irritation, neither one was home. They were probably out running wild in the streets, with no regard for her master plan. Another cup of coffee later and Auntie Lil was ready to tackle Father Stebbins.
The priest answered the phone himself, as she'd suspected he would. St. Barnabas could not afford any office help. Father Stebbins was an all-purpose kind of guy.
"St. Barnabas," he boomed into the receiver. "May the Lord's blessings follow you all this fine day."
Fresh out of blessings, she cut to the chase. "Father Stebbins, it's Lillian Hubbert."
"Ah, Lillian…"
"I won't take up much of your time," she promised. "I know you're scrambling to make up for the loss of my culinary expertise and that you have more than enough on your plate to handle. I'm sure things have progressed right out of the frying pan and into the fire." He was not the only one who could deal in clichés. At least hers contained apropos allusions. "But I'm not one to sit idly by while others are suffering. I've decided to devote my talents to helping with the young runaways in the neighborhood until we can get this teensy misunderstanding straightened out. Whom do you suggest I call to volunteer my services?"
There was brief silence on the other end. Perhaps he was wondering if she was planning to dish out any more of her special chili to minors. "You might call a fellow named Bob Fleming," he finally said. "He runs a retreat for runaways a few blocks away called Homefront. They're small without a big fundraising staff and could probably use any help they could get." He paused, contemplating the tact of this last statement. "Not that you aren't a prized volunteer," he belatedly added. "Why, we're hardly getting by without you."
"I can imagine," Auntie Lil replied confidently. "But I suspect that dear Fran is working night and day to make sure that everyone gets fed."
"She's certainly been a help," he answered promptly. "But she does have problems of her own that sometimes prevent her from devoting her full energies to our own humble hunger-fighting endeavor."
Indeed? But surely a priest would be the last person in the world to gossip… still, it was worth a shot. "Problems?" she inquired lightly. "Could I be of help in any way?"
"Oh. No, no, no," Father Stebbins sputtered. "I shouldn't have said as much as I did. She'll be fine. I'm helping her and she's making great progress. I'm sure she'll be fine."
So the conceited old cassock wasn't going to spill the beans. She wouldn't waste any more time with him. "How can I find this Homefront fellow?" she demanded instead.
"I can call him for you right now, if you like."
Auntie Lil checked the clock. "Actually, I've got to run out. I'm meeting a friend at the Delicious Deli. Perhaps I could stop by later and find out when a good time to call him might be?"
There was another tactful silence. "I think it would be easier if you called me back instead of dropping by," the priest suggested diplomatically.
"It's a deal. I'll wait until after the rush."
"And, Lillian," he added in a voice that oozed concern and understanding. "That scene the other day with the authorities… I'm not quite sure what your troubles have been—I try not to judge my fellow man—but God forgives everyone. If you ever need a sympathetic shoulder, I'm right here."
Sure. But she'd have to pry Fran off that sympathetic shoulder first. She murmured something neutral and, after receiving another shower of blessings and pietistic clichés, rang off as quickly as decency allowed. My goodness, they all acted like she was some sort of pariah. And Father Stebbins seemed convinced she was on a sure road to Hell. It was no crime being smarter than Lieutenant Abromowitz. If it was, the city jails would be bursting at the bars.
But that was exactly what she was being ostracized for. And it left her no other choice. She'd just have to show Abromowitz up, if it was the last thing she ever did.
Waiting for the mailman on the steps of Emily's building seemed foolishly indiscreet, so T.S. searched the streets of Hell's Kitchen for men and women in blue. He soon heard an obnoxious high honking and, following the sound, discovered a slim black mailman impeccably clad in a summer post office uniform of navy shorts and a light blue short-sleeved shirt. Obviously determined to wring the last drop of summer out of the year, he also wore