possibly get into that would drive anyone, much less an entire building, to murder her?
The riverfront was exposed to the wind and, though the day had turned warmer, the breeze and too many unanswered questions conspired to chill her resolve. Auntie Lil shivered and stared down into the nearly black waves. How horrible the gently lapping waters of the Hudson seemed, what terrible secrets they concealed. To drown in the Hudson would be a particularly gruesome fate. One would disappear under that slick surface—mouth choked with unspeakable debris—condemned to death in the unseen depths. Who knew what unknown horrors lived beneath that murky facade?
That did it. She was getting far too morbid. No more visits to the morgue for her. She shook her shoulders briskly and straightened up. It was all very well to stop and reflect, but brooding would not solve Emily's death and feeling sorry for herself would get her nowhere. What she needed was a good strong cup of tea to bring her back. Forget cappuccino, she decided, they always drank strong tea in those old English mysteries and wasn't she practically in the middle of one right now? Billy at the Delicious Deli would be able to help; he kept an excellent supply of teas on hand.
Billy was taking advantage of the lull between lunch and the light dinner crowd. He was leaning over the counter, anxiously scanning an open newspaper. Auntie Lil watched him through the windows of the deli for a moment. Surely, that wide open face was an honest one. She wished she knew for sure.
The bell tinkled and Billy's face fell when he saw that the new visitor was Auntie Lil. "I can't believe it," he said. "I was just thinking of you. It looks like I was right."
"What do you mean?" She followed his stare and glanced at the newspaper. "What are you right about?"
"Bob Fleming," Billy said, somewhat smugly. "Take a look at this." He spun the newspaper around and pushed it across the counter. Without her glasses, Auntie Lil had to lean perilously close. She blinked. The huge headline made it all quite clear: YOUTH runaway shelter director charged with sex abuse.
"What?" Her voice failed her and she studied the article more closely. It was a column by that female reporter T.S. enjoyed so much. The one with the teasing grin and the sarcastic writing style. Oh, yes—there was her name: Margo McGregor.
"What does it say?" Auntie Lil asked faintly. Damn her vanity. She wanted her glasses bad.
"Some kid turned him in. Said he'd been hitting on him at night, taking him home. You know. Stuff like that." Bill's voice trailed off in embarrassment and he released his anger in an effort to regain control. "I told you there was something funny about him. If it was up to me I'd pound him right into the pavement and let those kids take turns walking over his corpse."
"Good heavens." Auntie Lil looked up sharply. "What ever happened to a man being innocent until proven guilty?"
"Charges have been filed against him," Billy said simply. "They expect more kids to step forward as they feel safe."
Kids? They were runaways, miniature savages. God knows what they might say if they thought they could get some attention. She wanted to tell him this, but the words failed her. Such an attitude was not only unfair, but disloyal to Bob Fleming. After all, he had been the one to point out that they were still children; she could not now change her mind and see them as conniving adults. But she could be puzzled and skeptical of the charges. And find out more about them.
"What child made the allegations?" she demanded.
Billy looked at her strangely. "I don't know. They're not going to release the name. He's underage. That's the whole point."
"He?" Auntie Lil stared at Billy intently. "What makes you think it's a 'he'?"
"The article says so." Billy pointed to the paper and shrugged. "Listen, I'm sorry if it upsets you, but I told you that street talk was usually right. He's as bad as the men he claims to save those kids from."
"Mind if I borrow this?" Auntie Lil asked rhetorically, since the newspaper was folded and tucked into her enormous handbag before she had finished the request.
"Be my guest," Billy said philosophically. "I don't need a paper to tell me I was right."
He was being a little too smug for her taste. She'd just go find her tea somewhere else. The doorbell tinkled