A Cast of Killers (34 page)

"Isn't it just too much?" Lilah agreed. "I've
only used it once, to order some Chinese food from the curbside.
And that was just for fun. Fun that cost me about three
dollars."

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.

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
occupied 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.