick mop of blond hair that fell
into his eyes and was cut short on the sides in the current style
of New York City teenagers. His eyes traveled from Auntie Lil’s
face to the portrait of his father on the wall. He studied the lit
candles flickering beneath the image, then his eyes lingered on his
mother’s face.

“This is Lillian Hubbert,” Emili explained, gesturing
toward Auntie Lil. “She’s on the Metro’s board.”

“I know who you are,” Rudy said. He offered his hand
to Auntie Lil politely. “All of Mikey’s friends do.”

Although the stuffed cabbage was excellent—and Auntie
Lil had astonished her hostess with her appetite—she had not
learned anything new that might help her in identifying Bobby
Morgan’s murderer. She felt that Emili and Rudy Vladimir were
exactly what they appeared to be: a small family made stronger by
trouble, devoted to dance, poor but talented, and at least in the
case of Emili, grateful for the freedom they enjoyed in their
lives. Rudy had been a typical American teenager, eating noisily,
boisterously recalling events of the day, answering Auntie Lil’s
questions with one- or two-syllable replies and generally remaining
unconcerned about anything except whether Auntie Lil would leave
enough stuffed cabbage rolls for him to have seconds. After dinner,
he had raced to his room, changed into fresh clothes, and dashed
out the door for the subway with a hurried good-bye. Auntie Lil
left soon after and had the distinct feeling that Emili would be in
bed and fast asleep before she got halfway home. There had been no
sign of a man in Emili’s life, other than the oil portrait on the
wall. There were no photographs of her with anyone but her son on
display, no mementos, fresh or dried flowers, and certainly no
men’s toiletries hidden in the bathroom cabinet. Auntie Lil knew
because she had given it a thorough search.

All together, the evening had been a draw. She had
gotten an excellent dinner but little else. Well, perhaps a new
friend. She could do worse, Auntie Lil reflected, settling back
against the seat of her cab with a sigh. The taxi was one of the
newer models, painted a vibrant yellow that bordered on orange. She
admired its cleanliness then spotted the telephone mounted on the
divider between the front and back seats. It was absurd, she
reflected, how modern man could not leave that abominable
contraption behind for even a few minutes. It probably did not even
work, the reception no doubt horrific.

Telling herself that she was simply testing the new
technology, she searched through her cavernous purse for a credit
card and slid it through the magnetic reader. She contemplated
which of her many acquaintances she might call. Of course—Herbert.
He answered immediately and sounded relieved that she was safe. As
they chatted and made plans to meet in the morning, the taxi
emerged from a cluster of industrial buildings onto a main
thoroughfare with a stunning view of the Manhattan skyline. Auntie
Lil stared at the magnificent outline of brightly lit buildings
etched against the twilight, the electric glow seeming to be fed
by the slow-moving line of car headlights that inched toward the
great city. She felt the wonderful sense of security that talking
to a friend in a cozy cab in the midst of such chaos provided and
suddenly understood quite clearly why car phones were so
popular.

By the time the taxi reached her apartment building
in Flushing, she had left a message on T.S.’s answering machine,
rung up Lilah Cheswick without success, checked on whether her dry
cleaning was ready for pickup, and ordered her groceries for the
next week. If the driver had not known a clever shortcut, she would
also have called an old friend in Tacoma.

“Better be careful, ma’am,” the driver warned as he
pulled up to her building. “It looks like someone is waiting in the
shadows there beside your front door. Want me to walk you inside?”
Her customarily generous tip had ensured his gallantry.

Auntie Lil peered out into the darkness. A small
figure stepped into view. “It’s just a child,” she told the
driver.

“The kids around here can get pretty rough,” he
warned.

“I know him,” she said. “But thank you for your
concern.”

“What are you doing here?” she asked the figure as
she opened the door to get out.

Mikey Morgan darted from his spot near the stoop and
crouched by her taxi door, looking to the left and right as if he
were being followed. “You told me to come and see you if I ever
needed help,” he said. His eyes were wide with fear and he was
breathing heavily. Either he was a better actor than his movies
indicated or he really was in danger. “I didn’t have anywhere else
to go so I came here.”

