"What about the rest of you?" Auntie Lil asked the remaining actresses scattered around the table. After separating the babble of voices that answered, she determined that a few had known Emily briefly in the early forties and the remainder had not known her at all until the last few years.
"Why did you lose contact with her for so many years?" Auntie Lil asked those who had known Emily many years ago.
"I lost contact with her after the show," Adelle admitted. "We hadn't much in common and when the war started, I got a spot with A1 Jolson's revue. We went overseas, you know. The man was tireless. How the soldiers loved him. They loved me, too, of course. I was gone for nearly a year and when I returned, we never renewed our friendship. I saw her around town now and then, but that was all."
One of the actresses looked up sharply and stared at Adelle. Auntie Lil did not fail to notice it.
"I kept up with her," Eva volunteered. "Sort of like you'd keep your eye on a snake." She ignored the protests that met this slur. "We were on speaking terms for a few more years, but she moved away from New York in 1944, I believe it was. To marry some sappy officer in the Air Force."
"You don't know the name of the man she married?" Auntie Lil asked.
"No. He was from Kansas or Missouri or Illinois or Ohio or some place like that," Eva said glumly. "I think his first name was Homer or Harold or Horace, or something dreadfully Midwestern."
At least it had been his real name, Auntie Lil thought sourly.
"Adelle knew him, didn't you?" an otherwise quiet actress said. They all turned and stared at her, perhaps surprised that she had finally spoken up. "I thought Adelle went out with him first," she exclaimed, feeling a need to defend herself against the stares of her colleagues. "He was a quite handsome man…” Her voice trailed off.
"Perhaps I did." Adelle shrugged. "It's so hard to remember when one has had so very many liaisons through the years." She sighed, as if begrudging the effort those liaisons had required.
"You told me you could learn a script in three readings flat," Auntie Lil pointed out. "And you can't even remember this man's name?"
Adelle was not fazed. "Men were never important to me. Only my characters meant anything."
Auntie Lil sighed. The information wasn't helping her much. "When did you begin to run into Emily again?" she asked the women.
"I recognized her about three years ago at a matinee of Les Miserables," Adelle explained. "Or rather, she recognized me. I guess I do look pretty much the same. Emily was much, much older, of course. But she still wore her hair in the same old roll and her cheekbones were unmistakable." She sighed with envy. "She really had the most marvelous cheekbones. She would have looked grand on screen."
"Obviously she didn't," Eva said nastily. "Or Mr. Zanuck would have put her under contract."
"That's right," Adelle admitted, and explained to Auntie Lil. "She was asked to go out to 20th Century in the early forties for a screen test. Right after our show together. They were scouring Broadway night and day for stars back then. But her speaking voice was her weakness."
"She sounded like a mouse," Eva put in. "A sick mouse."
"After that, the war interrupted everything just long enough to ruin what little chance she might have had," Adelle continued. "It was just bad timing more than anything else, really. Emily never had my sense of timing, poor thing. She came back to New York for a few more years of trying, not knowing, of course, that the war would throw Hollywood into a golden era. She really should have stayed on in Los Angeles. She was pretty enough. She could easily have been an extra. But by the time she figured it out, I think she had already married this man and moved away. I never saw or heard from her again until that matinee three years ago."
"And over the past three years," Auntie Lil asked, "you've learned nothing more of substance about her private life than that?"
"No," the table chorused in apology.
"She was very private about her life," someone explained. "Secretive, really."
"She didn't want us to know anything about her," another actress added.
"I think it's because she was poor and too proud to let us know," Eva insisted.
Adelle stared at her in warning. "Actually," she said in her even, well-modulated voice, "I think it was because she was rather well-off, compared to us, and didn't want us to know."
Auntie Lil was inclined to agree with Adelle. "I found out where she lived," she told the women, filling in only some of the details. "She had a rather nice little apartment on Forty-Sixth Street. It was filled with Playbills and ticket stubs. She certainly had enough money to go to the theater."
"That does take money these days," Adelle said. "Most of us sneak in. We know the usherettes and if there's an empty seat, who gets hurt?"
