"We could have hired someone to do this," Melinda said. We were standing in the middle of the chaos in what had once been a perfectly ordinary suburban home.

"Yes," I agreed. "We could have. But whatever's hidden here, it's us that needs to find it." Ungrammatically and inelegantly as I'd put it, Melinda's dark eyes widened as she considered what I'd said.

She nodded. "Whatever it is."

"It's not going to be easy. The Wynns would have found it, if it were easy. And when we do find it, no one needs to see it but us."

"The police?"

"We'll see."

"So we're like detectives?" Melinda smiled weakly. "Well, that's a new role for me. I already have so many hats, I can't wear them all at one time."

"Hey, we're more than detectives," I said, trying to make my voice bracing and hearty. "We're Uppity Women."

"So we are."

By 10:30, we were putting books back on the shelves in the study. We dusted the books first, since neither of us was capable of reshelving anything that needed a run-over with a rag. And we checked each book for enclosures, too.

Nothing fell from the pages, no matter how hard we shook. The desks were absolutely normal, too. Melinda and I were neat and methodical in our search. We didn't talk much at first, because we were intent on what we were doing, and because we were trying to move quickly.

Melinda balked after forty minutes. "It's not the work I mind," she said abruptly; "it's the fact that you think we ought to judge whether or not the police get whatever we find."

"You know that Arthur Smith was Poppy's lover?"

She nodded.

"You want him to decide whether or not something's relevant?"

"I've been wondering..." she said after a moment. "I've been wondering if Arthur didn't actually ... If he might..."

"You think Arthur might have killed Poppy?" I was shocked, but not as shocked as I might have been. "He's got an obsessive personality," I admitted. "He's got lots of know-how." Who was better qualified to be a murderer than a policeman?

I dusted the same book (a pharmaceutical dictionary of John David's) over and over as I thought about Arthur. "But you know, Melinda... their affair was long over. If he'd still been involved with her, I would say it might even be likely." I thought some more, trying to picture Arthur knocking on Poppy's glass door.

"I don't know," I said, not wanting to picture that any longer. "But that's why I think we need to talk about just burning whatever we find. However, first, we've got to find something."

After an hour and a half, we had the office picked up, dusted, vacuumed, and searched. We had found absolutely nothing besides the usual detritus of any home filled with busy people. Poppy had an overdue bill from Davidson's that I knew I should bring to John David's attention (it had gotten stuck to another paper with some jelly), and she hadn't sent in her latest book club notice, so I put that on top of the little pile of due bills so John David would see it first.

The most exciting thing Melinda had found was one of a pair of earrings that Poppy had been trying to find for a month or more. I remembered her telling us, in her dramatic way, how she would just cry if she didn't find the missing earring. We cried a little ourselves when Melinda held it up.

Figuring John David wouldn't mind, we got some sliced ham out of the refrigerator and made sandwiches, in the process throwing out some leftovers that were obviously way past their prime. Cleaning out the refrigerator hadn't been high on Poppy's priority list. I took the first full garbage bag out the sliding glass door to the large garbage can Poppy kept there. After I tossed it in, I breathed in the clear, chilly air for a minute. My lungs felt dusty from all the books. Standing there looking at the back fence jogged a memory. I turned back into the kitchen and looked around. Yes, there on the counter was a radio. I examined it to locate the on button, then punched it. The music that came into the room, admittedly on the loud side, was not the classical or jazz music I usually heard on NPR, but a classic rock station based in Lawrenceton.

Well, there was another puzzle. Lizanne had said that when she'd approached the gate to the backyard, she'd heard the radio playing loudly, loudly enough to obscure the voices at Poppy's back door. And that was when Poppy must have been murdered. But Poppy's radio wasn't on NPR.

Perhaps the crime-scene cleaner—nope, that was ridiculous. Sealed in his hazmat suit, he couldn't have heard music clearly at all; no reason for him to turn on the radio. That was as ludicrous as the idea of Marvin Wynn, right-wing preacher, turning on a classic rock station while he conducted an illegal search of his dead daughter's house.

Of course, Lizanne might have been lying. But her account had been so believable, so detailed. Why would she have lied about the radio station? It was something so easy to check.

And yet, no one had checked it until now.

Probably that was next on Arthur's list of things to do. Right?

Selfishly, I shared my worries with Melinda. She shrugged, not too interested in solving a puzzle with so many missing pieces. We'd been eating at the dining table by the sliding glass door, and I'd pulled the curtain back as far as it could go so the sun could brighten the room. Suddenly, it seemed confining, sitting in the chair. I pushed back from the table and went to stand by the glass door. I half-turned, easing a finger around the waistband of my slacks. I realized I must have horribly overeaten the day before. I felt swollen.

Should we have reported the Wynns' activities to Arthur?

I turned my head to say something to Melinda, only to catch her staring at me in a strange way.

"What?" I asked defensively.

"Aurora... don't get me wrong, here... . We're friends, right?"

"Sure." Confused and bewildered, that's how I sounded.

"You and Robin are really close, right? Really, really close?"

I understood what Melinda was trying to ask.

"Yes. Really, really close."

"How long has it been since you had your period?" she said bluntly.

"Oh... I'd have to look at my calendar." I tried to remember. "Let's see, I was cutting out ghost silhouettes to put up for Halloween, and we decorate the library the second week in October, but I did those early. ..." I shrugged. "I'm not always real regular."

"So you're not on the pill."

"No." Boy, when Melinda decided to get personal, she didn't mess around.

"But you are using birth control?"

"Melinda! Well... mostly." I felt my face redden as I thought of one evening a few weeks ago when we hadn't had time. In fact, we'd been in the bathroom upstairs at my mother's. It made me feel hot all over when I thought about it. "You know I can't have kids, Melinda." Robin had used condoms all the same, except for that once. Well, maybe one or two others. But it hadn't seemed like such a big deal; since I'd dated at least one man who didn't want me if I couldn't have children, I'd been very up-front with Robin about my infertility. This was. a very sore subject with me, and I'd thought Melinda would respect that.

"I know Dr. Mendelssohn, whom I think is an overpriced jerk, said so. Are your boobs sore?"

I was startled all over again. "Well, sensitive," I said, thinking of how I'd had to caution Robin to be gentler the night before.

"Have you looked at yourself in the mirror?"

"What are you driving at, Melinda?"

"I'll bet your bosom is really tender, not just a little sensitive."

I nodded reluctantly.

"You've skipped using birth control at least one time, and I'd bet more often than that, and you're having sex. Your last period was six weeks ago."

Well, that had been a long time, come to think of it.