A Cast of Killers (35 page)

"Lillian!" Adelle stared in surprise. "You're
back. And just what have you done with Fran? Father Stebbins looks
positively naked without his amanuensis."

"She's quit!" Auntie Lil whispered across the
serving line, where she had been reduced to dishing out stew due to
the lack of able bodies. Fran was not the only volunteer missing.
The murder had scared several part-timers away and the kitchen was
severely understaffed. "See if you can find out why she quit," she
ordered Adelle.

"Certainly. A mere child's play of
deduction." Adelle accepted her plate with queenly bearing and led
her followers down the line. They had arrived in a single group,
making it easy for Auntie Lil to check off each face mechanically.
She wondered who was helping Herbert out with his surveillance
since they nearly all seemed to be at the kitchen. But wait, one
face was missing—and it was a hard face not to miss. Emily's old
rival, Eva, was not among the crowd of aged actresses.

No one working at the kitchen had mentioned
Fran's disappearance yet, although Auntie Lil caught the other
volunteers exchanging silent looks a few times. Father Stebbins
remained preoccupied, his mind on more important matters. Once he
even disappeared upstairs without warning and did not return for
nearly half an hour. This uncharacteristic move—combined with the
general air of worry circulating through the crowd—fueled a tense
atmosphere at the St. Barnabas soup kitchen that day.

Auntie Lil escaped from behind the pot of
stew and headed for Adelle's table. "Where's Eva?" Auntie Lil asked
the assembled actresses. They shook their heads collectively.

"Who knows?" Adelle murmured. "She's quite
the headstrong lady these days. Has her own theories. Who are we to
interfere?"

"She's probably angry at me," a usually quiet
old actress admitted. "Now that Emily is dead, I expect I'm on the
list as her next great enemy. Eva must always have someone to hate.
It's how she gets her energy."

"Why would she hate you, my dear?" Auntie Lil
asked quickly when she noticed a subtle but growing movement of
glances intended to silence the woman.

"I saw her stop at Emily's table the day she
died," the woman explained. "I didn't say anything at first. But
after a while, Eva made me positively furious with all of the
accusations she was hurling at poor Fran. Fran works very hard here
and I think it's ugly of us all to keep guessing at her private
life. Much less blame the murder on her."

"Eva stopped at Emily's table right before
she died?" Auntie Lil asked.

This time the woman did not answer. Someone's
warning kick had gotten to her. Her eyes slid over and met
Adelle's, then she looked down and kept silent.

"Eva always stopped to say something to
Emily," Adelle explained. "Just to prove that she didn't feel in
the least snubbed by Emily's refusal to sit at our table. Though,
of course, I believe her feelings were terribly wounded."

"Quite a childish fight they were having,"
Auntie Lil observed.

Adelle opened her mouth as if to say more,
then shut it abruptly without explanation. Her eyes surveyed every
woman around the table. No one said a word. They had long ago
perfected the art of nonverbal communication—and Auntie Lil was not
privy to their code. In fact, she would not even waste time trying.
She'd just take another tack.

"Have any of you seen a young boy around
here?" she asked hopefully. "About this tall. Very blond hair. The
one in the dime store photographs I showed you?"

They shook their heads solemnly and Auntie
Lil sighed. "I'm getting nowhere, it seems," she complained.

"That's all right," Adelle reassured her.
"Neither are we."

"How can The Eagle still be inside that
building?" Auntie Lil looked around the table. "I'm not
criticizing, but are you sure you've been watching carefully?"

"Quite sure," Adelle insisted, her voice
rising in incipient indignation. "At least two people at all times.
If he had left, we would have seen him."

"Well, I mustn't sit here sulking," Auntie
Lil decided. She'd slip away and phone Detective Santos. Perhaps he
had found out where The Eagle had gone. Besides, soon it would be
time to do the dishes and she had to draw the line somewhere.

The old women watched her go with impassive
eyes. They did not speak until she was well out the door.

