A Cast of Killers

by Gallagher Gray

  He had only been teasing but she looked so disappointed that he immediately amended his remark. "Actually, Aunt Lil, your chili was a rousing success. They all look happy and satisfied."

  They stared together at the tables crammed with the hungry and the homeless. Heads were bent low over their meals, spoons and bread clutched in hands, bodies protecting the small plate that was theirs. Most people had chosen the nearest seat that they could find and there were many unlikely combinations of table companions. But one table hosted no one but Adelle and the rest of the perfectly dressed little old ladies that T.S. had noticed coming through the line. They argued loudly among themselves in vigorous debate, their well-trained voices projecting across the entire room so that all could hear the conversation.

  "Leslie Howard brought more vulnerability to the role," one voice proclaimed.

  "How can you say that?" another disagreed. "Gielgud was clearly superior."

  "You just say that because he complimented you on your hair that one time."

  "That is not true. Everyone knows that Leslie Howard did not possess the animal magnetism required to play a proper Hamlet."

  "Leslie Howard had plenty of animal magnetism," a third voice interjected hotly. "And I should know. He was a better Hamlet than John Gielgud could ever be. And we all know why."

  "What are you implying? Not even you could have missed the undertones of Hamlet for seventy-five years. Gielgud was the perfect man for the part."

  A chorus of voices then entered the debate, providing an unlikely backdrop to the dispirited eating going on in the rest of the room.

  "I hesitate to ask this," T.S. admitted, hating to let his curiosity get the better of him. "But who are they?” He pointed out the table of chattering old ladies with a chili-smeared finger.

  "That's Adelle and her crowd," Auntie Lil explained. "They're old actresses who still live in this neighborhood. Most of them have been here for sixty or more years. A few live in tiny rent-controlled apartments nearby. And some live in shelters, I suspect. They meet here every day for lunch. Their government checks barely cover their rent. This may be the only meal they get. They're all quite charming. I recognized a few of their names from when I was a girl and your grandfather would take me to the theater."

  Now who was she kidding? Auntie Lil was at least as old as all of them and probably older than most. Not that T.S. felt it necessary to point that out. "They were famous actresses?" he asked instead.

  "Oh no, not famous. None of them were ever famous. They were chorus girls, maybe, or B and C parts at best. An understudy or two for the bigger parts, perhaps. I know a few were Ziegfeld girls. But never, ever famous." Auntie Lil sighed. "Really, I have to admire their dedication to their art."

  Maybe. But T.S. mostly admired their dedication to their eats. They held their spoons carefully above their chili, pinkies extended into the air with archaic correctness. But their hands were practically blurs as they quickly and methodically consumed their meals between arguments.

  "You might be right about them eating once a day," he observed.

  "That's the story for most everyone here," she agreed sadly.

  "Lillian!" Father Stebbins' voice boomed in hearty congratulations behind them. T.S. jumped and knocked a chili spoon flying, splattering the weary linoleum with a new layer of gunk. Grumpy Fran was right behind Father Stebbins, tailing him like a faithful dog. She stared first at the spoon and then at T.S.—clearly, he was as troublesome as she had first suspected.

  "The chili was a success," Father Stebbins thundered on. "I knew you could do it! Just a smashing success. Why, look at those happy campers!" He threw his arms out in the general direction of the dining room and they stared obediently at the mechanically munching crowd. No one looked particularly ecstatic.

  "Theodore!" Auntie Lil suddenly clutched his sleeve in fright and pointed across the room. "That woman's in trouble." Another volunteer's scream followed her cry.

  A frail old woman, dressed much like the other old actresses, had been sitting at a table away from the main group. She was struggling up from her chair and her face was blue. Her mouth hung open in speechless agony. Her tablemates stared up mutely in mystified astonishment. Her arm jerked suddenly and upended her plate of chili. It clattered to the floor and slid across the linoleum, leaving a trail of sticky brown goo.

  "She's choking!" T.S. cried, sprinting across the room to her, with Father Stebbins close behind.

