The group headed north up Eighth Avenue and Auntie Lil turned west, satisfied they were doing as they'd promised. She wanted time to think about what she had seen that morning at St. Barnabas. She walked toward the Hudson River, where the huge cruise liners stood berthed at massive docks just a few blocks south from the pier where she had taken Theodore. Not many cargo ships pulled in these days; newer ports on Staten Island and Brooklyn made the trip to midtown Manhattan unnecessary. But the big passenger lines still liked the cachet of boarding their guests in sight of the Manhattan skyline. As Auntie Lil drew nearer, she heard a deep, mournful bellow. One of the passenger ships was pulling free from the dock and sounding its horn in celebration. She was just in time to watch it back slowly into the center of the river and head ponderously down the Hudson toward the Verrazano Narrows Bridge, where it would continue out to sea. The bulk of the boat was incredible. Even the water seemed to strain under its weight.
A cruise leaving in midweek would have few passengers and, indeed, the dock was cleared of any goodbye visitors within minutes. They walked quickly to their cars, anxious to leave the desolate riverfront and get on with their lives. Soon, Auntie Lil was left alone on a small concrete sidewalk that ran between the docks. She stared down at the murky greenish black waters of the Hudson, her mind still on St. Barnabas.
Why would Fran have quit? And did it have anything to do with Timmy's visit to Father Stebbins? Why would the old priest bother to lie about that visit? What could he be hiding? Surely it was no crime to help a young runaway in need of guidance. And the young boy might have nothing to do with Emily's death; their friendship could be a sad coincidence. Just another blow to Timmy's self-esteem.
Her mind wandered to the old actresses. It was a good thing she was allowed back at St. Barnabas, where she could keep a closer eye on the group. Could they know more than they were saying? She would not put it past Adelle to try to solve the murder on her own. Although gracious and charming, the woman clearly hated to share the spotlight with anyone. And wasn't it curious that Eva was missing? Maybe the others had teased her too much at last, or blamed her for Emily's death. Or, conversely, maybe she was just too busy redeeming herself by tailing residents of Emily's building to even stop to eat.
And what about that building? How could any trace of Emily disappear so quickly? Who was living in her apartment now, and why? Was it The Eagle? Did the killer have the audacity to move into his victim's very home? Yet Detective Santos had said that a young blonde woman lived in the apartment. And surely the police would have done a thorough job once they took the trouble to show up. She remembered she had not yet found out the results of the detective's latest search for The Eagle, and made a mental note to call Santos.
Was it possible that the entire building was participating in some sort of conspiracy? Surely not. What kind of trouble could an old woman like Emily possibly get into that would drive anyone, much less an entire building, to murder her?
The riverfront was exposed to the wind and, though the day had turned warmer, the breeze and too many unanswered questions conspired to chill her resolve. Auntie Lil shivered and stared down into the nearly black waves. How horrible the gently lapping waters of the Hudson seemed, what terrible secrets they concealed. To drown in the Hudson would be a particularly gruesome fate. One would disappear under that slick surface—mouth choked with unspeakable debris—condemned to death in the unseen depths. Who knew what unknown horrors lived beneath that murky facade?
That did it. She was getting far too morbid. No more visits to the morgue for her. She shook her shoulders briskly and straightened up. It was all very well to stop and reflect, but brooding would not solve Emily's death and feeling sorry for herself would get her nowhere. What she needed was a good strong cup of tea to bring her back. Forget cappuccino, she decided, they always drank strong tea in those old English mysteries and wasn't she practically in the middle of one right now? Billy at the Delicious Deli would be able to help; he kept an excellent supply of teas on hand.
Billy was taking advantage of the lull between lunch and the light dinner crowd. He was leaning over the counter, anxiously scanning an open newspaper. Auntie Lil watched him through the windows of the deli for a moment. Surely, that wide open face was an honest one. She wished she knew for sure.
The bell tinkled and Billy's face fell when he saw that the new visitor was Auntie Lil. "I can't believe it," he said. "I was just thinking of you. It looks like I was right."
