Tell by Norah McClintock Page B

ten years old and was nothing special. It had a leather strap. It wasn’t hard to figure out why whoever had killed him hadn’t bothered to take it.
    (3) His wedding ring. It was a plain gold band and was engraved on the inside with his initials and my mother’s initials.
    (4) A slip from an atm machine that showed he had withdrawn five hundred dollars on Saturday night.
    (5) A brand-new deck of playing cards. The seal hadn’t been broken.
    (6) A lighter and two cigars. Phil liked to smoke cigars when he was driving or when he was playing poker at one of his buddies’ places—if the buddy’s wife or girlfriend allowed it.
    (7) A key-ring chain with a fake-gold letter
P
attached to it, along with his house keys and car keys.
    â€œWe found the keys a couple of blocks from where we found the wallet. They were both found in opposite directions from the car,” Detective Antonelli said. He frowned, as if this was some kind of problem. “Maybe whoever robbed him planned to take the car but changed his mind. Maybe he couldn’t find the car. Or maybe he didn’t see your husband drive up, so he didn’t know that he had a car with him.”
    My mother’s eyes widened. “Do you think that whoever killed Phil saw where we live, you know, from the driver’s license in the wallet? Do you think he’s planning to break into the house while we’re at the funeral? I’ve heard that people do that. They rob the houses of people who are already grieving.”
    â€œI think if that were the case, he would have kept the keys,” Detective Antonelli said.
    My mother continued to look worried. She stared at Phil’s key ring and started to cry again.
    Detective Antonelli nudged a box of tissues closer to her.
    â€œIs there anything that you can think of that might be missing?” he said.
    My mother nodded as she wiped at her tears with a tissue. She blew her nose.
    â€œThe picture of Jamie,” she said. Jamie was my kid brother. “Phil always has a picture of Jamie with him.” I wondered if she noticed that she had said “has” instead of “had,” as if Phil was still alive.
    â€œJamie?” Detective Antonelli said.
    â€œMy other son,” my mother said. She got all choked up again as she explained that Jamie had drowned when he was eight years old. That was nearly six years ago now, when I had just turned ten.
    â€œPhil has a picture of him,” she said. “It’s in a little gold frame attached to his key chain. He says he carries it because he never wants to forget Jamie.”
    Me, I was the opposite. I wished I could forget what had happened, but I couldn’t. Instead I had replayed every detail of it in my mind every night for a couple of years. I still saw it a few times a month, like a movie, as clearly as if it were yesterday.
    â€œWhere is it?” my mother said. “Where’s the picture of Jamie?”
    Detective Antonelli frowned again. “Whoever took the keys may have taken the frame. Is it real gold?”
    My mother nodded. “I bought it for him.”
    â€œWell, maybe that’s why the thief took it,” Detective Antonelli said. He asked my mother one last time if there was anything else missing. When she said no, he thanked us for coming in.
    I stayed home from school on Monday. More people phoned and came to the house. Later, I changed into a sports jacket, a good pair of pants (not jeans), a shirt with a tie (I had to borrow one of Phil’s), and regular shoes, not sneakers. My mother changed into a black skirt and a black top. She didn’t want to drive, which was probably a good thing because she kept crying, so we took a taxi to the funeral home for the viewing. My mother made me go with her to look at Phil,who was lying in a casket in his best suit. She stood there for a long time, staring at him, kissing him on the cheek a couple of times (don’t ask me how