Free A Cast of Killers by Katy Munger

with
theatrical grief, not gratitude. Neither Emily's death nor Auntie
Lil's chili the day before had abated anyone's appetite. The line
was as long and patient as ever. T.S. walked by, nodding at those
faces he recognized. Nearly every single one of the old actresses
was decked out in various styles of mourning wear. From far away,
they looked like small black birds scattered among the crowd. Up
close, they looked like figures you'd see on the edge of a movie
horror scene: frail and cloaked in black, about to fade slowly from
view like grim messengers from the beyond. Adelle had apparently
dragged out a leftover costume from a stint as Lady Macbeth—she
wore a long black gown uniquely inappropriate for the quite warm
late September day. But T.S. had to admire her carriage—her proud
chin never faltered—and noticed that the other soup kitchen
attendees stood at a respectable distance from her regal sorrow.
She wore a small triangular hat with a black dotted veil that swept
down over her face. Altogether, it was a flawless performance.
    Adelle managed a brave smile as T.S. passed
by, and he patted her on the back in what he hoped was a consoling
manner. Then he spotted plump Eva standing to one side, defiantly
dressed in a bright red dress in a ploy to nab the Bette Davis role
in the drama. Her arms were crossed firmly across her ample bosom
and she appeared ready and raring to fight with anyone who dared
question her attire. T.S. wondered how anyone could carry a grudge
for nearly half a century. What a waste of energy to be belaboring
the past so tortuously. Especially when neither of them had
achieved success at the expense of the other. There had to be more
to it than what he knew.
    He met Auntie Lil just outside the basement
door. She was poking around the garbage cans like a hobo, with a
rotten banana peel dangling from one hand. "I'm looking to see if
Emily's pocketbook was dropped after the thief rifled through it,"
she announced when she noticed his stare.
    "You mean, after the thief took the money and
ran."
    "No." She daintily lifted the lid off one can
and the smell of rotting onions mixed with burnt coffee grounds
wafted past. "There was no money for the thief to steal. According
to reliable sources, she abhorred cash and rarely carried it on
her. Everyone knew it. She always talked about the dangers of
carrying money in the neighborhood."
    "The thief didn't know it," T.S. commented.
"Or he wouldn't have taken the pocketbook." He gently guided her
back inside before she started ripping open the sealed plastic bags
of wet debris in her search.
    "Maybe the thief did know it," she said
stubbornly. "And took it anyway."
    "What do you mean?"
    "Maybe the pocketbook wasn't stolen for the
money."
    T.S. screeched to a halt and held Auntie Lil
firmly in place. "Do not," he said very firmly and distinctly, "go
creating a mystery where none exists. We promised to find out the
woman's identity. Period. That was our deal. Our sole agreement.
Let's not get carried away." Though just warming up, he was
interrupted in his lecture by the appearance of the perpetually
hearty Father Stebbins and the lamprey-like Fran.
    "Welcome back, my boy," the massive priest
boomed, thumping him on the back so enthusiastically that T.S. was
convinced he'd jarred a filling out of one of his back teeth. "I
knew you'd be the type who wouldn't get going when the going got
tough."
    "Where have you been?" Fran asked Auntie Lil
rudely. "You left me all alone to skin dozens of cucumbers. I've
hardly made a dent."
    "You'd better not have made a dent at all,"
Auntie Lil warned, sailing past the scowling woman with oblivious
authority. "If you bruise the flesh, you spoil the entire dish. I
can see I'll just have to do this myself."
    Lunch proved to be an uneventful affair. No
one died, certainly. In fact, no one so much as choked. And much to
the chagrin of the ladies in black, few people even seemed to
notice their very public attempts at good