A Cast of Killers (11 page)

"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.