A Cast of Killers Read online

  A few passers-by slowed to eye the scene with concern as Adelle revved up her gyrations. Perhaps it was time to step in.

  "Excellent. That was a marvelous reenactment," T.S. told the group grimly, wading in and gripping Auntie Lil's elbow. He would nip this nonsense in the bud. "But what exactly is the point of these macabre charades?"

  Auntie Lil shook off his touch like a terrier dropping a snake, and drew herself erect. "We're just verifying that it was a heart attack and not something more sinister." She did not like to be babied in any way, shape or form. Especially in front of other old ladies.

  A depressing parade suddenly emerged through the basement entrance. Two bored-looking men in khaki jumpsuits led the way, toting a large heavy plastic bag on the stretcher between them. They were followed by the glowering Officer King, his petite partner and three other uniformed cops. The procession marched glumly over to a blue station wagon and the body was loaded into the back. All five policemen stood near the hood of the car, passing sour expressions between them as if they were searching for the solution to a particularly distasteful dilemma. Just then, Officer King spotted Auntie Lil and the other old ladies. He stared at them for a moment, a curtain of angry wrinkles descending on his furrowed brow. He reached out one hand and very, very slowly crooked his finger, beckoning them forward with unmistakable authority.

  "What's he want?" someone muttered. "The bully."

  "I guess he needs our help after all," Auntie Lil murmured sweetly. She was going to enjoy this as much as she could. Genteel revenge was her specialty.

  "Let's make him beg," Adelle suggested, prompting T.S. to grab Auntie Lil by the elbow once again and drag her toward the police.

  "This is no time to let our pride get in the way," T.S. suggested pleasantly, though he felt like spanking more than a few of them. The old ladies followed in a tentative bunch, inching forward as suspiciously as a flock of wild ducks confronted with a bread-toting stranger. They approached the small crowd of policemen and the two groups stared silently at one another. T.S. was reminded of the dreary school dances he'd endured as a young lad in Catholic prep school.

  "Well?" Officer King demanded after a moment of antagonistic silence had passed.

  "Well, what?" T.S. asked back innocently. If he could seize control before Auntie Lil jumped into the fray, there was a chance they could get somewhere.

  "No one knew the dead lady?" the cop asked skeptically. "Not one of you? It looks to me like she was part of your club."

  "We told you," Adelle said indignantly. "We called her Emily."

  Officer King fell silent and his partner stepped forward. "Ma'am," she explained patiently, "one name is not going to get us very far in New York City. Out of all of you, not one of you knew her last name?"

  "She liked being called Emily Toujours," a small voice piped up from the center of the pack. "Because she'd been an understudy to Martha Scott in the original Our Town. Back in 1938."

  "She said she'd been an understudy," another voice objected. "I never saw her in it."

  "Oh, shut up, Eva," someone else suggested. "You're the one who lied about being in Sailor Beware! for about thirty years and went around calling herself Eva La Louche until we checked the playbill and found out you'd only been an assistant stage manager." An excited murmur ran through the crowd of old ladies in response to the obvious insult.

  "You mean Emily Toujours wasn't even her real name?" Auntie Lil interrupted, ignoring the incipient pandemonium brewing behind her.

  "It was real to her," Adelle insisted.

  "Perhaps Actors' Equity would have her real name on record," T.S. suggested.

  This produced a round of titters from the old women, who giggled at his layman's ignorance until Adelle explained. "She wasn't in Equity, love. She hadn't worked in over forty years and none of us can afford the dues."

  "It's her own fault for running off and getting married," Eva's persistently dissident voice interjected. "Imagine. Abandoning Broadway in 1945. What a fool she was."

  "You haven't worked in that long either," someone pointed out. "And you didn't even get married, Eva."

  Another young cop stepped forward into the fray and the old actresses were momentarily distracted as they examined this handsome young personage and admired his uniform. He stood, totally surrounded by them, scratching an ear and trying to decide the best way to deal with a pack of demented old ladies. "It's just that she had no identification on her," he finally explained kindly. "So we have no way of knowing where she lives, or who in her family to contact."

