The assembled group looked up at one another but no one spoke.
"Who's in charge?" Officer King demanded again, pushing the bill of his hat up with a sausage-like finger as he surveyed the room.
This time the crowd turned as one to stare at Father Stebbins. The priest jumped as if someone had goosed him.
"Dear me, I suppose that I am." He stayed well away from the body. "It's a terrible tragedy. Really, very terrible. God has called her home and she has answered."
"Speaking of answers, what happened?" Officer King demanded. His interest in calls was strictly limited to those legally mandated to suspects.
Father Stebbins' hands were shaking and he clutched at his rosary in confusion. "She was eating and, er, she just keeled over. Terrible thing, of course. Though she did depart here in God's house."
The patrolman eyed the priest. "Could you be more specific?" he demanded.
Auntie Lil and the female paramedic decided to butt in at the exact same time.
"She's dead," said the paramedic. "Probably a stroke."
"She's had a heart attack," Auntie Lil declared.
The cop turned his stare to Auntie Lil. Her multicolored head scarf had come partially unwound in the confusion and now trailed behind her like the wimple veil of a princess in a fairy tale. A chili smudge formed a perfect half oval on one of her large apple cheeks. None of this escaped him.
"You a doctor?" he asked Auntie Lil in what was supposed to be a pleasant voice, but instead caused several people to cough in nervous anticipation.
"No, but I—"
"Then get over there with the other old ladies." The cop cocked his head toward Adelle's table and pointed the way with his baton.
Uh, oh. There could be big trouble now. T.S. gripped Auntie Lil's elbow firmly and spirited her to a far corner before she started a riot. "Don't say another word," he warned and she abruptly shut her mouth. But the look she shot Officer King was venomous enough to inspire T.S. to step out of its path.
The first cop was on her radio and the static crackled in the silence of the dining room. Officer King knelt by the dead body and talked quietly to the female paramedic. He nodded his head, then rose and addressed the crowd. "What's her name?" he asked.
No one answered.
"Nobody knows the deceased?" he asked again, loudly. "What's her name?"
Still no one replied, but several pairs of eyes slid over to Adelle's silent table. Officer King, sensing this movement, turned and directly addressed the group of old actresses. "Did any of you ladies happen to know the deceased?" he asked with exaggerated politeness.
"Her name was Emily," one tiny woman finally answered in a tentative voice, her napkin twisted tightly in her hands.
"Emily." The cop nodded thoughtfully. "Well, that clears it all up. Was she related, perhaps, to Cher? Or how about Madonna?" His unexpected sarcasm welled in the room like a bad smell.
"Her stage name was Emily something or other. We don't know her real name," Adelle finally answered. Her stage voice richened with indignant anger. "And you needn't be so bloody rude," she added. A British accent crept in on "bloody" but fled before the end of the sentence. Adelle was trying on attitudes like clothes, enjoying her brief moment in the spotlight.
Officer King sighed and shook his head, making it clear that few jobs were as annoying as being a patrolman on the streets of the Big Apple. "Okay. Show's over," he said abruptly, wagging his baton toward the door. "Beat it. There's nothing anyone can do. The wagon's on the way."
The wagon? Mental images of gravediggers collecting dead plague victims and stacking them like firewood on tops of carts flashed unwillingly through T.S.'s mind. Auntie Lil stiffened with the tightly coiled anticipation of a hyper bird dog and T.S. was forced to grip her elbow even more firmly. Now was not the time for a voicing of opinion.
"Some of us must remain to wash up," Father Stebbins protested, his hand absently patting one shoulder of Fran's—who remained apparently surgically attached to his side. Her sobbings had stopped magically with the entrance of the police, but she had not, T.S. noticed, stepped away from Father Stebbins.
"Then five of you can stay," Officer King announced arbitrarily. "The rest of you clear out, pronto. This is not a circus."
Auntie Lil glared eloquently, then majestically wrapped her scarf burma-style around her neck as if she were Peter O'Toole in Lawrence of Arabia. Most of the other diners fell