A Cast of Killers (14 page)

"Can I get you something, ma'am?" he asked
Auntie Lil. The smile that lit up his face was broad and genuine.
She knew, at once, that this was his deli and that he had worked
very hard to make a go of it.

"You said you had good coffee," she told him,
pointing to the sign. "I'll decide for myself, if you don't
mind."

"Like the sign says, it's the best in New
York." He poured her out a cup and admired her hat. "That's some
hat you've got there," he told her cheerfully. "Wait until the
ladies get a load of it."

"The ladies?" she asked him. The coffee did
smell delicious. Her stomach rumbled with a loud growl.

"How about some cheesecake?" the proprietor
offered with a smile as he set her cup down in front of her. "It's
on me."

"That sounds wonderful." Auntie Lil rummaged
through her enormous handbag in search of her wallet. "I will have
a piece. And one of your he-man heros, too. But I've got money to
pay for it."

"You're lucky," the young man told her. "A
lot of old ladies in this neighborhood don't have two dimes to rub
together." He considered his words and blushed.

Auntie Lil laughed at his embarrassment.
"It's quite all right, young man. It's no secret that I'm old."

He nodded sheepishly and ducked behind the
counter to pile enormous hunks of meat and cheese topped with
shredded lettuce and tomato slices on a long hard roll. He had no
intention of stiffing any little old lady on the he-man. It was
truly of heroic proportions.

"My name's Billy Finnegan." He set the
enormous sandwich in front of Auntie Lil and held out a hand
roughened by hard work. She gripped it in a firm handshake, pleased
at his confidence. It bespoke an honest heart. He was probably
someone she could trust.

"Why don't you sit down and take a break? I
bet you've never seen anyone as old as me eat a whole hero."

"No way you can eat all that," he told her.
"But I'm willing to sit and watch." He pulled out a chair and
sighed heavily as he sank into it. "One day I'll be able to afford
some help around here."

"Who did you mean by 'the ladies'?" Auntie
Lil asked, the hero poised before her open mouth. She surveyed it
carefully then decided the best strategy was to simply dive in and
put her hearty eating skills to their best use. She took a huge
bite and chewed lustily, muttering muffled and barely intelligible
compliments to the chef. Billy was too busy staring at her to
answer.

She swallowed carefully. "Are you referring
by any chance to the actresses who live here and frequent the St.
Barnabas soup kitchen?" she asked politely before diving into
another bite.

"Sure. You know them? I've never seen you
with them before." He forced himself to stop staring at her
incredible eating and looked her up and down with a practiced air
of evaluation. He was no stranger to the streets and realized that
Auntie Lil's clothes were too modern and expensive to place her in
the same class as the old actresses who scraped by in the
neighborhood.

"I work at the kitchen," Auntie Lil
confessed. She was a third of her way through the hero and still
going strong. "Don't forget my cheesecake," she reminded him.

Billy got up incredulously and returned with
an enormous slice of cheesecake. "Do you always eat like that?" he
asked, watching her vacuum down the last half of the sandwich and
occasionally checking his watch in astonishment.

"I'm very hungry," she admitted, which was as
close as she ever came to apologizing for her eating habits.
"Besides, it's delicious."

"I make the secret sauce myself."

"Very good." She nodded and carefully wiped
her mouth, pulling the cheesecake over and smelling it with
approval. "How well do you know the ladies?"

"Pretty well. I give them credit." He
shrugged his shoulders. "Not many stores around here will. But they
always pay me back when their checks come the first of the month.
And they don't eat much, bless them. I guess they don't have the
money."

Auntie Lil slid one of Emily's photos from
the packet and pushed it across the table toward him. "Did you know
this one?"

Billy picked up the photo and winced. He
turned it around several times while he examined it carefully.
"That's the Pineapple Lady," he finally said. "She stopped here
every morning for a small glass of pineapple juice. I've been
wondering where she was." He handed the photo back. "What happened
to her?"

"She's dead," Auntie Lil said. She would not
mention murder yet. "We're trying to find out where she lived and
who she was."

