He made an elaborate show of bending over the jar, still chuckling. Suddenly, he froze. His laughter stopped and he whipped his gnome-like head upright, locking eyes with his assistant.
"What is it, Dr. Millerton?" Cheryl asked anxiously. "Have I erred?" She reached for the jar but the doctor motioned her back, then sniffed deeply in the sudden silence.
"Is there some mistake?" Cheryl asked again, more timidly.
Before the doctor could answer, Auntie Lil's mouth opened in a gasp.
Rodriquez and T.S. turned to her, baffled, while Cheryl stared at Dr. Millerton with a puzzled expression.
When he saw that the others did not understand, the doctor turned to Auntie Lil for confirmation. They stared at one another in astonished enlightenment. Dr. Millerton held out a hand to her, as if asking her to dance, and drew her closer to the jar. Auntie Lil bent over and breathed deeply, then nodded her head. Her action was matched by the satisfied-looking doctor.
T.S. could stand it no longer. "What is it?" he demanded. "What's everyone nodding about?"
Auntie Lil stared at him in uncontained excitement. "Don't you smell that?" she said. "Bitter almonds. Just like I've read." She looked down at the jar, marveling.
"I don't smell anything," T.S. declared. He took a deep breath. Just the same acrid odors as before.
"Not everyone can smell it," Dr. Millerton explained. "Just us lucky ones." He beamed at Auntie Lil fondly.
"But that means…" the assistant said hesitantly, then stopped and looked down at the doctor.
"Yes," the tiny doctor agreed, nodding his head sagely and gesturing at Emily with a broad sweep of an arm. "This woman was poisoned by some form of cyanide. I'm absolutely certain of it."
4
Auntie Lil did not wait to hear the details, which was just as well since Dr. Millerton immediately became lost in a closer scrutiny of the body. His assistant peered over his shoulder and they conferred together in low tones, not even looking up when Auntie Lil dragged T.S. from the room and hustled him down the corridors toward the exit. Rodriquez pursued them, exclaiming that it was his job to show them out. But Auntie Lil, who remembered each turn with uncanny accuracy, was through with the morgue and its insignificant employees. Greater things lay ahead.
"She was poisoned!" Auntie Lil hollered across the sidewalk in the direction of Lilah's waiting limousine. T.S. scurried after her, smiling thinly at a couple passing by, who stopped and looked at one another, then examined the plaque on the building's door with interest. Mystified, they continued their stroll, dodging Auntie Lil as she darted across the pavement and began to pound on the limo windows. This breach of etiquette did not faze the occupant in the least. The window rolled down slowly, revealing Lilah's expectant face. She held a nearly empty drink in her hand.
"I beg your pardon?" Lilah asked politely. "Did you say what I thought you said?"
"Indeed I did." This time, Auntie Lil did not wait for the chauffeur's help and simply climbed unceremoniously over Lilah to claim her spot in the back seat. She gave a triumphant gasp, produced a white handkerchief from the depths of her cavernous pocketbook and began to fan herself in great excitement.
"This is it," she told Lilah and a blatantly nosy Grady. "I can feel it. Fate has steered us to this puzzle, handed us this predicament. We have been charged with the egregious task of uncovering justice in her name." She pointed a finger straight at the roof of the car and smiled mirthlessly. "I'll find them. Just you wait and see."
T.S. was not sure he had ever seen that particular smile cross her face—but he was glad Auntie Lil was not his enemy. The smile glittered with a calm rage cooled to concrete by her absolute conviction that justice would be done. He pitied the poor murderer so foolish as to have poisoned an old lady in front of this old lady. In fact, he felt compelled to keep a careful eye on her as he snagged the seat next to Lilah.
"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.
Lilah peeked in the window. "This is wonderful, Theodore. How quaint." Her genteel enthusiasm made T.S. smile.
"Don't bother waiting for us, Grady," she told the chauffeur. "Just come get us in an hour." She cast a shy glance at T.S. "Better make it two," she decided.
Well. Two hours indeed. T.S. straightened his collar and carefully held the door open for Lilah. He smoothly guided her coat from her shoulders with the élan of a forties movie hero, then stashed it on the hook farthest from the door with the prudence of a nineties NYC resident.
Lilah was like a jewel, he decided. One that got more precious and beautiful with age. One that deserved treatment more royal than royalty.
Unfortunately, the establishment was not cooperating. No maître d' appeared nor was there any sign of a waiter. Lilah finally dragged him over to a corner table. "Here," she decided for them. "It's not too close to the piano. So we can talk."
A Cast of Killers Page 8
