The gathered officers looked up in interest and the fat lieutenant whirled around. "Where? Which one was cooking?" he asked, staring intently. His small black eyes focused on them without success. Obviously too vain to wear glasses in public, he took a step closer and stared harder.
"Which one of you was cooking?" he demanded again.
Auntie Lil—who was also too vain to wear her glasses in public—took her own step forward. And froze. No. It could not be. It was an impossibility. A piece of luck so incredibly bad that it could not have happened to her. Not this time.
But it had. Lt. Manny Abromowitz stood staring back at her. "You?" His voice swelled with warning and his massive chest puffed up, straining against his too tight shirt. His face flushed deep red and swelled until he resembled a cross between a wart hog and a blowfish about to explode. "What the hell are you doing in the middle of this?"
Even Auntie Lil was cowed by his unleashed anger, never mind the detectives who froze in their tasks to stare curiously at the innocuous little old lady who was giving their pompous lieutenant a heart attack simply by her benign presence.
"I work here," Auntie Lil said calmly, much more calmly than she felt. "I cooked the chili the day Emily died."
Fran stepped closer to Father Stebbins. She placed an arm on his elbow and they exchanged open-mouthed glances. Whatever was going to happen to Auntie Lil, clearly it was bad. What in the world did this policeman have against her?
His red face deepened even more, to the mottled scarlet of a radish going bad. "I had hoped that we might never meet again," he announced in a deadly tone of voice. "It was, in fact, my very fondest wish."
"The feeling is mutual, I can assure you," Auntie Lil replied stiffly.
"You think she did it?" the detective named George butted in. He stepped between the two of them and gestured toward Auntie Lil. "This lady has a record?"
"I certainly do not," Auntie Lil snapped. "And of course I didn't poison her. If I'd been throwing handfuls of cyanide in the chili, there would be a lot more than one person dead. Any idiot should know that. Even the lieutenant."
"Cyanide?" Lieutenant Abromowitz repeated slowly, giving weight to each of the three syllables. "And just how did you know it was cyanide? Huh? How?"
"I have my ways." She clutched her pocketbook against her chest to calm the beating of her heart. She had thought the lieutenant might be a bit peeved after she solved his last case out from under him, but really… this was going too far. The man was positively boorish.
"Well, I suggest you tell George here exactly what ways." The lieutenant gestured toward a chair and cocked his thumb. George took Auntie Lil by the elbow and led her to a table. Lieutenant Abromowitz stood over them, glowering. "Interview this woman very, very thoroughly," he ordered. "I want to know every move she made the day the victim died." Then he whirled on his heels and stomped out the door.
Auntie Lil turned back around for a satisfying peek. He had put on weight since she'd last seen him and his stomach jiggled over the top of his belt as he strode across the room. To top it off, his hair was definitely thinning. Practically gone. But wait—there was a wink of gold on one finger. Oh, dear. Some poor woman had actually married the man and Auntie Lil thought she knew who. He reached the door and slammed it shut behind him.
The resounding crack served as a signal for everyone assembled to turn back and stare at Auntie Lil. Father Stebbins seemed both transfixed and perplexed, while Fran was too baffled to display her usual resentment. Auntie Lil met the gaze of everyone present with a very sweet smile.
"I see the lieutenant hasn't changed a bit," she said. "What a shame for you all."
Auntie Lil suspected that her detective, whose full name turned out to be George Santos, didn't like Lieutenant Abromowitz very much. His idea of grilling Auntie Lil was a rather dispirited request to retrace her steps on the day Emily died. This Auntie Lil was able to do in excruciating detail. Her memory was excellent and she had already gone over the scene many times in her own mind, searching for a clue as to how Emily had been poisoned. It took nearly forty-five minutes for poor Santos to take down her full statement. He wrote methodically and without comment, only raising his eyebrows when she mentioned The Eagle and explained their trip to the medical examiner's office. When he was done, he promised to have it typed and to give her a chance to look it over. She nodded, satisfied. She already knew it would do fine. She had even managed to halfheartedly implicate Fran with a vague reference or two to her having disappeared during the cooking (which was true). It would serve as payback for those looks she'd given Auntie Lil earlier.
