always a misfortune to meet the lieutenant, isn't it?" Santos patted his pocket and rose to go. "They had to kick him somewhere, I guess. It was just my luck it was Midtown North." He stopped to look Auntie Lil over carefully, then assured her, "The lieutenant may want to suspect you, but you seem like a straight-shooter to me. If we need anything else from you, we'll get in touch."
"Will the kitchen be able to open today?" Auntie Lil asked anxiously. She could see Father Stebbins and Fran being questioned at separate tables by other detectives. Both looked annoyed, worried, anxious and alarmed all at the same time.
"Sure. Business as usual," Santos promised. "We haven't found anything on the premises yet and, like you say, only one person died. And nobody died yesterday, right?" He gave a disinterested laugh. "If she was even poisoned here, which we won't know until they run further tests, it must have been put into her individual serving somehow. That means we're going to want to talk to everyone who was sitting around her at the time."
"These are very transient people," Auntie Lil told him. "I'm not sure you'll be able to find them."
"We're going to try," Santos promised, patting his pocket again. "Starting today. That's why it's business as usual."
They were shaking hands when Officer King ambled up to glare down at Auntie Lil. He would be the type who brown-nosed his way into the lieutenant's affections by assuming his every grudge and posture. "Lieutenant says the kitchen can open as always," he announced.
"Thanks, I've already told her that," Santos said calmly. "Don't you have a drug dealer to beat up somewhere, pal?"
Officer King ignored him. "Except for her," he said. He cocked a thumb at Auntie Lil. "The lieutenant says she's not to be allowed back in the kitchen until we find out who did it. He wants to be on the safe side."
The detective looked back and forth between Auntie Lil and the patrolman. "Who are you kidding?" he finally said. "Abromowitz is just being an asshole. There's no reason to keep her from helping out."
"That's what he says. And he's the lieutenant." Officer King shrugged happily and walked away whistling a very bad version of "Jailhouse Rock."
"Sorry," George apologized. "There's nothing I can do."
Auntie Lil rose to make a dignified exit. "That man will never make detective," she declared, nodding toward the departing Officer King.
"What do you mean?"
"Anyone so stupid as to side with Lieutenant Abromowitz on anything deserves to spend their life pounding the pavement." Auntie Lil pinned her hat firmly on and left the befuddled detective behind. She sailed past Fran, who glared at her out of habit, patted Father Stebbins reassuringly on the back, and escaped out the front door.
Well, she'd been kicked out of far worse—and far better—places before. Besides, it had been a real learning experience: it was just as she suspected. The police knew nothing. And with Abromowitz in charge, they never would.
T.S. was waiting for her outside. "What's going on?" he demanded. "How come you were inside and they won't let me in?" Other volunteers stood behind him, listening anxiously. Several people in line were eavesdropping as well, their anxious faces lined with both worry and hunger.
"The police wanted to question me about Emily's death," was all Auntie Lil said. "I suggest we go elsewhere to talk."
"Are we going to open up today?" one of the volunteers asked. The early people in line looked at her in alarm, their worried looks deepening.
Auntie Lil nodded. "Yes, but probably late. Better get inside. They're going to need help with the cooking. I was going to make spaghetti. Make sure you use plenty of oregano and garlic and don't let Fran overdo the basil."
The volunteers scurried down the steps and began to call through the gate. Auntie Lil led T.S. quickly away down the block. "Let's get out of here," she said. "Adelle and the ladies will be arriving soon. When they find out Emily was poisoned, there's no telling what will happen. We have more important things to do right now." She dragged him across Eighth Avenue toward Forty-Sixth Street, neither one of them noticing that an old actress who had been waiting in line was now scurrying away in the opposite direction.
"Where are we going? What's more important?" T.S. asked. He removed her hand from his arm and carefully brushed the nap of his sweater back into shape.
"Lovely sweater," she said absently. "I gave