"What do you mean?" She followed his stare and glanced at the newspaper. "What are you right about?"
"Bob Fleming," Billy said, somewhat smugly. "Take a look at this." He spun the newspaper around and pushed it across the counter. Without her glasses, Auntie Lil had to lean perilously close. She blinked. The huge headline made it all quite clear: runaway shelter director charged with sex abuse.
"What?" Her voice failed her and she studied the article more closely. It was a column by that female reporter T.S. enjoyed so much. The one with the teasing grin and the sarcastic writing style. Oh, yes—there was her name: Margo McGregor.
"What does it say?" Auntie Lil asked faintly. Damn her vanity. She wanted her glasses bad.
"Some kid turned him in. Said he'd been hitting on him at night, taking him home. You know. Stuff like that." Bill's voice trailed off in embarrassment and he released his anger in an effort to regain control. "I told you there was something funny about him. If it was up to me I'd pound him right into the pavement and let those kids take turns walking over his corpse."
"Good heavens." Auntie Lil looked up sharply. "What ever happened to a man being innocent until proven guilty?"
"Charges have been filed against him," Billy said simply. "They expect more kids to step forward as they feel safe."
Kids? They were runaways, miniature savages. God knows what they might say if they thought they could get some attention. She wanted to tell him this, but the words failed her. Such an attitude was not only unfair, but disloyal to Bob Fleming. After all, he had been the one to point out that they were still children; she could not now change her mind and see them as conniving adults. But she could be puzzled and skeptical of the charges. And find out more about them.
"What child made the allegations?" she demanded.
Billy looked at her strangely. "I don't know. They're not going to release the name. He's underage. That's the whole point."
"He?" Auntie Lil stared at Billy intently. "What makes you think it's a 'he'?"
"The article says so." Billy pointed to the paper and shrugged. "Listen, I'm sorry if it upsets you, but I told you that street talk was usually right. He's as bad as the men he claims to save those kids from."
"Mind if I borrow this?" Auntie Lil asked rhetorically, since the newspaper was folded and tucked into her enormous handbag before she had finished the request.
"Be my guest," Billy said philosophically. "I don't need a paper to tell me I was right."
He was being a little too smug for her taste. She'd just go find her tea somewhere else. The doorbell tinkled angrily behind her.
But the tea was instantly forgotten when a new thought hit her. Suppose it had been Timmy or Little Pete who had accused him? Suppose it was all tied together?
She changed directions and marched resolutely toward Fleming's Homefront office. If anyone was in, she'd try to find out more.
The door was locked and the lights out in the front office. But Auntie Lil could see a figure in the back, head down on a desk. She knocked and when she got no response, she proceeded to try and bang the door down with her pocketbook. After several seconds of ear-deafening assault, the figure rose and drifted her way.
It was Annie O'Day and she had been crying. A lot. The stained cheeks and puffy eyes seemed horribly out of place on her previously cheery and healthy countenance. "You've heard?" she asked glumly as Auntie Lil barged inside.
"I did and I'm having trouble believing it." Auntie Lil looked around to make sure that they were alone. "Lock the doors.
"
"I just did," Annie mumbled in reply as she led her inside. "Let's sit in back. I'm beginning to like the darkness."
"Is this true?" Auntie Lil demanded, producing the newspaper.
"No, it's not true. But it doesn't matter. Bob is being questioned by the police right now. They wouldn't let me stay with him. It's been at least five hours." The huge Irish woman reached for a tissue and blew her nose with a mighty honk, then tossed the Kleenex into a wastebasket across the narrow space. It banked perfectly and slid inside. "He's ruined whether the allegations turn out to be true or not, I expect. He'll be poison by the time they get through with him. It'll be the end of any grants or donations for Homefront."
"Who says he did this?" Auntie Lil asked, glaring at the newspaper as if it were the columnist's fault that Bob Fleming's character and life had been destroyed.
"Don't you know?" She looked up at Auntie Lil in surprise. "It's Timmy. Bob told me when he called from the stationhouse. It's the little boy you were looking for. Bob hardly knows him. And then he does this. Why? What did Bob ever do to him?"