  Before they could reach her, the old woman clutched at her heart and fell to the floor, losing consciousness. Her body jerked slowly, picking up steam until she was shuddering all over in spasms that came in waves. She gasped for breath desperately, like a fish gaffed in the gills. She regained consciousness briefly and turned her face to T.S. Their eyes locked for a single, horrifying second. He saw complete terror trapped beneath the milky blue of her irises just before she arched and lapsed unconscious again, her body writhing uncontrollably as her breath returned in rapid, agonized rasps.

  "She's not choking," Auntie Lil said. "I think she's having a heart attack."

  "I'll call an ambulance," one of the young volunteers shouted. He vaulted over the railing and disappeared toward the back.

  "Does anyone know CPR?" Father Stebbins yelled, his head whipping wildly from side to side as he scanned the stunned diners watching the drama. Adelle and the other little old ladies had risen as one from their table—they stared, paralyzed with fear.

  "Emily!" one of them croaked, a tiny hand fluttering to cover her mouth as if she had somehow been impolite.

  "I know CPR," T.S. remembered. God, it had been years since he'd had those Red Cross classes. What to do? Breathe in her mouth? Thump on her chest? She was so frail he'd crack her ribs if he did it incorrectly, and probably puncture a lung.

  Her body had stilled with an ominous suddenness, but he knelt beside her anyway and lifted one of her hands. It was as thin and light as a young tree limb dried to a fire-ready tinder. He felt for a pulse and could find none. Her veins were as thin and spidery as ink tracings. He reached under her neck, watching as her lips quivered, then froze. Her breath smelled faintly of alcohol. Her eyelids ceased fluttering abruptly and opened as her whole face grew still, eyes slowing to a stop until she stared at T.S. in permanent surprise. Even as he groped for the carotid arteries, hoping for a pulse, T.S. knew the woman was dead. And that nothing would bring her back. He found his CPR position anyway, and carefully pumped at her chest, stopped, then tasted the bitter void of her mouth as he tried to breathe life back into her body. There was no response. He tried for a minute more before giving up.

  "She's beyond CPR," he said out loud. Auntie Lil dropped to her knees beside him and checked for herself. She nodded in agreement and looked up at the crowd.

  "I'm afraid she's dead," she announced with just the right mixture of concern and impersonal calm. It was a calm that T.S. knew she did not feel. Auntie Lil was not afraid of much but, he suspected, death headed the list. She was too old not to realize that it lay in wait for her and she shuddered involuntarily whenever its dark breath passed close by. But she was also a woman consumed by common sense and she knew that the last thing they needed was a panicked crowd pressing in around them. So she kept her voice authoritative and confident, taking over the situation with a practiced air. This was fortunate, since Father Stebbins was absorbed in comforting a sobbing Fran—whose aggressive self-confidence had conveniently fled when confronted with the chance to collapse in the handsome priest's arms.

  "There's nothing that anyone can do," Auntie Lil announced, rising to her feet and holding up both hands for silence even though no one had said a word. "We've called an ambulance. They should be here any moment. And I suspect the police will arrive as well. Everyone else might as well finish eating."

  Now that was like Auntie Lil—few things took precedence over eating in her book. When it came to a meal, death could just take a back seat.

  Not many other people shared this priority. S
ome returned to uneasily eating, but others had different ideas. Before either T.S. or Father Stebbins could stop them, a number of diners quietly laid down their spoons and slipped out the door with the elusive grace of shadows. The police were not popular with the homeless. Some avoided the authorities for good reasons, others simply out of habit.

  "Do you think the police will want to talk to them?" Auntie Lil asked anxiously as they watched a thin stream of people trickle out.

  "Are you kidding?" a young volunteer answered. "An old lady, maybe homeless, dies in a soup kitchen? This one's going in the bottom drawer. Poor old gal."

  "I don't think the police will care," T.S. told Auntie Lil, placing a reassuring arm on her elbow. Her mouth started to tremble. It had just sunk in that the dead woman was very close to her own age.

  "After all," T.S. added more gently, patting her hand, "people have heart attacks every day. It isn't like she was murdered."

  2

  Two ambulance teams from different hospitals arrived at the same time, providing the assembled diners with diversionary entertainment. As a pair of burly paramedics argued at the entrance to the narrow basement door over who would get the job—bumping their big bellies to prevent the other from entering—a tiny female emergency technician wiggled between them and raced over to the dead woman. She knelt beside her and swiftly checked her vital signs, then shook her head and looked back over her shoulder. "Forget it, Bobby!" she hollered at one of the arguing paramedics. "This one's gone, anyway."

