T.S. took the phone and suspiciously punched in Auntie Lil's number. He hated machines he did not understand. It would probably cut them off in mid-sentence.
Surprisingly, the connection was quite clear. He could tell that she was tired.
"What's the matter?" he asked Auntie Lil, alarmed. "Are you okay?"
"I'm fine. Just a little discouraged," she admitted. "I didn't find out much today." She filled him in on the details of her meetings with Bob Fleming and Little Pete. But she did not tell him about Billy's advice as she knew this would trigger a fresh round of warnings from him. In return, T.S. told her about their dinner with Lance Worthington.
"He sounds like quite an oily operator," she decided.
"I'm beginning to be sorry I volunteered to find out more about him," T.S. admitted. "The thought of spending another evening with him is repugnant."
"But you also get to spend it with Lilah." Auntie Lil could always point out the good side of a situation. Particularly if it helped her get what she wanted.
"I'm just not convinced that this is getting us anywhere," T.S. said. "Seems to me you're having all the fun."
Auntie Lil sighed. "It is certainly not fun tramping around the streets all day. If you want to be more useful, why don't you go back to the library and check more Playbills. This time, see what you can pick up on any of those old actresses. I'm not sure I trust them. At least, I don't trust some of them."
T.S. agreed only after extracting a promise from Lilah that she would accompany him to Lincoln Center. "Okay," he told Auntie Lil cheerfully. "What are you going to do?"
"I'm going back to St. Barnabas," she said and rang off.
"Do you get the feeling that we're doing all the grunt work?" T.S. asked Lilah. "While she gets to have all the fun?"
"Isn't that the point of this entire episode?" Lilah asked back. "To keep your Auntie Lil happy?" She patted his knee and T.S. was more than pleased to agree.
11
Auntie Lil had stayed away from the soup kitchen for two whole days, but the strain of controlling her curiosity was starting to get to her. Convinced that they were missing clues that might lead them to Emily's killer, Auntie Lil rose early the next morning and took up a new post near St. Barnabas Church. Mindful of Lieutenant Abromowitz's orders to stay away, she stationed herself in the shadows of the deep doorway of a welfare hotel located across the street. She would just watch for a while, she told herself, and see who came in or out. Then maybe, if the coast was clear and that insufferable Fran nowhere to be seen, she'd risk setting foot on the premises. She wanted to talk to Father Stebbins and see what he knew about Emily. Perhaps she had been one of his parishioners. After all, what was the worst that could happen? An order from Lieutenant Abromowitz to stay away from the church wasn't exactly the law. Was it?
She had gotten there early and the street still belonged to trickles of commuters that flowed quickly past, heading east and west for their office buildings. They clutched their briefcases tightly in both hands, men and women alike, as they marched determinedly toward more familiar turf. St. Barnabas was on a transient street that belonged to the homeless and hopeless. People came and went, but very few cared to stop. The church itself looked desolate and abandoned in the early morning light. For the first time that year, there was a chill in the air. Auntie Lil wrapped her sweater coat more tightly about her, shivering slightly. At least she was not suffering alone, she told herself. Herbert or Franklin would be just a few blocks away watching Emily's building.
But Herbert was much closer than that. Even as she wondered what progress the watchers might be making, she spotted Herbert near Ninth Avenue, heading east. His path would take him directly in front of her hiding place. As he got nearer, she saw that his face was troubled. Clearly he was preoccupied, yet he did not even blink when she grabbed his elbow and pulled him into the doorway with her.
"Lillian," he said with a polite bow. "It is with much pleasure that I see you so early in the morning. I was just on my way to breakfast. Will you join me?"
"No." She cut right to the point. "You look worried. Why?"
Herbert shook his head. "I've just been by to talk to Franklin. No Eagle yet. It just doesn't make sense. He's been in that building for over two days now. A man cannot simply disappear."