Auntie Lil was silent. It had occurred to her at once that Bob Fleming's main contact with Timmy had been on her behalf. What questions had the Homefront director asked on the streets, trying to help her? Was this why he was being attacked?
"Why are you so quiet?" Annie demanded.
"I was wondering if Bob had had any contact with Timmy since I last spoke to him," Auntie Lil said carefully.
Annie shook her head vigorously. "He'd been asking around about Timmy," she explained. "Trying to find out who that guy that keeps him is. Trying to see if Timmy had a last name, or how he was involved with that old lady that was killed. Little Pete wouldn't tell him much, so he had to go to other people on the street. But you know what he was asking about better than I do. He was doing it for you." If it occurred to Annie that Auntie Lil was somehow at fault for what had happened, she did not show it.
"Timmy." Auntie Lil repeated the young boy's name softly and stared thoughtfully at the newspaper. "I want to talk to him."
"You and me and half the police force," Annie replied miserably. "I've been looking for him all day. He's nowhere to be found. And Little Pete has disappeared with him."
"Someone talked to him," Auntie Lil pointed out. She had to bring the newspaper practically to the tip of her nose to be able to read it, but it was a humiliation she was too angry to pay any heed to.
"What do you mean?" Annie stared at the newspaper.
"This woman talked to him." Auntie Lil set the paper back on the desk and placed a strong finger over Margo McGregor's face. "She doesn't use his name, but it sounds like she talked to him for quite a long time. In fact, it sounds like she was the one to break the whole story."
"Let me see that." Annie O'Day slid the paper closer and peered at it. "I get the other paper. It was just a small article crammed in at the last minute. I didn't even see this one. God, it takes up half a page. What does it say?" Her voice trailed off and anger settled over her innocent features, lending them a hardened, unpleasant look. She looked up at Auntie Lil. The rage reflected in her ice blue eyes was frightening. "This woman printed very single lie that kid said. That's not fair. That's like trying Bob in the press."
"Perhaps we should have a word with Miss McGregor. I could give her a call," Auntie Lil suggested calmly, hoping to erase the terrible anger that had imbued Annie's face with a suddenly ominous and threatening strength.
"You call her," Annie replied defiantly. She threw the newspaper on the floor. "If Margo McGregor can find Timmy, I can find Timmy. And I'm going to, if it's the last thing I do." The article had filled her with fresh resolve and she was up and out the door before Auntie Lil could stop her.
Auntie Lil stood in the back office, wondering what to do next. It was not in her nature to sit and do nothing, but how was she supposed to lock the door behind her if she left? Annie had marched out with the keys. There was nothing she could do but wait until Bob Fleming or Annie returned. She might as well make the best of it. Auntie Lil bolted the door from the inside and crept back into the darker interior. She was not in the mood to deal with any runaways at the moment. There was work to be done.
She gathered the newspaper pages from the floor and put them back together. She did not want to believe Margo McGregor either, but it sounded as if the columnist had done her homework.
Damn. She should have remembered at once. Margo McGregor had cropped up before... in Emily's pocketbook, her photo on each of the clippings carefully saved on a variety of subjects. Even worse: Theodore had thought them important. And she had not. She just hated it when she was wrong.
Could Emily have contacted the columnist about Timmy? Was that how the story got started? But there had been no evidence of correspondence with anyone in Emily's apartment, and especially not with Margo McGregor.
There was nothing left to do but go right to the source. She chose a telephone from the many lined up on the wall and began. Pretending to be Margo McGregor's mother, she greased her way through three levels of screening and right to the columnist's desk. Unfortunately, she was not there. A harried and disinterested-sounding colleague took a message and said he'd leave it on her desk. She thought about what to say and decided on: "Have vital information on Emily Toujours' death." That should bring a rapid response. She left the number printed on the phone, hung up and waited confidently.
