taking inventory. "This is where she lived, all right," she hissed back over her shoulder. "This wardrobe is right out of Central Casting for a proud, retired actress. Besides, I recognize this green suit. Lord & Taylor. Circa 1964. And look at this."
Several stacks of Playbills at the back of the closet had been toppled into disarray. A box of ticket stubs had been opened and dumped on top of the mess. T.S. poked through the small magazines, looking at the titles.
"She's been to just about everything that's hit the stage here in the last few years," he said in admiration. "Talk about supporting the theater."
"Now we know where all her money went," Auntie Lil replied. She picked up a handful of ticket stubs and let them flutter through her fingers. "And why she came back to live in New York. Remember how Eva said she'd left to get married?" She stared at the now empty closet shelves. "Check the hallway bureau. See if there's anything left of a personal nature."
But T.S. did not find any personal possessions in the bureau drawer. And none in the bathroom. And nothing at all in the corner kitchenette. "She didn't eat much," he muttered when he saw the bare cupboards.
"She didn't have much," Auntie Lil replied. "You know what's missing?" she asked her nephew suddenly, as if quizzing a favorite pupil.
"Yes." This was one test he could easily pass. "There's nothing left in the apartment that could identify her. No photos. No personal papers, and here, look at this, even the front page has been torn out of her Bible." He held up a small, leather-bound Bible. The front cover had been bent back and the first page sloppily ripped away. "In fact, it looks like they took out the front page of every book that might have had her name in it." He pushed the piles of books around with his feet. Her clothes were out-of-date, but her books were not. She had the latest volumes of celebrity biographies and several expensive picture books on the Broadway theater.
"What's that red thing dangling down?" Auntie Lil demanded. She pointed to the Bible. A thick red ribbon marker several inches wide had been slipped between two pages. "It's a bookmark," he told Auntie Lil. He thumbed through to see what Emily had been reading before she died. "And it looks like she was big into the meek inheriting the earth." He quickly paged through the rest of the Bible. "She's marked a lot of spots about how blessed the children are and stuff like that."
"Give it to me," Auntie Lil asked excitedly. She grabbed the Bible and turned the red marker over, rubbing it between her fingertips. "This bookmark is funny. It's too wide and too thick. There's something between the two layers of ribbon." She pried apart the bottom end of the double ribbon and wiggled two fingers inside. "It's just been tacked shut with rubber cement or something. Look at this." She slid a strip of four dime store photos out and they huddled under the one lamp left standing to examine it more closely.
Two young boys—one black and one white—stared uneasily into the camera. The white child had jet black hair that hung in greasy strands over his face. The black child had close-cropped hair trimmed flat on top and shaved close to the skull on the sides. Both boys had pinched and suspicious eyes. And both of them looked tired. They had curious expressions on their faces, almost grimaces. Their lips were pulled back unnaturally over dirty teeth and their chins were thrust forward.
"They're trying to smile," Auntie Lil declared. She pressed a hand to her heart. "Bless them. They're trying to smile and I don't think they know how."
T.S. examined it more closely. She was right. The boys were trying to smile, despite the dirt and grime and hopelessness revealed by the harsh glare of the cheap photo booth's light. It illuminated them unmercifully, highlighting every bruise and imperfection on their faces. And they each had plenty.
"Those are very old faces for boys so young," T.S. pointed out.
"Yes, they are, aren't they?" Auntie Lil brought the photo up just a few inches from her eyes, then turned the strip over and examined the back. "'To our Grandma,'" she read out loud. "And they've underlined 'Grandma'." That's it. It doesn't say anything else. No names. Nothing."
"Let me see." T.S. snatched the strip of photos back, turned it over, stared, and