“What about home?” Auntie Lil asked. “Does your
mother know you’re gone?”

“She’s out,” Mikey explained. “Anyway, I can’t stay
there. Last night I saw a man outside my window, looking up at me.
He knew where I lived. He was in the shadows of a street lamp in
the park outside. And today, at the theater, someone was following
me in the hallways. I know they were. I took the stairs upstairs
and heard footsteps behind me. But the footsteps stopped when mine
did. If you make me go home, I’ll just run away. I have no place
else to go.”

“Are you being followed now?” Auntie Lil
asked.           

“I don’t know.” He looked around again. “Maybe.”

“We must go to the police at once,” Auntie Lil said
firmly. “Get inside in the taxi.”

No,” Mikey shouted. He rubbed his mouth with his
hands then stuck them in his jeans pockets and hunched his
shoulders in misery. “You can’t go to the cops. I won’t let you.
I’ll run away,” he threatened again.

Auntie Lil made a quick decision. She pulled him
inside the taxi. “Just come with me,” she said. “I’ll take you
somewhere safe. You may have been followed here. Driver, can you
take us to Manhattan?”

The driver flipped on the meter again, visions of
another gigantic tip dancing in his head. “Lady, I’ll take you
anywhere you want to go.”

“What do you mean he doesn’t live here?” Auntie Lil
asked, her voice rising in disbelief. “Are you daft? He’s my
nephew. I know where he lives. I just left him a message on the
answering machine. Do you mean that he’s not home yet?”

“No.” Mahmoud shook his head vigorously. “I mean, he
does not live here. Not anymore. He is gone. You are mistaken.”

“Mahmoud, that is preposterous. Let me upstairs
immediately.” Auntie Lil smacked her pocketbook against the front
desk in exasperation. Mikey stood beside her, one eye on the
door.

“Mr. Hubbert does not live here,” Mahmoud insisted
firmly. “I will say no more.” He crossed his arms across his chest
and planted his feet wide as if daring Auntie Lil to push past
him.

“We shall just see about that,” Auntie Lil warned.
She marched past Mahmoud, Mikey Morgan in tow, and took a seat on
the bench near the elevator. Mikey sat beside her meekly, slouching
so that he was hidden behind her stout frame.

Mikey had insisted again during the cab ride that he
was being followed by a man but had not yet gotten a clear look at
him. Auntie Lil had believed him enough to take him to the place
she considered safer than her own: T.S.’s apartment. She knew T.S.
was out to dinner with Lilah, but he had to come home sometime,
never mind what his obviously disturbed doorman said. Perhaps
Mahmoud had taken to drink. She remembered her tour of the Arab
countries well. Though they swore it was against their religion,
she had observed many of her hosts weaving suspiciously following
the frequent banquets given in her honor to celebrate her large
purchases of fabric from them.

Half an hour later T.S. arrived home. He strode
through the doorway—still glowing with the pleasure of his dinner
with Lilah—and called out a cheery hello to Mahmoud. The doorman
ducked his head guiltily and stared at his shoes, certain that his
Christmas tip was in danger again.

T.S. spotted Auntie Lil and Mikey and stopped short
in surprise. “Why didn’t you wait for me upstairs?” he asked, his
eyes scrutinizing her companion without comment. Nothing Auntie Lil
did would surprise him.

“I would have, but he insisted you no longer lived
here!” She pointed an accusatory finger at Mahmoud.

The doorman scurried over, ready to defend his honor.
“I told her again and again that you did not live here, but she
refused to believe me!” He cowered as fearfully as an ill-treated
dog awaiting the lash of his master’s whip.

T.S. stared at him in complete exasperation. He had
no recourse. He’d never have the nerve to cut his Christmas tip.
Mahmoud was simply the price he paid for his beloved apartment. He
settled for being magnanimous and made no reply.