"So, how do you know the lieutenant?" the detective asked curiously as he tucked his small notebook back into his shirt pocket.
"I had the misfortune of meeting him on a previous case."
"Yes, it's always a misfortune to meet the lieutenant, isn't it?" Santos patted his pocket and rose to go. "They had to kick him somewhere, I guess. It was just my luck it was Midtown North." He stopped to look Auntie Lil over carefully, then assured her, "The lieutenant may want to suspect you, but you seem like a straight-shooter to me. If we need anything else from you, we'll get in touch."
"Will the kitchen be able to open today?" Auntie Lil asked anxiously. She could see Father Stebbins and Fran being questioned at separate tables by other detectives. Both looked annoyed, worried, anxious and alarmed all at the same time.
"Sure. Business as usual," Santos promised. "We haven't found anything on the premises yet and, like you say, only one person died. And nobody died yesterday, right?" He gave a disinterested laugh. "If she was even poisoned here, which we won't know until they run further tests, it must have been put into her individual serving somehow. That means we're going to want to talk to everyone who was sitting around her at the time."
"These are very transient people," Auntie Lil told him. "I'm not sure you'll be able to find them."
"We're going to try," Santos promised, patting his pocket again. "Starting today. That's why it's business as usual."
They were shaking hands when Officer King ambled up to glare down at Auntie Lil. He would be the type who brown-nosed his way into the lieutenant's affections by assuming his every grudge and posture. "Lieutenant says the kitchen can open as always," he announced.
"Thanks, I've already told her that," Santos said calmly. "Don't you have a drug dealer to beat up somewhere, pal?"
Officer King ignored him. "Except for her," he said. He cocked a thumb at Auntie Lil. "The lieutenant says she's not to be allowed back in the kitchen until we find out who did it. He wants to be on the safe side."
The detective looked back and forth between Auntie Lil and the patrolman. "Who are you kidding?" he finally said. "Abromowitz is just being an asshole. There's no reason to keep her from helping out."
"That's what he says. And he's the lieutenant." Officer King shrugged happily and walked away whistling a very bad version of "Jailhouse Rock."
"Sorry," George apologized. "There's nothing I can do."
Auntie Lil rose to make a dignified exit. "That man will never make detective," she declared, nodding toward the departing Officer King.
"What do you mean?"
"Anyone so stupid as to side with Lieutenant Abromowitz on anything deserves to spend their life pounding the pavement." Auntie Lil pinned her hat firmly on and left the befuddled detective behind. She sailed past Fran, who glared at her out of habit, patted Father Stebbins reassuringly on the back, and escaped out the front door.
Well, she'd been kicked out of far worse—and far better—places before. Besides, it had been a real learning experience: it was just as she suspected. The police knew nothing. And with Abromowitz in charge, they never would.
T.S. was waiting for her outside. "What's going on?" he demanded. "How come you were inside and they won't let me in?" Other volunteers stood behind him, listening anxiously. Several people in line were eavesdropping as well, their anxious faces lined with both worry and hunger.
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"The police wanted to question me about Emily's death," was all Auntie Lil said. "I suggest we go elsewhere to talk."
"Are we going to open up today?" one of the volunteers asked. The early people in line looked at her in alarm, their worried looks deepening.
Auntie Lil nodded. "Yes, but probably late. Better get inside. They're going to need help with the cooking. I was going to make spaghetti. Make sure you use plenty of oregano and garlic and don't let Fran overdo the basil."
The volunteers scurried down the steps and began to call through the gate. Auntie Lil led T.S. quickly away down the block. "Let's get out of here," she said. "Adelle and the ladies will be arriving soon. When they find out Emily was poisoned, there's no telling what will happen. We have more important things to do right now." She dragged him across Eighth Avenue toward Forty-Sixth Street, neither one of them noticing that an old actress who had been waiting in line was now scurrying away in the opposite direction.