Auntie Lil had lied. She waited in the
doorway opposite to see where the old actresses went. You could
never be sure, she reasoned to herself. Better to suspect than to
be sorry. It was not difficult for Auntie Lil to follow Adelle's
crowd; they were too intent on assuming their disguises to pay her
much attention. She trailed along behind them, shamelessly
eavesdropping. It appeared that Adelle had a tiny apartment on
Fiftieth Street and that the women were headed there to resume
their bag lady roles. They chatted like a crowd of showgirls on the
way to a performance. It disturbed Auntie Lil that Eva was not
among them. She did not trust these streets.

The group headed north up Eighth Avenue and
Auntie Lil turned west, satisfied they were doing as they'd
promised. She wanted time to think about what she had seen that
morning at St. Barnabas. She walked toward the Hudson River, where
the huge cruise liners stood berthed at massive docks just a few
blocks south from the pier where she had taken Theodore. Not many
cargo ships pulled in these days; newer ports on Staten Island and
Brooklyn made the trip to midtown Manhattan unnecessary. But the
big passenger lines still liked the cachet of boarding their guests
in sight of the Manhattan skyline. As Auntie Lil drew nearer, she
heard a deep, mournful bellow. One of the passenger ships was
pulling free from the dock and sounding its horn in celebration.
She was just in time to watch it back slowly into the center of the
river and head ponderously down the Hudson toward the Verrazano
Narrows Bridge, where it would continue out to sea. The bulk of the
boat was incredible. Even the water seemed to strain under its
weight.

A cruise leaving in midweek would have few
passengers and, indeed, the dock was cleared of any goodbye
visitors within minutes. They walked quickly to their cars, anxious
to leave the desolate riverfront and get on with their lives. Soon,
Auntie Lil was left alone on a small concrete sidewalk that ran
between the docks. She stared down at the murky greenish black
waters of the Hudson, her mind still on St. Barnabas.

Why would Fran have quit? And did it have
anything to do with Timmy's visit to Father Stebbins? Why would the
old priest bother to lie about that visit? What could he be hiding?
Surely it was no crime to help a young runaway in need of guidance.
And the young boy might have nothing to do with Emily's death;
their friendship could be a sad coincidence. Just another blow to
Timmy's self-esteem.

Her mind wandered to the old actresses. It
was a good thing she was allowed back at St. Barnabas, where she
could keep a closer eye on the group. Could they know more than
they were saying? She would not put it past Adelle to try to solve
the murder on her own. Although gracious and charming, the woman
clearly hated to share the spotlight with anyone. And wasn't it
curious that Eva was missing? Maybe the others had teased her too
much at last, or blamed her for Emily's death. Or, conversely,
maybe she was just too busy redeeming herself by tailing residents
of Emily's building to even stop to eat.

And what about that building? How could any
trace of Emily disappear so quickly? Who was living in her
apartment now, and why? Was it The Eagle? Did the killer have the
audacity to move into his victim's very home? Yet Detective Santos
had said that a young blonde woman lived in the apartment. And
surely the police would have done a thorough job once they took the
trouble to show up. She remembered she had not yet found out the
results of the detective's latest search for The Eagle, and made a
mental note to call Santos.

Was it possible that the entire building was
participating in some sort of conspiracy? Surely not. What kind of
trouble could an old woman like Emily possibly get into that would
drive anyone, much less an entire building, to murder her?

The riverfront was exposed to the wind and,
though the day had turned warmer, the breeze and too many
unanswered questions conspired to chill her resolve. Auntie Lil
shivered and stared down into the nearly black waves. How horrible
the gently lapping waters of the Hudson seemed, what terrible
secrets they concealed. To drown in the Hudson would be a
particularly gruesome fate. One would disappear under that slick
surface—mouth choked with unspeakable debris—condemned to death in
the unseen depths. Who knew what unknown horrors lived beneath that
murky facade?

That did it. She was getting far too morbid.
No more visits to the morgue for her. She shook her shoulders
briskly and straightened up. It was all very well to stop and
reflect, but brooding would not solve Emily's death and feeling
sorry for herself would get her nowhere. What she needed was a good
strong cup of tea to bring her back. Forget cappuccino, she
decided, they always drank strong tea in those old English
mysteries and wasn't she practically in the middle of one right
now? Billy at the Delicious Deli would be able to help; he kept an
excellent supply of teas on hand.