  "No, I'm not going to forget it," Bobby yelled back. "I'm tired of this guy dogging my ass. It's starting to get personal, know what I mean?" He poked a hammy finger in the chest of the other ambulance attendant, who knocked it away contemptuously and made a sound deep in his throat that effectively combined the growl of a bear with the hiss of an angry snake. Just the kind of guys you'd want to entrust with the lives of your loved ones.

  A low murmur rose in the room and Auntie Lil looked up nervously at T.S., but all he could do was shrug. What was he supposed to do about it? Neither paramedic seemed to feel it inappropriate that they were arguing over a dead body in front of four dozen witnesses and it seemed singularly foolish to get on their bad sides. Who would administer to him in case he got beat up breaking them up? It was not that T.S. was a coward. He was simply, physically, very... prudent.

  "I am not forgetting this one," burly Bobby repeated slowly, emphasizing each distinctly uttered word with a poke in the other paramedic's chest.

  "Yes, you are going to forget it. Now break it up and beat it." This command was issued by an unseen voice thick with streetwise New York authority. The two men arguing at the door instantly shut their mouths and stepped back silently to let a pair of uniformed NYPD officers enter. The first cop, a petite brunette in a tight uniform, sniffed the odor of Auntie Lil's chili with distaste. The second one zeroed in on the dead body immediately. He was older and his gray hair was cropped in a defiantly out-of-date crew cut. He looked and swaggered like a bad-tempered Marine on the lookout for a fight. His nametag read "King" and he looked like he took it literally.

  "Who's in charge here?" he demanded of the room, thumping a large black stick against his palm in a manner that managed to be both bored and threatening at the same time. The assembled group looked up at one another but no one spoke.

  "Who's in charge?" Officer King demanded again, pushing the bill of his hat up with a sausage-like finger as he surveyed the room.

  This time the crowd turned as one to stare at Father Stebbins. The priest jumped as if someone had goosed him.

  "Dear me, I suppose that I am." He stayed well away from the body. "It's a terrible tragedy. Really, very terrible. God has called her home and she has answered."

  "Speaking of answers, what happened?" Officer King demanded. His interest in calls was strictly limited to those legally mandated to suspects.

  Father Stebbins' hands were shaking and he clutched at his rosary in confusion. "She was eating and, er, she just keeled over. Terrible thing, of course. Though she did depart here in God's house."

  The patrolman eyed the priest. "Could you be more specific?" he demanded.

  Auntie Lil and the female paramedic decided to butt in at the exact same time.

  "She's dead," said the paramedic. "Probably a stroke."

  "She's had a heart attack," Auntie Lil declared.

  The cop turned his stare to Auntie Lil. Her multicolored head scarf had come partially unwound in the confusion and now trailed behind her like the wimple veil of a princess in a fairy tale. A chili smudge formed a perfect half oval on one of her large apple cheeks. None of this escaped him.

  "You a doctor?" he asked Auntie Lil in what was supposed to be a pleasant voice, but instead caused several people to cough in nervous anticipation.

  "No, but I—"

  "Then get over there with the other old ladies." The cop cocked his head toward Adelle's table and pointed the way with his baton.

  Uh, oh. There could be big trouble now. T.S. gripped Auntie Lil's elbow firmly and spirited her to a far corner before she started a riot. "Don't say another word," he warned and she abruptly shut her mouth. But the look she shot Officer King was venomous enough to inspire T.S. to step out of its path.

  The first cop was on her radio and the static crackled in the silence of the dining room. Officer King knelt by the dead body and talked quietly to the female paramedic. He nodded his head, then rose and addressed the crowd. "What's her name?" he asked.

  No one answered.

  "Nobody knows the deceased?" he asked again, loudly. "What's her name?"

  Still no one replied, but several pairs of eyes slid over to Adelle's silent table. Officer King, sensing this movement, turned and directly addressed the group of old actresses. "Did any of you ladies happen to know the deceased?" he asked with exaggerated politeness.