  "Hah!" Adelle sputtered. "That's easy enough. She has no family;"

  "Well, where did she live?" Officer King interrupted brusquely, elbowing the young pup of an upstart patrolman aside. This time, both the assembled old ladies and the other officers glared. Clearly, he was not scoring points on anyone's popularity meter.

  "In a shelter, we think," one of the actresses admitted reluctantly. "We're not really sure, because she was rather a private person."

  "Definitely a shelter," one old woman confirmed, pushing her way to the front. She was obviously Eva of the discontent voice. She was plumper than the rest and wore her hair in a badly chosen pixie haircut that was dyed jet black and made even wispier by the fact that she was going bald and her pink scalp peeked through. T.S. decided she was stuck in the Audrey Hepburn era, which was unfortunate, since she lacked about three feet of the required height.

  "She'd have put on airs, if she had her own apartment," Eva added, crossing her arms defiantly when no one responded.

  "Now, Eva, that's just not true," Adelle chided gently. "You really must get over your feud. For heaven's sake, she's dead now. Let it go."

  "I should have been the one asked to 20th Century," Eva said sourly, folding her arms even more tightly across her ample chest. "I'm the one that Mr. Zanuck noticed first."

  "But nothing came of it," someone in the middle of the pack protested, voice dripping with exasperation. "It's not like she became a star and you didn't."

  "She accused me of being a dime-a-dance girl!" Eva insisted. "When she met her own husband by standing in dark alleys near the USO like some kind of pro—"

  "That's enough," Adelle commanded firmly. "Perhaps you should just shut up."

  "She was the one who got kicked out of the USO, not me," Eva added sullenly. "And you didn't like her any more than…" Her voice trailed off suddenly as she realized the extent of her friend's disapproval.

  Officer King was staring at Eva curiously and Adelle hastened to explain. "She's talking about things that happened forty years ago," she told him. "Don't pay any attention to her. She's old and grouchy."

  "And you're not?" Eva glared at Adelle angrily.

  "Ladies, ladies," T.S. soothed them. "Let's see if we can't put our personal differences behind us. After all, the police need our help."

  Officer King grunted, not liking the idea that he needed anyone's help. He started in again: "You're telling me that no one knows her real name? No one knows where she lives? And no one knows if she has family?" The cop stared at them incredulously.

  "Why don't you use what little brains you have?" someone in the middle of the pack finally thought to ask. "She had a pocketbook on her. Why didn't you look in there?"

  The cops were starting to stare at each other, exchanging distinct but unspoken messages. They were getting bored and had better things to do—like battling packs of drug addicts, a far more rewarding and productive task than battling this gang of old ladies.

  "There was no pocketbook on her, ma'am," the young cop explained patiently.

  "Certainly there was," Adelle answered stiffly. "She always carried a pocketbook to match her dress. It was a regular fetish with her."

  "We searched the room thoroughly," the policewoman replied. "No pocketbook."

  "Well, it's no wonder, the way you stood by and let someone steal it," Auntie Lil pointed out, specifically addressing Officer King. "The way you ordered us out of there, you
practically handed it to the thief and held the door open for his getaway."

  The cop stared back at Auntie Lil for a long moment of silence, then turned his back abruptly and headed for the blue station wagon holding Emily's body. "Okay, let's pack it in," he ordered the other officers. "That's that. We have here Miss Jane Doe, the latest in a continuing series of unidentified Miss Jane Does, laid low by lost dreams and the cruel anonymous indignities of the ever-gracious City of New York."

  His blunt and meanly poetic announcement, combined with their rapid departure, had a stunning effect on those left behind. Was that it? Was there nothing else they were going to do to help poor Emily? The old ladies exchanged shocked and hurt expressions as the officers and police cars wandered away. One or two started to cry as they watched the blue station wagon peel off from the curb and head down the street.

  "What's this?" T.S. asked anxiously, putting an arm awkwardly around one old lady. "Delayed reaction?" His sympathy did not have the desired effect.

