Free A Cast of Killers by Katy Munger Page B

Cheswick
prompted an enthusiastically sarcastic tone. But the only trouble
with being sarcastic when talking to Auntie Lil was that she always
cheerfully agreed that it was all too, too true.
     
            
 
    By the time T.S. and Auntie Lil had helped
the other volunteers scrub down the counters and wash the dishes,
it was nearly six o'clock. Lilah was due to arrive any moment and
T.S. scurried to the bathroom to do what he could, with what he had
left, in the way of physical attributes.
    Actually, he didn't look too bad for a man
who'd just turned fifty-five. Perhaps the dim bathroom lighting
helped, but there were far fewer wrinkles on his strong German face
than was the case with many of his friends. In fact, he suspected
that a couple of wrinkles had disappeared since he'd retired from
his stress-filled job as personnel manager of a Wall Street private
bank. He smoothed the skin over his broad cheeks and carefully
scrubbed the oil and dirt until he glowed with pink-fleshed health.
He did not like to admit it, but he bore a remarkable resemblance
to Auntie Lil. In fact, a friend had once correctly commented that
Auntie Lil looked exactly like T.S. might look if he were in drag.
T.S. had not appreciated the remark.
    He'd had the foresight to bring along a clean
shirt. Immaculate personal grooming, T.S. believed, was the
essential mark of a civilized man. He changed quickly, taking the
opportunity to suck in his small gut and compare it in the mirror
to what he'd seen a few weeks before. Yes, he was almost certain
he'd managed to lose a pound or two. If he held his breath and
threw his shoulders back, he looked no worse than he had a decade
ago. Of course, he couldn't walk or breathe posed like that, plus
his hair had turned an indisputable gray… but at least there was
plenty of it. He'd taken to wearing it a bit longer now that he no
longer had to march in uniformed lockstep with the rest of the Wall
Street crowd. Secretly, he believed he looked a bit like an older
version of that movie star, Richard Gere, but had yet to summon the
courage to ask any friends whether they agreed.
    There was a vigorous pounding at the door.
"What are you doing in there?" Auntie Lil demanded. "Lilah is
waiting for us outside."
    "Coming," he called out, quickly tucking in
his clean shirt. He didn't look perfect, but it would have to do.
Auntie Lil was waiting impatiently. Yet, after making him hurry,
she deliberately tarried at the doorway until Fran emerged from a
back room. Only then would she leave. Ignoring Auntie Lil, who
blocked her nearly every step of the way, Fran followed them out
the door and walked briskly to the nearby corner and waited for the
traffic light to change. She turned their way only twice—both times
to look up at a small window toward the back of the church, no
doubt the quarters of Father Stebbins.
    In a rare act of imperiousness, Auntie Lil
refused to enter the waiting limousine under her own steam. She
stood stubbornly at the curb, swatting away help from T.S., until
Lilah's driver took the hint. The uniformed man finally looked up
from his newspaper, quickly hopped out onto the street and scurried
around to open the rear door for them. Auntie Lil gave him a
courteous but contained nod, slipped inside the long, dark car and
conspicuously bestowed a queen-like departing wave at the far more
pedestrian Fran.
    Her grand gesture was cut short when
T.S.—annoyed at her uncharacteristic pettiness—deliberately hopped
in right after her. Besides, it served her right for hogging the
seat next to Lilah.
    Unlike himself, Lilah did look perfect. At
least in T.S.'s opinion. She was a tall and athletic woman whose
elegant posture was right at home in the back seat of the
limousine. Lilah wore a purple crepe dress that highlighted her
short white hair and her lovely, outdoor complexion. She shunned
hair dye and most other forms of artifice, as if seeking to atone
for her great wealth by being scrupulously honest