"But Emily would always buy orchestra seats," another lady remembered suddenly. "Does that help at all?"
"That's true. She was very fond of telling us so," Eva sniffed in disgust. "Of course, she was probably not eating or not buying shoes or something, just so she could lord it over us."
"That's not so," Adelle corrected her gently. "You were the one who always had to pull it out of her. What had she seen? Where had she sat? You were intent on torturing yourself, I believe."
"I'm not quite clear what the problem was between the two of you," Auntie Lil told Eva firmly. "But I think you had better tell me about it."
"That's right," someone else pointed out. "You'd better tell her, Eva. Or else you'll be a suspect."
Several old ladies found the prospect funny. Auntie Lil did not. Eva, in fact, was a suspect in her book. And Auntie Lil did not find it amusing to contemplate one old actress killing another. She found it perfectly plausible. Especially by the rather dramatic method of poison in a public place.
Adelle was adept at interpreting expressions and she correctly guessed at Auntie Lil's. "You better tell her everything, Eva," she ordered her friend. "It's really not the time to hold back."
Eva looked miserable. "She just never liked me," she admitted finally. "If she had been nice to me, I would have been nice back."
"Of course she didn't like you," someone pointed out. "You were horrid to her."
"She always seemed to get better parts than me," Eva defended herself.
"That wasn't her fault," Adelle interjected.
"Better men, too," Eva added stubbornly. "It was as if God sent her to follow me around and snatch everything I wanted right from my hands just as it was within my grasp."
"Nonsense." The tiny old woman who had crossed Eva before spoke up again. "You just enjoyed suffering so much that every time Emily got something, you convinced yourself that you had wanted it, too. It was you that created those situations, not her. Honestly. Sometimes I think you would have done a better job than Julie Harris in The Lark. You've had enough practice being a martyr."
Eva sniffed unhappily. "Maybe. Maybe not. But I did try to be friends with her these last three years. And she'd have nothing to do with me. She liked to have her secrets and she'd never tell me what they were."
"Secrets?" Auntie Lil asked. "Like what?" She saw Fran glancing over the dining room with a proprietary air and quickly bent her face down low. It might be best to remain discreet, considering that being thrown out by Fran was not in her plans at the moment. In fact, she'd rather die than endure the humiliation. Provided it was a peaceful death, of course.
"I don't know what her secrets were," Eva was saying indignantly. "Like I said, she wouldn't tell me."
"What did she tell you exactly?" Auntie Lil asked patiently.
"She said that things around here were not as innocent as they seemed," Eva announced mysteriously. "She said this neighborhood was like quicksand. Smooth on the surface and unholy underneath."
Adelle flapped a hand. "Oh, please. Don't bring that up again."
"What up again?" Auntie Lil stared from one old lady to another.
"She means Fran and Father Stebbins," one actress finally answered. "Though I do
n't think there's a thing to it."
"Of course not." Adelle dismissed the idea with an elegant flap of her long hands. "Father Stebbins has far too much taste for the likes of her."
Auntie Lil glanced behind the counter. Fran was hovering near Father Stebbins, talking earnestly and getting little reaction from the preoccupied priest.
"I certainly hope you're right," Auntie Lil said.
"Of course I'm right," Adelle insisted. "I admit Father Stebbins is given to clichés, but breaking his vow of celibacy is not one of those clichés."
"She hinted at having younger friends," Eva added. Her brow was wrinkled in thought, an expression that turned her heavily lined eyebrows into twin questions laid on their sides. She really was trying to help Auntie Lil.
"Younger?" Auntie Lil said. "What gave you the impression they were younger?"
Eva shrugged. "She let it drop that she was bringing a younger man to see Cats, I think it was. She said something about hoping she could keep up." Eva glanced around the table, pleased at the effect her pronouncement had on the group. Mouths open wide, they gaped at her, trying to reconcile the image of an aloof Emily dating a younger man.
"Well, you could interpret that many ways," Auntie Lil said.
"That's what I mean," Eva agreed. "She was always hinting at things without ever really saying anything. Just because she knew it drove me crazy."