“Aunt Lil, may I escort you upstairs?” T.S. said with
exaggerated politeness, offering her his arm.

The politeness did not last long. “What in the world
is going on?” T.S. demanded as soon as the three of them were alone
in the elevator. “What is he doing here?”

“I’ll explain in a minute,” Auntie Lil said, checking
the elevator control panel for a microphone.

Mikey had yet to say a word. But his demeanor changed
dramatically once they were inside T.S.’s apartment. He took off
his blue-jean jacket and tossed it over the back of the couch,
causing T.S. to wince. Then his eyes spotted the large-screen
television against one wall—it had been T.S.’s one extravagant
retirement purchase—and his eyes lit up with enthusiasm. “Cool!” he
said. “Mom won’t let me get one even though I could afford a
thousand of them.” He switched on the set and began rapidly
changing channels with the remote control, a habit that T.S.
loathed in others and forgave only in himself. Brenda and Eddie
ventured out from behind the couch, eyed the teenager suspiciously,
and slunk back out of view.

“Explain,” T.S. said tersely to Auntie Lil.

She explained the situation as briefly as she
could.

“So why are you
here?”
he demanded.

“I can’t keep him at my house,” she insisted. “He may
have been followed. And I’m getting old, you know. I don’t know if
I could keep up with a teenager.”

T.S. stared at her in amazement. “Don’t hand me that
line,” he warned. “You aren’t too old for tracking down killers or
rumbaing twice a week or hiking through the Alps,” he said. “I
cannot believe you expect me to swallow that excuse.”

“Please, Theodore,” Auntie Lil pleaded. “Just for a
few days. We’re getting close. I can feel it.”

Mikey had plopped down on the couch and propped his
feet up on the glass coffee table, destroying the precise alignment
of T.S.’s magazines in the process. “Got anything to drink?” he
yelled out.

“You hear that?” T.S. said, dropping his voice to a
whisper. “He thinks I’m his butler.”

“I’ll make it up to you,” Auntie Lil promised. “Why
don’t we have a drink and talk it over?”

“Don’t try to soften me up by getting me drunk,” T.S.
warned. “If I wanted teenagers in my house, I’d have decorated it
in early rumpus room.”

“Can we order in Chinese or something?” Mikey asked,
flipping the channel and lingering on a local cable show that
featured a transvestite chef dressed in tacky suburban clothes who
specialized in Southern favorites and wore his wig askew while
reciting recipes in a thick drawl. “I’m starving.”

“That’s a good idea,” Auntie Lil said brightly. “We
can discuss things over a snack.”

“Food?” T.S. said. “I just got back from dinner. And
it’s after eleven o’clock. We order in Chinese and we may as well
lie down on the couch right now and wait for the heartburn to
begin.” He sighed, knowing defeat was near. “Does his mother even
know where he is?” he finally demanded, seeking refuge in assuming
the outrage of a responsible adult.

“She doesn’t care,” Mikey announced, flipping
channels to a highly improbable wrestling match between two gaudily
clad thugs. “She likes my brothers and sister better than me.”

“Your mother,” Auntie Lil said. “Of course. We must
call her and let her know you’re okay.”

“She’s probably not even there,” Mikey insisted. “I
think she has a new boyfriend or something.”

“We are most certainly calling her immediately,” T.S.
informed him. He marched over to the phone on the table next to his
couch and made a great show of calling information for Nikki
Morgan’s number, then carefully dialed each digit with great
indignation. He was so startled when Nikki actually answered the
phone—and so caught up in his zeal to appear in command—that he
forgot to introduce himself.

“Mrs. Morgan,” T.S. began. “I have your son. He’s
right here beside me and if you want to—”

Suddenly Mikey reached over and pressed the
disconnect button. “No!” the boy shouted. “Don’t tell her where I
am. I don’t want her to know. If you tell her, I’ll run away!” He
jumped up from the couch and grabbed his jacket as if preparing to
flee.