A half-hour later, it had not brought any sort of response. And she was steamed. She didn't appreciate being trapped in Homefront until Annie O'Day returned while the entire world ignored her phone messages. A whole afternoon of doing nothing would kill her. She'd just have to pester Detective Santos while she waited.
He was in, since there was still another hour before the official cocktail hour began.
"Did you find The Eagle?" she asked anxiously, forgetting to introduce herself.
An introduction was not necessary. "No, we did not find The Eagle," the detective replied crisply. "We thoroughly searched that building, Miss Hubbert, and there is no tall black man living there with an eagle tattoo on his arm. In fact, there is not a single black man living in the entire building at all. Which is unusual in itself but not, so far as we can tell, necessarily illegal."
"But we saw him go in and he never came out."
"Even if that was true—and I have my doubts about it, to be honest with you—there are plenty of ways he could have gone out undetected," Santos explained. "Down the back fire escape, or up to the roof and over onto another building's roof. See what I mean?"
She was silent. He had a point.
"Listen, Miss Hubbert, I know you're trying to help. And I think that I've been a pretty good sport about it. But that was the last time I'll be able to humor you. Two officers spent an entire afternoon checking apartments and questioning people again. With zippo results. I simply can't afford the manpower to go off on any more goose chases. I've got another death on my hands this afternoon, this time a floater with no identification. And there will probably be another murder by morning." He sighed. "Go home and take up knitting or something. Go home and leave us all alone."
The detective hung up gently and Auntie Lil stared out the picture windows of the darkened storefront. A floater. The waters of the Hudson had claimed another victim. She shivered. The secrets of Hell's Kitchen seemed darker than ever.
It had been an excellent day for T.S. Such a good day, in fact, that he was halfheartedly considering retiring the tan slacks and black sweater he'd worn to mark his triumph. Why, the sweater still smelled faintly of Lilah's gardenia perfume. And surely there were a few of her silver hairs nestled among its nap. After all, they'd sat side by side for hours in the Performing Arts Library, poring over old Playbills in search of Emily Toujours in cast listings or a glimpse of her face in any photos. Their lack of success at this task had not dimmed the triumphs of the day.
At first, he had felt a bit guilty about St. Barnabas and was unsure if his help had b
een expected there or not. But he had managed to rationalize that worry away quite nicely by remembering that they had tossed his dear old aunt out on her ear, and that Father Stebbins had failed to even recognize him the day before. So surely his obligations to the soup kitchen could take a back seat to the investigation.
And why should he begrudge himself a cozy lunch with Lilah at a small French bistro off Sixty-Second Street? What better way to cap off a morning of careful scrutiny than with exquisite dishes, an excellent dry white, a beautiful woman and a maître d' with enough sense to provide a candlelit atmosphere in the middle of the day. Thus fortified, they had returned to the library and spent a number of happy hours paging through still more Playbills while reminiscing about the many Broadway shows they had seen with other people… and the many more they hoped to see together.
Eight hours passed by as quickly as eight minutes, made that much more delicious by the thought that there was still an evening together to come. Who cared if they had to spend that evening in the supercilious company of a cheesy would-be Broadway producer? In fact, who cared that not a trace of Emily Toujours had been found, not even as an extra or in a backstage capacity? He had spotted several of the other old actresses, he thought, in their earlier incarnations, though he could not be positive. The young and painted faces that stared out at him in faded photographs held little relation to the heavily wrinkled versions they now wore.
Except for Adelle. It was true, he discovered, that she did look quite a lot like she had when she was younger. Her broad face and regal neck weathered well. And he found more traces of her career than anyone else's. She appeared to have worked her way up to featured roles by the late forties and early fifties, before disappearing into obscurity again. It was interesting and rather sad from a sociological standpoint, but shed no light on Emily's murder so far as T.S. could determine.
Fortunately, lack of progress made in finding any trace of Emily Toujours was balanced out by progress that had been made in other, quite important areas. Tonight more would be made, T.S. was sure. He searched his closet for evening attire appropriate for a wealthy investor, and settled on his very best suit, custom-made in Hong Kong according to Auntie Lil's strict specifications.
A Cast of Killers Page 26