Billy was taking advantage of the lull
between lunch and the light dinner crowd. He was leaning over the
counter, anxiously scanning an open newspaper. Auntie Lil watched
him through the windows of the deli for a moment. Surely, that wide
open face was an honest one. She wished she knew for sure.

The bell tinkled and Billy's face fell when
he saw that the new visitor was Auntie Lil. "I can't believe it,"
he said. "I was just thinking of you. It looks like I was
right."

"What do you mean?" She followed his stare
and glanced at the newspaper. "What are you right about?"

"Bob Fleming," Billy said,
somewhat smugly. "Take a look at this." He spun the newspaper
around and pushed it across the counter. Without her glasses,
Auntie Lil had to lean perilously close. She blinked. The huge
headline made it all quite clear:
YOUTH
runaway
shelter director charged with sex
abuse.

"What?" Her voice failed her and she studied
the article more closely. It was a column by that female reporter
T.S. enjoyed so much. The one with the teasing grin and the
sarcastic writing style. Oh, yes—there was her name: Margo
McGregor.

"What does it say?" Auntie Lil asked faintly.
Damn her vanity. She wanted her glasses bad.

"Some kid turned him in. Said he'd been
hitting on him at night, taking him home. You know. Stuff like
that." Bill's voice trailed off in embarrassment and he released
his anger in an effort to regain control. "I told you there was
something funny about him. If it was up to me I'd pound him right
into the pavement and let those kids take turns walking over his
corpse."

"Good heavens." Auntie Lil looked up sharply.
"What ever happened to a man being innocent until proven
guilty?"

"Charges have been filed against him," Billy
said simply. "They expect more kids to step forward as they feel
safe."

Kids? They were runaways, miniature savages.
God knows what they might say if they thought they could get some
attention. She wanted to tell him this, but the words failed her.
Such an attitude was not only unfair, but disloyal to Bob Fleming.
After all, he had been the one to point out that they were still
children; she could not now change her mind and see them as
conniving adults. But she could be puzzled and skeptical of the
charges. And find out more about them.

"What child made the allegations?" she
demanded.

Billy looked at her strangely. "I don't know.
They're not going to release the name. He's underage. That's the
whole point."

"He?" Auntie Lil stared at Billy intently.
"What makes you think it's a 'he'?"

"The article says so." Billy pointed to the
paper and shrugged. "Listen, I'm sorry if it upsets you, but I told
you that street talk was usually right. He's as bad as the men he
claims to save those kids from."

"Mind if I borrow this?" Auntie Lil asked
rhetorically, since the newspaper was folded and tucked into her
enormous handbag before she had finished the request.

"Be my guest," Billy said philosophically. "I
don't need a paper to tell me I was right."

He was being a little too smug for her taste.
She'd just go find her tea somewhere else. The doorbell tinkled
angrily behind her.

But the tea was instantly forgotten when a
new thought hit her. Suppose it had been Timmy or Little Pete who
had accused him? Suppose it was all tied together?

She changed directions and marched resolutely
toward Fleming's Homefront office. If anyone was in, she'd try to
find out more.

The door was locked and the lights out in the
front office. But Auntie Lil could see a figure in the back, head
down on a desk. She knocked and when she got no response, she
proceeded to try and bang the door down with her pocketbook. After
several seconds of ear-deafening assault, the figure rose and
drifted her way.

It was Annie O'Day and she had been crying. A
lot. The stained cheeks and puffy eyes seemed horribly out of place
on her previously cheery and healthy countenance. "You've heard?"
she asked glumly as Auntie Lil barged inside.

"I did and I'm having trouble believing it."
Auntie Lil looked around to make sure that they were alone. "Lock
the doors."

"I just did," Annie mumbled in reply as she
led her inside. "Let's sit in back. I'm beginning to like the
darkness."