"Where are we going? What's more important?" T.S. asked. He removed her hand from his arm and carefully brushed the nap of his sweater back into shape.
"Lovely sweater," she said absently. "I gave it to you, didn't I?"
"No. You most certainly did not." She was always trying to take credit for his own good taste.
"I've found out that Emily lived on Forty-Sixth Street. We just have to find out which building. And you won't believe this, but Lieutenant Abromowitz is working out of Midtown North now."
T.S. groaned. "Now it really is up to us."
"I'll say. What did you find out at the library?"
"No understudies were listed in the Playbill," T.S. admitted reluctantly. "She might have been in the chorus scene or worked backstage, but that's a lot of people. I wrote them all down. There's no one named Emily at all, except for the main character. I could start tracking the cast members down and asking them if they remember her. If anyone's still alive. But she could have been with the company for only a week, for all we know." They were passing the man with the bulbous nose and Auntie Lil gave him a cheery wave as if he were her very best friend. He nodded back and stared at T.S.
"May as well try," Auntie Lil agreed. "But do it in your spare time. We're more likely to have better luck once we find out where she lived."
"That's true." T.S. scanned the now busy block. "Where do we start?"
Auntie Lil took out the pack of photos from her purse. "I doubt she was able to afford these expensive restaurants," she said, looking up and down the sidewalks. "But we can't afford to skip them. Someone besides Billy has to know her."
"Who's Billy?" He held a photo in his hand and suppressed an involuntary shudder at the sight of the dead Emily.
"Billy owns the Delicious Deli back there," she explained. "He said she lived on this block."
Most of the block was taken up by expensive restaurants either closed or filled with crowds of business people. T.S. had to agree that it was unlikely Emily frequented any of them, but just to be on the safe side Auntie Lil insisted on entering every single establishment and showing Emily's photo to the bartender or host. Flashing photos of a dead old lady in front of waiting patrons did not prove to be a popular task and T.S. began to feel more and more like a pariah as they worked their way down the block.
"Maybe we should come back when they're not so busy," he suggested.
"We have to do it while they're open," Auntie Lil argued reasonably. "Besides, now we're getting somewhere. This is more her style." They had reached the end of the block nearer to Ninth Avenue. Large restaurants gave way to smaller shops and cheaper eating places.
"I'm getting hungry," Auntie Lil declared. "I had a hero earlier, but that must have been three hours ago." She eyed the brightly painted sign of a tiny Jamaican restaurant named Nellie's. "That place looks good."
T.S. peered inside. A small black man sat at a lone table eating a stew of unidentified, grayish origins piled over bright yellow rice. A plump woman the color of toffee was perched on a table behind the counter, staring out at the street with half-closed eyes. She had a beautiful face, broad and polished, that was lightly touched by the fine wrinkles of a satisfied woman in her mid-thirties. Her hair was braided in dozens of tiny plaits with brightly colored beads studding their length. The braids bobbed and swayed as she turned her regal neck, watching people go by.
"It looks like a real popular eating spot," T.S. said sarcastically. Just then, the woman's gaze met his and his words froze in his mouth. Her eyes were dark and sparkling. They seemed to see right through him. Unlike so many eyes in New York City, hers were not cloaked in suspicion but held a sharp intelligence and, yes, maybe even a little bit of kindness. The woman surveyed T.S. with unabashed thoroughness and when she was through, her brightly painted red lips curled back over white teeth in a hint of a grin.
"That woman smiled at me," T.S. said incredulously. "Someone just smiled at me right in the middle of New York City."
"I told you it was a good place to eat," Auntie Lil declared. She marched inside and he had no choice but to follow.
"Hello, granny," the woman greeted them in a musical voice full of lilting Caribbean tones. "You in the mood for a little goat curry today? I make it myself."
The small black man eating looked up briefly, dismissed them, and returned to his stew.
"I'm not that hungry," Auntie Lil decided. "Besides, I had it twice last week."