  "No," the woman sniffed, bursting into full-blown tears. She lay her head on T.S.'s shoulder and sobbed with verve. "But that awful policeman is right. It's anonymous and cruel. We should have known her real name. I feel terrible. They'll just throw her into the river or something." This inaccurate and alarming remark sparked new sets of tears.

  "Oh, stop it, Anna, that's really being too dramatic." Adelle spoke with unenthusiastic authority and dabbed at her eyes with a hankie. She, too, was dismayed by the sudden end to events. "Surely, they'll bury her somewhere."

  "Yes," someone declared through rising sobs. "In some mass grave in Potter's Field with homeless drug addicts and abandoned babies and dead convicts that no one wants."

  This last statement, topping all others in dramatic impact, opened the emotional floodgates of the assembled old actresses and tears spread contagiously until nearly everyone was sobbing. Even the feuding Eva, her tears fueled by guilt, wept uncontrollably. T.S. and Auntie Lil stared at one another in dismay.

  "And I thought you were overly dramatic," he whispered to her.

  Auntie Lil did not smile. "I would not like to die unknown, Theodore," she pointed out curtly.

  "It could have been any one of us," Adelle declared then, triggering fresh tears.

  Nearly a dozen old ladies were sobbing by now and, naturally, people passing by were slowing to get a better look. Clearly, more than a few felt the group had somehow been defrauded by some sort of street con artist. Soon, one well-dressed elderly gentleman stopped and stood fidgeting in anxious sympathy, finally reaching for his wallet. "What's the trouble here?" he asked kindly. "Have you been robbed? Do you need cab fare? Is there some way I could be of help?"

  "Help?" an old actress croaked, touching the man's arm with impressive sorrow. "Only if you can stop death, sir, can you be of help to us. We're doomed, I tell you. Doomed."

  That must have been beyond his powers, for the elderly gentleman scurried away with sudden haste, looking back only once as he patted his pockets to make sure they had not been picked by what was surely a group of overgrown Fagin-like cohorts.

  "Here, here," T.S. began to murmur, patting every little old lady that he could reach lightly on the back without any discernible effect. "It's not so bad as that. Perhaps they'll release the body to us."

  "We can't bury her without her real name," Adelle declared, nearly howling in her grief and regret. Caught up in steamrolling emotions unleashed by this unexpected chance at the limelight, she had cast decorum to the wind and was now intent on whipping the other old actresses into a frenzy of regret and shamed honor. T.S. and Auntie Lil both knew they had to come up with an idea fast before their sorrow and thwarted theatrical instincts escalated into hysteria.

  "I have an idea," Auntie Lil announced suddenly. The women stopped sniffling abruptly and stared at her.

  "No, you don't have an idea," T.S. announced just as quickly.

  He had a sneaking suspicion that he knew just what she was about to offer and an even sneakier one that his services were somehow involved. "There is nothing we can do to help," he answered firmly as Auntie Lil's eyes slid away from his gaze. They both knew that he knew just what she'd been thinking.

  It didn't stop Auntie Lil, of course. "We'll find out who she was for you," she offered magnanimously.

  "But that's a wonderful idea!" Adelle exclaimed, switching emotions with lightning speed. "You could investigate her identity for us!"

  "That's right," another actress agreed. "If you solved all those murders before, you could certainly solve this little mystery."

  T.S. stared at his aunt in the expectant silence that followed. She refused to blush and merely gazed straight ahead, sticking her chin out an inch or two farther.

  "What exactly has my aunt told you?" he asked the group evenly. Auntie Lil inched away from him indignantly, still refusing to meet his eye.

  "That she singlehandedly solved three murders that had the police utterly baffled," an old lady announced matter-of-factly. "Saving two people's lives in the bargain."

  "That's right," her companion agreed. "And got that medal of honor from the chief of detectives. And a letter of commendation from the mayor."

  "But they had to keep it hush-hush and out of the papers," another actress reported confidently. "On account of making the NYPD look bad."

  "If you could do that," Adelle declared, "you could certainly do this one thing for us."