"I don't know her name. Sorry." He shrugged.
"She paid cash. Always had exact change, even. Sixty-five cents,
right down to the penny. I didn't even know she knew the others. I
never saw her with them. But I think that she lived in an apartment
building somewhere on Forty-Sixth Street."

"An apartment building? Not a shelter?"
Auntie Lil asked.

"I think an apartment building. Once I saw
her walk by here really late one night. I have to stay open until
midnight to catch the theater people coming home from work. It
helps me earn enough to cover the rent. She shouldn't have been on
the streets so late, and I was surprised to see her out. So I kind
of stood in the doorway and watched her walk down Forty-Sixth
Street to make sure she'd be safe. I saw her turn into some
building there in the middle of the block."

"Which building?" Auntie Lil leaned forward
eagerly, her cheesecake forgotten.

"I don't remember." He shrugged his apology.
"Wish I could help more. But it was over a month ago. I think it
was the south side of the street, though."

She was disappointed but not undaunted. It
was a start.

The front door bells chimed and three
construction workers stepped inside, eager to try the he-man hero
and best coffee in New York. Billy scurried back to work behind the
counter and Auntie Lil finished her cheesecake while she watched
him. He would see a lot, hanging out in the deli all day, just
inches from the big picture window. She had to remember that. He’d
know everyone in the neighborhood. It would not be her last visit
to the Delicious Deli.

She left her money next to the register,
waved goodbye, and headed back to the streets. She had enough time
to knock on a few doors before she was to meet T.S. at the soup
kitchen. Just then, a patrol car zoomed past and she followed its
path up the avenue two blocks to Forty-Eighth Street. It turned
right and slid in quickly beside the curb, its bumper protruding
into the avenue. She hurried up the block and saw two men dressed
in dark suits climb out of the back seat of the police car and wave
away the uniformed men in the front seat. She reached the corner
just in time to see the plainclothesmen push their way through the
waiting crowd and disappear down the steps to the St. Barnabas soup
kitchen.

Auntie Lil scurried up the block and cut
through the line of waiting patrons, reaching the stairs in time to
see Officer King, the bad-tempered patrolman with the Marine
haircut letting the two plainclothesmen in the back gate. It
clanked shut just as she reached it. Officer King did not seem to
recognize her; he simply turned away and led the other officers
through the soup kitchen door.

So, Dr. Millerton had notified the police of
Emily's poisoning. That meant there was no sense grasping at straws
on Forty-Sixth Street, when there might be an entire scarecrow
waiting here at St. Barnabas. She waited resolutely at the entrance
steps. Someone else would come along soon. And if the police knew
anything, she'd soon find out what it was.

Auntie Lil didn't have long to wait. Father
Stebbins arrived at the basement entrance a few moments later, his
beefy face an alarming shade of purple. "Terrible news, Lillian,
isn't it? It's quite a shock to my system." He shook his head in
dismay as he unlocked the back gate.

Typically, Fran hovered a few paces behind.
Her beatific expression of obedience faded into a scowl the moment
she saw Auntie Lil. "What are you doing here?" she hissed. "Haven't
you caused enough trouble?"

"What in the world are you talking about?"
Auntie Lil demanded. She drew herself up to her full height, but
that wasn't saying much. She still stood nose-to-nose with Fran,
whose stouter build gave her a decided advantage.

"Now, now, ladies. Please." Father Stebbins
raised two arms in a bishop-like plea for peace. He had probably
practiced in front of a mirror. "Let's talk to the police and get
it over with. They didn't sound very happy on the phone."

So, Auntie Lil realized, the police had
called Father Stebbins and Fran had conveniently been lurking
nearby. And both of them thought that Auntie Lil had been
telephoned as well. She saw no reason to correct their
misconception. It would be so much more convenient for them all,
especially her, if she simply weaseled her way inside on their
coattails.

"Poisoned," Fran hissed in Auntie Lil's ear
as they marched inside the soup kitchen. "That certainly was some
special chili recipe you used."