T.S. would have expected this statement to have been received with extreme skepticism, but the woman simply nodded in slow approval. "You more in the mood for a snack, granny?"
"Yes. That's quite right. A snack." Auntie Lil eyed some meat pies with garishly orange crusts that were baking beneath a heat light. She gave no sign of objecting to being called "granny." Not that there was a need to object, the title had been uttered in quite respectful tones.
"No, granny. You don't want those pies," the woman told Auntie Lil. She hopped down from her perch and the beaded braids tinkled as they swayed with her every move. "Those are frozen. Cheap for people who don't know any better. You want one of my homemade pies. A dollar more, but worth it." She slid a tray out of a small warming oven against one wall and placed it on the countertop. A spicy aroma filled the tiny shop and, against his will, T.S.'s stomach grumbled. "Maybe your son there like one, too," the woman suggested, her eyes twinkling.
"He's my nephew. But he'll take one." Auntie Lil sniffed deeply. "You made the crust yourself?"
"Of course. That's why it's not that Halloweeny orange."
"In that case, I'll take two."
"Very spicy, granny. Maybe try one, then another."
"Oh, no. I like spicy. Give me two." Auntie Lil accepted the pies wrapped in white paper as if she ate them from a roadside stand every day of her life. She bit into hers with characteristic gusto and groaned in approval.
"Delicious," she said, sputtering a fine spray of crumbs over the front of T.S.'s sweater. "Don't you agree, Theodore?"
He did not. He had discovered a raisin in his pie filling. T.S. loathed, hated, positively despised raisins in any form whatsoever.
"There're raisins in here," he said faintly, holding the offending pie out to his aunt.
"For heaven's sake, Theodore. Aren't you ever going to outgrow that fetish?" Auntie Lil and the woman giggled together. T.S. was just grateful that the small black man didn't join in at laughing at him, the amusing white middle-class male.
"I'll eat it if you don't want it," Auntie Lil finally offered. She placed his pie beside her second one and munched happily on her first. "This is heaven. I've never had better meat pies. Not in Kingston. Or even in Spanish Town."
"You been to Spanish Town?" the woman asked. "My mama came from there."
"I spent several months there one year," Auntie Lil admitted. "We were experimenting with a new kind of batik."
The woman absorbed this information respectfully, but had no curiosity to ask for details. She watched impassively as Auntie Lil polished off her two meat pies
and started in on the third. With one hand holding the pie, Auntie Lil pulled the photos from her pocketbook with the other.
"Do you know this lady?" she asked, her mouth full of food as she slid the images of the dead woman across the counter top.
The woman peered down at it. Her face grew very calm and T.S. could almost feel the cooling in the room. Finally, she looked up and shrugged. "All old ladies look alike to me. One granny just like another." Her voice had changed dramatically, its former warmth replaced by suspicion and, perhaps, fear. She crossed her arms and backed away from them, settling on the small table behind the counter again. She stared back out the picture windows, as if they weren't even there.
T.S. knew she was lying. He'd worked with people too long not to know.
"You've never even seen her walking by on the block?" Auntie Lil insisted. She finished off the pie and scrubbed her fingers clean with the edge of her napkin. Small crumbs still clung to her mouth, but she'd soon talk those off.
The woman shook her head firmly, the braids clacking together in terse rhythm. "No, granny. I have not even seen her walking by." Her mouth shut firmly. She was saying no more.
Auntie Lil sighed just as the little black man finished his meal. When he rose to depart, his chair scraped against the tile floor with an angry screech. He stretched leisurely and patted his stomach in approval. "You are a good cook, Nellie," he told the black woman. "You are not such a good liar." He pulled the photos toward him and looked at Auntie Lil from under his bushy eyebrows. His face was small and pinched, and his black eyes glittered deeply from a crevasse of wrinkles like two tiny currants inside a bigger raisin.
His hatred of raisins aside, T.S. decided he was going to like the fellow.
The old man looked T.S. over silently, inspected Auntie Lil once again, then stared down at the photos for a closer look. "You are family?" he asked them.
A Cast of Killers Page 11