  If Auntie Lil blushed at any of the incredibly exaggerated feats they were repeating, T.S. missed it. He was sure she had not, however, as she was physically, mentally and morally incapable of embarrassment.

  "Theodore and I will think about it," Auntie Lil promised graciously, hustling him down the sidewalk before he demanded any details about the medal of honor. "We'll let you know tomorrow if there's anything we can do to help."

  "What's the rush?" T.S. protested, looking back at the group that was now staring at them in benign confusion. "I want to hear more about these daring adventures of yours. About how you single-handedly solved those three murders. About this medal of honor."

  "Oh, shut up, Theodore," she hissed. She had succeeded in dragging him to Broadway and was waving her enormous handbag, trying to signal a cab. Instead, she narrowly missed bashing in several commuter faces by inches. No wonder they all stepped back and let her take the first taxi that screeched to a halt.

  T.S. decided to let her suffer in silence, hoping to shame a confession out of her. They rode three blocks without uttering a sound. T.S. pretended he was listening to the cab driver's music, but as he was playing a cassette of some sort of foreign atonal religious chanting, it was difficult to keep up the pretense.

  "Oh, all right," Auntie Lil finally admitted. She removed a white handkerchief from her handbag and daintily dabbed at her brow. "Perhaps I did exaggerate our deeds a bit."

  "A bit?" T.S. asked. "Sounds to me like you've been holding campfires and telling tales all night. Sounds to me like they knew every last detail involved and a good many more that weren't involved."

  "They are very dramatic women," Auntie Lil explained stiffly. "They like a good story and they're so appreciative. I simply got a little carried away." She dabbed at her brow again and he saw that she was truly upset. He felt ashamed.

  "I'm sorry," he apologized. "Did you know the dead woman well?"

  "Emily?" She stared out the window. "Not really. She'd had some long-standing tiff with one of the other ladies and had not been speaking to any of them for several months. But they're right, you know, Theodore. No one—and I mean no one—deserves to die without a name."

  Her lower lip quivered and T.S. stared at her in despair. He hoped she would not start to cry. He didn't think he'd ever seen her break down and wasn't sure he could handle it now.

  "Now, now, Aunt Lil." He patted her hand sympathetically and her white cotton gloves felt hot to his touch. "Someone will step forward to claim her."

  "Oh, isn't that the way of the world?" she asked bitter
ly. "Always expecting someone else to step forward. No one else will step forward. If we don't do it, we'll never know who she really was." Her lower lip quivered again and it was a little frightening to see her supreme self-control fail.

  "This has you really upset," T.S. said quietly. "I hadn't realized quite how much."

  "Well, maybe when you get to be my age you'll be able to watch other people drop dead without blinking an eye, but I don't mind telling you that I'm finding it hard."

  T.S. blinked. When he hit eighty-four years of age, he was sure he would not even begin to approach Auntie Lil's normal, everyday courage. "You didn't seem so upset before."

  "That stupid Officer King had me so angry, that I couldn't be upset. But now I just can't stop thinking of that poor woman lying somewhere dead and no one to even claim her body. Why can't we help them find out who she is? It isn't as if we're sticking our noses into another homicide. This is child's play, really, considering our true capabilities." She turned to him with pleading eyes and he shifted uncomfortably in the seat.

  "I just don't see how we could help," he protested faintly.

  "We can find out who she is, so her relatives can be notified and she can have a decent burial. And at least be interred under her real name, for God's sake."

  "Why us?" T.S. complained. "Let her other friends do it. They ought to know her real name, anyway, if they were the good friends they claim to be. They wept enough tears back there to flood Salt Lake City."

  Auntie Lil stared at him without comment for an icy moment, then tapped sharply on the glass divider. "Driver—could you take us to the pier at Forty-Fifth and Twelfth Avenue before we go to Queens?"

  "You're paying, lady," he answered back, taking a sudden right onto Forty-second Street.

  "What now?" T.S. asked. When she didn't answer, he glared out the window. She was punishing him with the silent treatment and he'd be damned if he'd let it get to him.