Auntie Lil ignored her, yet managed to convey
the distinct impression that Fran was too petty to bother with—more
important things were going on. The soup kitchen hummed with
activity. Several men were going through the cabinets in a
mechanical, bored fashion, sniffing condiments, examining the
contents of boxes and occasionally placing small samples in labeled
plastic bags.

Three uniformed officers sat drinking coffee
at an empty table, including Officer King. They flanked the soup
kitchen volunteer who had arrived early to find the police waiting
to gain entry. She looked frightened and pale, but had joined the
waiting patrolmen in observing a cluster of plainclothes detectives
gathered around a heavyset man standing at the far side of the
cafeteria-style counter. The man was barking out orders in a
heavily accented New York voice and gesturing with a hammy hand for
emphasis as he spoke. Something about him was tantalizingly
familiar to Auntie Lil. She squinted to get a better view. His hair
was dark but thinning in back; it glistened greasily under the
fluorescent lights. His white shirt was stained under the armpits
with sweat and perspiration poured down the back of his neck. The
men around him began to inch back subtly, as if afraid his body
heat was contagious. Thanks to the man's authoritative roar, Auntie
Lil could hear better than she could see.

"I'm handing you the case, George," the beefy
man was yelling, as if sure that George would try to disagree. "But
I'll be watching you every step of the way."

A middle-aged Hispanic man with a handsome
but bloated face raised his eyebrows in mock appreciation. "Thanks
for the confidence, Lieutenant," he said, making no attempt to
conceal his sarcasm. "This case is nowhere to start with and you're
going to be breathing down my back to boot?" Obviously, neither the
detective nor his cohorts were aware yet that civilians were
present.

The situation was about to change. Officer
King had finished his coffee and had finally noticed the presence
of Auntie Lil and her companions. He scrutinized them intently. It
took a moment to process the information through his hard head, but
belated recall finally transformed his scowling features into an
expression of menacing recognition. He stepped up to the unseen
lieutenant and whispered in his ear, pointing across the room with
an accusatory jab.

The gathered officers looked up in interest
and the fat lieutenant whirled around. "Where? Which one was
cooking?" he asked, staring intently. His small black eyes focused
on them without success. Obviously too vain to wear glasses in
public, he took a step closer and stared harder.

"Which one of you was cooking?" he demanded
again.

Auntie Lil—who was also too vain to wear her
glasses in public— took her own step forward. And froze. No. It
could not be. It was an impossibility. A piece of luck so
incredibly bad that it could not have happened to her. Not this
time.

But it had. Lt. Manny Abromowitz stood
staring back at her. "You?" His voice swelled with warning and his
massive chest puffed up, straining against his too tight shirt. His
face flushed deep red and swelled until he resembled a cross
between a wart hog and a blowfish about to explode. "What the hell
are you doing in the middle of this?"

Even Auntie Lil was cowed by his unleashed
anger, never mind the detectives who froze in their tasks to stare
curiously at the innocuous little old lady who was giving their
pompous lieutenant a heart attack simply by her benign
presence.

"I work here," Auntie Lil said calmly, much
more calmly than she felt. "I cooked the chili the day Emily
died."

Fran stepped closer to Father Stebbins. She
placed an arm on his elbow and they exchanged open-mouthed glances.
Whatever was going to happen to Auntie Lil, clearly it was bad.
What in the world did this policeman have against her?

His red face deepened even more, to the
mottled scarlet of a radish going bad. "I had hoped that we might
never meet again," he announced in a deadly tone of voice. "It was,
in fact, my very fondest wish."

"The feeling is mutual, I can assure you,"
Auntie Lil replied stiffly.

"You think she did it?" the detective named
George butted in. He stepped between the two of them and gestured
toward Auntie Lil. "This lady has a record?"

"I certainly do not," Auntie Lil snapped.
"And of course I didn't poison her. If I'd been throwing handfuls
of cyanide in the chili, there would be a lot more than one person
dead. Any idiot should know that. Even the lieutenant."

"Cyanide?" Lieutenant Abromowitz repeated
slowly, giving weight to each of the three syllables. "And just how
did you know it was cyanide? Huh? How?"