Read Online Death Of A Dream Maker by Katy Munger - Free Book Online

Herbert's face was
finely lined and always deeply tanned. T.S. had never thought to
ask why. Perhaps he spent his mornings on a pier that jutted out
into Long Island Sound, merging with the elements and achieving
harmony with the world. That would be Herbert Wong.
    Herbert was a perfect match for Auntie Lil: strong,
determined, and at ease with who he was and what he’d achieved in
life. His calm presence was also a blessing after the tumultuous
events of the day. T.S. was able to sip a Dewar's and soda while
the two friends clattered pans and chatted in the kitchen.
    Halfway through dinner T.S. realized that he should
have been eavesdropping all along. Auntie Lil had lured Herbert
over for reasons that had nothing to do with his culinary
talent.
    “So we begin tonight?” Herbert asked politely as he
offered T.S. more homemade spring rolls. T.S. took a third one
guiltily.
    “Yes. I've got a strategy all worked out.” Auntie Lil
ignored T.S.'s surprise at this announcement. “We'll start with the
widow, and if she's home, we can nip over to Abe's house
instead.”
    “Aunt Lil,” T.S. warned. “You've got to be kidding.
I'm exhausted. I can't go ransacking people's houses tonight. And
may I point out that we could be arrested?”
    “You needn't come, Theodore. Herbert and I can manage
quite well.”
    “Herbert doesn't drive,” T.S. protested.
    “I do.” She stuffed a spring roll in her mouth and
chewed with gusto. Auntie Lil approached eating the exact same way
she approached life: dive in, plow through, and bring on the second
course.
    “You are not driving at night,” T.S. replied firmly.
“You are dangerous enough in the daylight when the rest of us can
spot you coming.”
    “Then you will simply have to come along as
wheelman.” She smiled and pushed a dish of duck sauce his way.
    After so many years of being subject to her tricks,
T.S. could not understand how she continued to outflank him at
every turn. She would have made an incredible general or, better
still, a dictator. “Wheelman, huh?” He shook his head. “I hope you
don't expect me to burn rubber.”
     
     
    Auntie Lil loved to milk maximum drama out of an
event and she was squeezing every drop out of this one. She was
dressed entirely in black, from her sweatsuit to her tennis shoes
and socks. An ebony beret perched on her head at a jaunty angle,
making her look like a very elderly French cat burglar.
    “What a subtle disguise,” T.S. said. “You really
blend in. And that hat will look great in a lineup.”
    “You're just mad because you couldn't change clothes,
too.”
    It was true. He'd been too tired to drive into
Manhattan and was still trapped in the suit he had worn to the
funeral. There had been a time in T.S.'s life when suits fit him
like second skins and he had felt naked without a coat and tie. But
each passing month since retirement had taken him farther from such
a mind-set. He had come to loathe the confinement of formal clothes
and longed for a sweater and his comfortable Hush Puppies.
    It was just before midnight and traffic was light.
They reached Max Rosenbloom's house without incident and cruised
slowly past. The street was bare in front of the dark and silent
home. The mourning was over, the freeloaders having cleared out for
greener pastures. Herbert volunteered to check the garage and was
back in a flash, reporting that no cars were inside. Perhaps the
young widow was out being consoled by friends. Probably a very
special friend, T.S. silently concluded, one quite skilled at
helping her forget her sorrows.
    Auntie Lil wanted to be the one to go inside. She was
not about to hand the most exciting portion of their assignment
over to someone else. Herbert volunteered to accompany her, so T.S.
dropped them off at the corner with bemused irritation. Let them
sneak around in the bushes until they tired of this gumshoe
nonsense. He'd take a nap someplace quiet. He parked a block away
under a large tree on the edge of a