Auntie Lil thought of the back fire escapes and wondered. But why would The Eagle bother to sneak out the back when their surveillance of the building was a secret?
"The police were there yesterday afternoon," Herbert added. Auntie Lil smiled grimly. At least Detective Santos considered her suggestions more seriously than that awful Lieutenant Abromowitz.
"What happened?"
The retired messenger shrugged unhappily. "Two uniformed men entered and stayed several hours. They left alone. It is very puzzling. I stayed quite late last night, watching the building carefully. No sign of The Eagle at all. Franklin is over there now. And who knows how many of those crazy ladies are wandering about beseeching strangers and wearing disguises? Now they've all taken to dressing like bag ladies and popping up just when you least expect them the most. It is like being trapped in an opera out of control."
Auntie Lil had been keeping an eye on the street and spotted the stout figure the instant it emerged into sight, headed for St. Barnabas.
"Get back," she hissed at Herbert, dragging him further into the shadows of the doorway. They peeked across the street together and watched as Fran, her face hidden, pulled a key from her pocketbook and quickly entered through the basement door.
"Don't you think it's a bit early for volunteering?" she asked ominously. "I never arrived until noon." Herbert checked his watch in reply. It was just before ten o'clock in the morning.
"Why do you think she is here so early?" he wondered aloud.
"Now look what's happening," Auntie Lil whispered in excitement.
The main entrance to St. Barnabas opened slowly, the large wooden doors swinging out with medieval ponderousness. Father Stebbins stepped into a small pool of sunshine that spotlighted the top step. He blinked in the daylight and looked behind him. A small figure stepped into view and stood beside the priest, its nearly white hair gleaming in the autumn sunlight. Together, they searched the sidewalks in both directions, then the priest nodded slowly and unlocked the folding metal gate that blocked the steps from the street. The small figure squeezed through the small opening and took off running lightly, his sneaker-clad feet skimming over the sidewalk with ease.
"That's Timmy!" Auntie Lil hissed. "What's he doing with Father Stebbins?"
Herbert Wong was silent. He was a Buddhist and lacked Auntie Lil's ingrained reverence for Catholic priests. He had plenty of ideas that would account for Timmy's presence. Including none that he cared to share with Auntie Lil.
"I must be going," he told her as they watched Father Stebbins relock the gate. Both noticed that the priest seemed troubled. His face sagged and he was shaking his head sadly as he disappeared back inside the church.
"He did not see Miss Fran," Herbert observed. "I wonder what she is doing down there in the basement all alone?"
"She may not be in the basement," Auntie Lil explained. "There's a door in the basement that opens into the church from the inside. For all we know, they're playing tag up and down the steps right now."
"Not tag," Herbert said solemnly.
"Quite right. The game is much more serious than that."
"I must obtain Franklin's Egg McMuffin and return to my post across from Miss Emily's building," the retired messenger announced. "Franklin is due at the Salvation Army at half past. They have some large clothes in and he would like a new outfit."
"He is a huge man," Auntie Lil admitted. "I dare say his size may come in handy someday."
"Let us hope not," Herbert observed. He left, whistling, and headed down the street towards Times Square. A crisp morning and sudden sunshine often had that effect on Herbert—it warmed his soul and made him happy, regardless of the sad task that occupie
d him at the moment. Herbert was a philosopher and a man at peace with himself. He did not find happiness and sorrow incompatible at all.
Auntie Lil stayed put. She was stubborn and wildly curious. Not even the thought of black coffee distracted her from her scrutiny. This dedication was rewarded barely a half hour later, when the gate to the basement pushed open and Fran rushed into view. Her face was twisted and small tracks of silver glittered in the emerging sunlight: tears. Fran had been crying. To see such a stout and determinedly capable woman in tears was a shock, even to Auntie Lil.
Father Stebbins followed quickly and stood silently on the sidewalk, watching Fran rush down the street. The distraught woman reached Eighth Avenue and turned quickly north, not seeming to care that she rammed into a late commuter and sent him careening off a parked car. His briefcase bounced off the bumper.
