A Cast of Killers

by Gallagher Gray

  "We know she was an understudy in the original Our Town," T.S. pointed out. "And that her stage name was Emily Toujours. I could go to the Lincoln Center library and check out the Playbill."

  "All right. Of course, we don't know for sure she really was the understudy… and that name likely came after the show. But, I suppose we have no other choice. And it will keep you out of my way."

  T.S. was slightly offended that she had not grasped the brilliance of his suggestion.

  "You go this morning and then we'll meet back at the soup kitchen in the afternoon and compare notes," she decided.

  "Do you really think the police will let the kitchen open up today?" T.S. asked incredulously. "After all, now it looks like someone was poisoned there."

  "We don't know that for sure." Auntie Lil's chin jutted out when she was feeling her most stubborn and at the moment it looked like a Grand Canyon cliff. "They'll try to blame it on my chili, but I'm having none of that. Besides, no one died yesterday and people are as hungry as ever. They have to let us open."

  T.S. shook his head. "I'd be surprised. But I'll meet you there at one.”

  It felt good to have a mission again. T.S. whistled a Broadway tune as he dressed carefully in slacks, a new plaid shirt he'd prudently purchased on sale and his first sweater of the new fall season. It was the perfect library outfit—a sort of relaxed and quietly intellectual look. He selected a pair of Hush Puppies from his customized shoe rack, and chose socks that were whimsically embroidered with the logo from a Broadway show about tap dancing. He loved Broadway and all there was to do about Broadway. And now he even had a legitimate excuse to hang out at the Performing Arts Library. Why, it was even better than going into the office. In fact, he downright pitied those poor men and women still chained to their desks, marching into work like suited-up zombies each day, squabbling over petty office politics disputes, making minor decisions about unimportant matters, sitting behind their desks and accepting obsequious homage from underlings out to protect their own interests… well, he'd better stop thinking about it or he might start to miss it, after all.

  By the time T.S. had emerged from the subway near Lincoln Center, Auntie Lil was hard at work just twenty blocks due south, the photos of Emily carefully stowed in her enormous handbag. She began with the handful of people already in line for the soup kitchen, but they were not regulars and claimed to never have seen Emily before. Auntie Lil kept a careful eye out for the strange man who had seen "The Eagle" breathe evil into Emily's mouth, but she did not find him or even Franklin, his more coherent tablemate. Using a list she had prepared the night before from a booklet on volunteering, she visited seven separate shelters in the vicinity of St. Barnabas but none of the workers or residents recognized Emily. She even waylaid three postmen and one Federal Express delivery woman, but none of them could help. Being New Yorkers, not a single person so much as blinked at what was clearly a photo of a dead woman.

  Because it was mid-morning on a workday, few people occupied the neighborhood stoops. She did show Emily's photo to a family of plump Hispanic women who were fanning themselves with large paper fans while they enjoyed the morning sunshine. They passed the photos eagerly among themselves, then reluctantly confessed that, so far as they were concerned, Emily was a stranger.

  Discouraged, Auntie Lil wandered up Forty-Sixth Street between Eighth and Ninth Avenues. Called Restaurant Row, the block was home to over a dozen eating establishments, interspersed between largely middle-class apartment brownstones. Restaurant Row was even more deserted than the residential blocks around it. A few deliverymen hurried from their trucks toward restaurants, pushing carts and supplies ahead of them, and a couple of busboys were slowly sweeping their patches of sidewalk clean.

  The autumn day was growing warmer by the moment and Auntie Lil began to regret wearing the heavy felt hat she'd purchased on a recent visit to the Austrian Alps. As she neared Eighth Avenue, she spotted a man sitting in a lawn chair in front of a boarded-up hotel. From far away, he looked like just another old soul, slumped and potbellied, tired and discouraged, with nothing better to do but sit and watch life pass him by on a dirty street corner in New York City. His hands were enormous and hung to the sidewalk as he slouched low in the sagging chair. As Auntie Lil grew closer, she perceived an oddity in his profile. His face was unnaturally flattened and the silhouette marred by an enormous lump of a nose that, on even closer inspection, resembled a huge bulb of cauliflower intersected by blood vessels. Above this monstrosity, his milky green eyes were large and placid, and his white hair swept straight back from his broad forehead in carefully combed strands. His clothes were clean and such innocuous shades of brown and beige that he seemed to melt into the dirty concrete wall behind him. Auntie Lil approached him politely and showed him Emily's photos.

  "I'm trying to locate a dear old friend of mine," she told the man. He stared at her lips intently as she spoke, then looked back down at the photo and nodded.

  "You know her?" Auntie Lil asked in excitement, touching his arm. He looked up and she repeated her question. Again, he stared intently at her lips, then back down at the photo. Slowly, he shook his head and shrugged philosophically.

  Auntie Lil could not mask her disappointment. Her shoulders fell and her head sagged along with her hopes, adding a good ten years to her frame. The old man nodded sympathetically and patted her arm in reassurance. Then he smiled and pointed across Eighth Avenue. He was indicating either a boarded-up storefront peppered by half-torn posters and obscene graffiti, or a small delicatessen with a bright yellow awning. The old man pointed again to the deli and made a pushing gesture with his hands.

  "I should go there?" Auntie Lil asked. "Will they know her?"

  The old man shrugged and spread his hands wide. Maybe. Maybe not. But it was the best answer she'd gotten so far.

  Auntie Lil hurried across the avenue, dodging unemployed actors, construction workers in search of coffee, grumpy mothers and squalling children in baby carriages. The deli was cheery and immaculate, its outside walls painted a paler version of the bright yellow splashed across the awning, the delicious deli, promised a sign in the window. you won't believe our coffee, and our he-man heroes are the biggest bargain in manhattan.

  That decided it for Auntie Lil. She was definitely going in. It was nearly noon, she was famished from walking around and, worst of all, had not been able to enjoy her customary five cups of coffee that morning. Whether they knew Emily there or not, she was paying the Delicious Deli a visit.

  A long counter ran down the right half of the small store, stopping just short of the window. Two small cafe tables had been squeezed into the tiny space left over. All were empty, awaiting the lunch rush. Auntie Lil sank gratefully into a small wrought-iron chair and eyed the man behind the counter. He was of medium build, around thirty-five years of age, she judged, with sandy hair and an open, cheery face. He had large round cheeks, wide-set brown eyes and a perfectly chiseled nose. His hair fell across his face and he brushed his unruly bangs aside impatiently. He was leaning against an enormous coffee machine, carefully hand-lettering the day's special on a portable chalkboard. He wore a short-sleeved white restaurant shirt and an apron smeared with chocolate. His enormous biceps were evidence that he did most of the work around the deli. Indeed, there was no one else in sight.

  "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 heroes, 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.

  5

  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 c
onvey 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.