  "Her name was Emily," one tiny woman finally answered in a tentative voice, her napkin twisted tightly in her hands.

  "Emily." The cop nodded thoughtfully. "Well, that clears it all up. Was she related, perhaps, to Cher? Or how about Madonna?" His unexpected sarcasm welled in the room like a bad smell.

  "Her stage name was Emily something or other. We don't know her real name," Adelle finally answered. Her stage voice richened with indignant anger. "And you needn't be so bloody rude," she added. A British accent crept in on "bloody" but fled before the end of the sentence. Adelle was trying on attitudes like clothes, enjoying her brief moment in the spotlight.

  Officer King sighed and shook his head, making it clear that few jobs were as annoying as being a patrolman on the streets of the Big Apple. "Okay. Show's over," he said abruptly, wagging his baton toward the door. "Beat it. There's nothing anyone can do. The wagon's on the way."

  The wagon? Mental images of gravediggers collecting dead plague victims and stacking them like firewood on tops of carts flashed unwillingly through T.S.'s mind. Auntie Lil stiffened with the tightly coiled anticipation of a hyper bird dog and T.S. was forced to grip her elbow even more firmly. Now was not the time for a voicing of opinion.

  "Some of us must remain to wash up," Father Stebbins protested, his hand absently patting one shoulder of Fran's—who remained apparently surgically attached to his side. Her sobbings had stopped magically with the entrance of the police, but she had not, T.S. noticed, stepped away from Father Stebbins.

  "Then five of you can stay," Officer King announced arbitrarily. "The rest of you clear out, pronto. This is not a circus."

  Auntie Lil glared eloquently, then majestically wrapped her scarf Burma-style around her neck as if she were Peter O'Toole in Lawrence of Arabia. Most of the other diners fell in obediently behind, shuffling out like an exhausted conga line suddenly weary of the song.

  Surprised by Aunt Lil's sudden surrender, T.S. stood staring after the line of slowly departing diners. He had expected her to kick up a fuss, to demand that she be allowed to examine the body. Simply leaving was not in her character at all. H
ad the lure of a dramatic exit been that much temptation? Somehow he just didn't think so.

  "Perhaps you had better go after your aunt," Father Stebbins suggested, plucking at T.S.'s shirt sleeve. "We have enough people to clean up." Fran was marching back into the kitchen, gesturing for the younger volunteers to join her. Having sensed an opportunity to regain supremacy, if only over sinks of dirty pots, she was happy to seize her chance.

  More police were arriving and one pair toted a depressingly green canvas stretcher with what looked like a rubber tarp piled on top. T.S. suddenly wanted very much to leave the scene of the death. "Thank you. I'll just make sure Aunt Lil is okay," he told Father Stebbins, his feet skimming across the linoleum in his haste to escape.

  The minute he hit the sidewalk he saw the women clustered in a whispering, tightly drawn group a few feet down from the church. Auntie Lil stood at the center, surrounded by Adelle and her followers, and her arms rose and fell dramatically as she addressed the group. Some of the others looked shell-shocked and one or two dabbed at their eyes with hankies. Most stared at Auntie Lil.

  T.S.'s stomach tightened a notch. He'd known that something was up when Auntie Lil conceded the battle so quickly. He must have missed a secret signal between the women. You had to watch that Auntie Lil every moment. She was as sneaky as a smart three-year-old. Well, he might as well go ahead and pull her out of trouble one more time.

  Unobserved, he sidled over to eavesdrop. It was worse than he'd expected. Auntie Lil was reenacting Emily's death.

  "She clutched her throat like this," Auntie Lil insisted, grabbing at her bright scarf. "Her face was blue and her tongue was sticking out like this." She groaned and fell back in exaggerated agony before being caught by a pair of alert old actresses.

  "No, no,” Adelle insisted with majestic conviction. "Her tongue was not out, and she did not simply fall back. Nor did she clutch her throat. She did this." Adelle swept an area clear with her arm, held her hands out in supplication, tightened both her face and throat, and began to shudder. The effect was grotesque and startling, but T.S. had to give Adelle credit. The old actress was pretty good. She'd even managed to steal the scene from Auntie Lil.