"It isn't much to go on," Auntie Lil told them. They looked ashamed and she stirred uneasily. "Look here," she added, hoping to brighten their moods. "Did any of you ever see her with anyone else?" They all shook their heads no. She opened her giant pocketbook and rummaged inside, producing the dime store strip of photos. "How about one of these boys?" she asked, passing the photo around the table.
They took turns scrutinizing it carefully, some of them holding the strip only inches from their eyes, but no one recognized either of the boys.
Auntie Lil sighed and packed the photos back inside her pocketbook. She saw that Fran had finished speaking to Father Stebbins and was eyeing the floor of the dining room as if intending to make a sweep through the tables. The image of Fran grabbing her elbow and marching her out on police orders was not a pleasant one. "I'd better go now," Auntie Lil decided. No sense throwing fuel on Fran's fire. "If you think of anything else, let me know."
"But you haven't told us how we could help," Adelle protested. "She was our friend and we want to help. We want to know where your investigation stands. How will we know what you've found out if we're not involved?"
Auntie Lil did not have time to evaluate the implications of this statement. She was too busy watching Fran approach one of the first tables. Soon, she would be headed their way. "This is serious business," she told the table quickly. "I can't let amateurs gum up the works."
"We are not amateurs," Adelle protested. "My God, we're trained professionals, highly skilled in our craft."
"But in acting, not detecting," Auntie Lil pointed out.
"Same thing," Adelle insisted loftily.
"If I can think of a way you can be of help, I certainly will let you know," Auntie Lil promised. She had to go now or risk ignominious exposure. "I've got to meet Theodore and I'm late," she lied, scurrying out the basement door.
Adelle stared after her. "Well, I never. Talk about poor timing for your exit." She sniffed and the other old actresses nodded their solemn agreement.
As usual, Auntie Lil was getting to do all the fun work while T.S. went off on a futile tangent. But he would still do his best, despite the fact that he wasn't having much luck down at City Hall. First he got lost in the maze of distinguished, Romanesque buildings which looked exactly alike to him and then he was crushed in a crowd of early commuters anxious to head home before the five o'clock rush. By the time he found the building holding housing records, it was nearly a quarter to five. Things were not looking good. He rode the elevator to the proper floor in gloomy silence, trying hard to ignore the surreptitious glances of several of his fellow riders. He straightened his shoulders, conscious of their scrutiny. Why in the world were they doing staring at him? He was the one properly dressed in stylish clothes. They all had on brown or checked suits at least two decades out of date and had let their bodies go to seed. They looked like a convention of ill-dressed penguins... or hair oil salesmen. As the elevator neared his floor, several of the men drew closer to T.S. The doors opened and one ventured a comment.
"Going to records?" he asked brightly.
"Yes," T.S. replied slowly, noting that a number of heads had turned his way. "I need to find out who the owner of a building is." As he spoke, four men accompanied him out of the elevator and began shouting and pushing to get close to T.S. He stared at them mystified, unable to separate their voices. They waved business cards in his face and babbled. One particularly portly gentleman finally succeeded in elbowing his competitors aside and dragging T.S. a short distance down the hall while the others watched enviously.
"Lenny Melk, real estate consultant," he assured T.S. smoothly. "Don't let those amateurs fool you. What you need is a pro. Someone who knows the lay of the land. Not to mention the clerks and the procedures. Are you aware that you could be lost in these hallways for days, without food or sustenance, seeking knowledge and enlightenment that, for a mere thirty-five dollars, I could obtain in five minutes?"
"What?" T.S. removed his elbow from the man's grasp and drew himself upright, trying not to stare. Lenny Melk was shaped like a middle-aged bear—he was all stomach and sloped shoulders. His gray suit had wide lines of red running through it, except for the three spots where a coffee stain had interrupted the pattern—and his shoulders were peppered with a healthy snowfall of dandruff. In fact, it was a blizzard. His clearly visible scalp shone gray beneath strands of greasy black hair and his doughy face was sprinkled with old acne scars.