Auntie Lil could be discreet and let the drama play out. Or she could be herself and dive in, head first. It wasn't much of a contest.
"Father Stebbins! Father Stebbins!" she called out loudly, scurrying across the street with unseemly haste in an effort to beat out a large bread truck that seemed intent on reaching the next corner in three seconds, even at the price of her life.
The priest looked up, startled. "Lillian! What brings you back here? You must be a sign. In the darkness, yea, I will send thee a sign."
"A sign?" she demanded. "A sign of what?"
"Of divine intervention," he said unhappily, turning away.
The intervention part was certainly right, but not even Auntie Lil considered her role "divine." She fell into step beside Father Stebbins. Together, they descended the steps toward the basement. His worried look had deepened.
"Who was that young boy I saw you with this morning? A new volunteer?" She tried to keep her voice light, but failed. The question sounded like an accusation.
"Young boy?" He stopped and stared at her blankly. "What young boy?"
"On the steps of the church just a little while ago." She should not have asked. A little more finesse was called for. Now she would warn him away.
The priest turned away and unlocked the door. "I'm afraid you're mistaken," he said evenly. "Your eyes must be playing tricks on you. I have been seeing a few special members of my flock who are unable to attend regular confession. That is all. What were you doing? Hiding in the shadows like the enemies of the Church in ancient times?"
She wisely decided to drop the subject. "I came to ask you a few questions," she said instead.
He sighed as eloquently as any martyr the Church had ever immortalized. "What kind of questions? I cannot always supply the answers, you know. A man of the cloth may be as confused as anyone. It seems I lack many answers these days. I have not been of much help to my flock, as it were. Like all others, I am but a man with feet of clay."
"Was Emily one of your parishioners? Did she come attend services here?"
"Mass," he corrected her primly. "No. Although she was a Catholic, I cannot ever recall seeing her at mass at St. Barnabas. She was a private woman and preferred to attend St. Peter's, where none of her friends belonged." He sighed again, distracted, his mind on other topics.
"You seem preoccupied," Auntie Lil said softly. "Is there anything I can do to help?"
His face cleared. "You can cook the meal today," he said hopefully. "I'm afraid Fran has just quit. I don't know what I'm going to do."
"Quit?" Auntie Lil stared at him. "Whatever for?"
Father Stebbins shrugged unhappily. "Sometimes I think that this is a very wicked world indeed." He ignored her question and held the door open as Auntie Lil hurried inside. The basement was dark and smelled faintly of pine.
"The lieutenant ordered me to stay away," she reminded him.
"I'm ordering you to stay and help." The priest wandered back into the kitchen area and opened the pantry door with a heavy sigh. "This world is not fit for the truly good, my dear Lillian," he said. "Too often, what is good only masks evil. And what is evil too often masks still more evil. Nothing is what it seems."
Auntie Lil threw together a hasty stew of odds and ends, but no one complained. There was an uneasy air about the soup kitchen that day, brought on by the chill in the weather. Undeniably, winter was coming and, with it, freezing temperatures and the danger of snow. Soon, the streets would not be an option for many of the homeless in line. They were worried. Where would they go? Few wanted to return to the city shelters. One visit had been more than enough for most of those waiting to eat. The shelters were dirty and dangerous and discouraging. At least on the street, they could cling to some measure of privacy, thanks to the anonymity the hurrying crowds bestowed on them.
Adelle arrived with her entourage for their meal a few minutes later than was usual. Though they made excellent bag ladies, their pride would not let them appear at the soup kitchen in full regalia. At St. Barnabas, they had a more important role to play. There, they were the sheltered elite, the crème de la crème of the hungry. Consequently, they were as well groomed and regal as ever by the time they showed for lunch.
"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 ab
ruptly 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.
A Cast of Killers Page 25
