Free Death Of A Dream Maker by Katy Munger Page B

hair comb she'd been seeking for weeks, she
found what she wanted and pocketed the car keys in her coat. The
ride down to the basement garage was quick—at this time of night,
there was little call for the elevator. Her Plymouth was parked far
in the back of the lot because she took it out so seldom, and the
walk to it was a long and lonely one. Auntie Lil did not mind. She
moved quickly, hands in her coat pockets. Behind her, a figure
slowly approached. She was inserting the key into the door lock
when a small, burnished hand reached out to stop her.
    “Lillian,” Herbert Wong said quietly. “You must not
attempt these excursions on your own.”
    “Herbert! How did you know I'd be here?”
    “I know you very well.”
    “Yes, it's infuriating,” she admitted.
    “If you insist on driving out to Long Island again
tonight, then I insist on accompanying you as a safety
measure.”
    Auntie Lil was staring down at the floor. “Aren't you
tired?”
    “Aren't you?” he asked in reply.
    The two old friends eyed one another, then climbed
inside the Plymouth. Herbert wisely belted himself with all
available safety devices. He had ridden with Auntie Lil before.
They emerged slowly from the garage exit and turned onto the
deserted side street. All around them stood the dark and silent
buildings of Queens, but when they pulled onto the highway, they
could see New York City behind them, blazing in electric glory
despite the late hour. Its glow illuminated the sky and shrank
slowly to darkness as they turned eastward and drove.
     
     
     Auntie Lil was not surprised to see that Abe
had a bigger house than Max. “He always went for the trappings,”
she explained to Herbert as they stared up at the enormous
cement-and-steel home. It loomed in odd contrast to the lawn, which
was inexplicably decorated with dozens of ceramic figurines that
stood out like uninvited country cousins in the otherwise elegant
neighborhood. “Max was interested in the work,” she added. “Abe was
interested in the rewards.”
    She glanced up and down the smoothly paved street. It
was empty. They scurried up the flagstone walk. Herbert scratched
lightly at the window, anticipating a possible round of excited
barking. There was nothing but silence. “No pets,” he
whispered.
    The lock opened with a well-oiled click. They slipped
inside and waited beside the front hall closet, listening for
noise. It was one thing to search an empty house; it was another
when the occupants were asleep upstairs.
    Fortunately, the occupants were most assuredly
asleep: deafening snores drifted down the main staircase at regular
intervals, deep and ratcheting. It sounded like a shoe with a loose
sole had gotten stuck in the bell of a bullhorn. They crept to the
base of the steps and stared upstairs in horrified wonder.
    “It can't be Abe,” Auntie Lil whispered cautiously.
“He can hardly breathe.”
    “Either it's the wife or a
three-hundred-and-fifty-pound male nurse,” Herbert agreed. They
stared at each other in sudden alarm. “Wait here,” he decided,
firmly guiding Auntie Lil back down the steps. “I'll check the
upstairs. You search down here.”
    They went to work, Herbert creeping upstairs as
silently as a shadow and reappearing less than ten minutes later.
Auntie Lil was caught, quite literally, with her hand in the cookie
jar. Her guilty figure was illuminated by a circle of light that
shone in through the kitchen window from behind the backyard
pool.
    “What are you doing?” Herbert whispered sharply.
    “These are Pepperidge Farm,” she
explained.
    “No excuse. Come on. We must leave at once. The wife
is a restless sleeper.”
    “The dead son did not live here,” Herbert announced
once they had safely reached Auntie Lil's Plymouth. “Three of the
bedrooms look as if no one has lived in them for years. There are
two others that are occupied. The wife was snoring loudly in one.
Abe was in the other. He's lying in a hospital bed and there's