"Do you mean to tell me that all of you are nothing but vultures, riding the elevators day after day looking for people to descend on?" T.S. asked.
"Certainly not." Lenny Melk was not the least bit miffed at being labeled a vulture. He thrust a heavily jeweled hand into his greasy hair and combed it back over a large bald spot. "I am an entrepreneur and well worth my modest fee. Of course, if you don't believe me, go right ahead and do it yourself." He waved his hand in the general direction of a large double doorway. T.S. peeked inside. Dozens of people were poring over pages of records at scarred, ancient library tables. Others were engaged in arguments with bored-looking clerks who stood behind a pair of counters at one end of the room. Rows and rows of card catalog drawers lined the walls and the clock on the far wall was ticking ominously closer to five o'clock.
"Better hurry. You got all of five minutes," Lenny Melk assured him smoothly. "These people are civil servants. They're going to start dragging their feet in about five minutes." He checked his watch—a bad Rolex imitation—and began to whistle the theme from Rocky.
"All right, all right," T.S. agreed. He dug into his pocket for the money. "But I'm waiting here. This is the address I need the info on." He handed the man a handful of bills plus Emily's apartment building number. "I want to know who owns it and if a condominium conversion plan has been filed. And anything else pertinent."
"No sweat," Lenny promised him, pocketing the money with practiced ease. "But I do need two more fivers, on account of the time."
T.S. raised his eyebrows and stared at the man.
"Not for me. For the clerk," Lenny explained defensively.
"Of course," T.S. murmured in resignation. "I forgot for a moment where 1 was." He handed over two more fives and watched as Lenny practiced his magic. The man was right. He was not an amateur at all. He was truly an entrepreneur. He quickly snatched an oversized bundle of building plans from an abandoned spot on a nearby table and sidled up ahead of several people waiting in line. He held one hammy finger to a spot on the plans and stared at it in mock confusion. Murmuring apologies to those behind him, he bellied up to the front of the counter and snapped hi
s fingers at the clerk. The clerk, a skinny man blessed with the embalmed attitude of all civil servants, turned his way with an astonished glare that quickly changed to a look of barely concealed recognition and what T.S. suspected was a spark of greed. Shielding himself from the view of others with the large building plans, Lenny slipped a five to the clerk and quickly barked out a question. To the chagrin of the entire line, the clerk promptly disappeared in back, behind a stack of drawers that bulged with unfiled papers. Lenny half-turned and gave T.S. a coquettish wave. Feeling foolish, T.S. waved back.
It took several minutes, but when the clerk reappeared, he had a handful of papers that he handed over to Lenny. Lenny stuffed them under his arm and quickly shook the clerk's hand, passing another five to him as he did so. Smiling at the enraged line still waiting, he headed back to T.S., pretending to be unaware of the fact that the clerk was quickly sliding down a wooden barrier and closing his station. "Sorry," the clerk's expression conveyed to the line as he pointed to the clock. "But not really. Better luck next time."
"Let's get out of here before you get lynched," T.S. suggested. A large man, who had been elbowed aside while preoccupied with his official papers, was making a beeline for Lenny. His expression hinted that he was a man of action.
"No problem," Lenny said, glancing over his shoulder. He grabbed T.S.'s elbow and pulled him out into the hallway and into the first open door. It was the ladies' room and, fortunately, it was empty. Pink paint peeled from dingy walls and a cracked mirror had been decorated with a lipstick to read rosalyn loves randy forever.
"Here's the story," Lenny announced in a superior tone of voice. He scanned the papers quickly, his expressions ranging from professional boredom to slight interest and back again to boredom. "Looks like the building is owned by some kind of holding company, probably just a dummy corporation, that calls itself Worthy Enterprises, Inc. They've owned it just over two years. They give their address as 1515 Broadway. I never heard of them." He shrugged. "No conversion plan. It's all rental apartments." He glanced at the date. "A couple of them go for pretty cheap. Rent control, I guess. Real estate taxes are $8,567 a year. Paid on time. Sort of. Anything else you need to know?"
A Cast of Killers Page 14
