"I'll bet you've been exhausted the past few days, been dropping off to sleep whenever you sat down. You have big rings under your eyes. Did you know that? Have you been queasy in the morning?"

I covered my mouth with both hands, feeling a wave of absolute terror and delight sweep over me.

Melinda waited for me to answer, then went on when I didn't. "I've been pregnant twice, and I'd swear you should have a pregnancy test."

"Don't even say it," I told her. "Don't even think it." I waved my hands to erase her words from the air. I cursed the hope that sprang up in my heart. This was false and cruel.

"I'm sorry," Melinda said, looking as though she was going to cry. And she damn well ought to, I thought. "I just think..." Then she looked at me and canned whatever she'd been going to say. "Okay, Roe. Subject closed."

"Let's work on the bedroom," I said, holding my eyes wide so the tears wouldn't spill out of them.

"Sure." She grabbed a fresh dust cloth, a garbage bag, and the handle of the Dirt Devil. "Let's go."

It seems to be a universally held truth that people conceal their secrets in their bedrooms. If I had to hide something, I had to admit that I, too, would probably start looking for a good place in the room that was most mine, the room where I slept. Maybe Poppy, who had single-handedly organized the Christmas food drive at St. James's, had had a smarter idea, but I planned to be even more meticulous in my search of this room than I had been in our reconstruction of the study. I had observed that Sandy Wynn had picked Poppy's bedroom to begin her own search, while relegating Marvin to the downstairs room.

Unfortunately, it was a large bedroom and the closet hadn't been cleaned in a long time. Poppy'd had a lot of clothes, and so did John David, since he had the kind of job that required suits. Melinda had a problem with small spaces, and though it was a big closet, it was still a closet. So I volunteered, then went back down the stairs to fetch a step stool. I was all in favor of a job that would keep me out of Melinda's sight for a while. I needed to work around what had happened downstairs. I was so conflicted that I pretty much felt numb. Doing something physical was exactly what I needed.

In no time, I was coughing at the dust I raised. The original searcher, the one who'd been in soon after Poppy died, had left a big jumble, and Sandy Wynn had added to the mess. But I could discern Poppy's storage method easily enough. She'd kept all her dress shoes in their original shoe boxes. Those had been stacked on the shelf above her hanging clothes, with the outer end of the box labeled—"navy pumps," for example, or "black patent 2-in." I dusted the shelf, and then I began examining the boxes and shoes as I dusted and replaced them. It was time-consuming and tedious. Poppy's everyday shoes had been on a rack on the floor of the closet, and there was a section of cube-shaped storage units toward the back that held Poppy's sweaters and purses. I restacked them, examining each one.

I'd do her stuff first, then try to restore order to John David's side.

I could hear Melinda sliding out drawers to look at the bottoms and backs, checking to see if something had been taped in a hard-to-find place. She was also replacing the strewn contents of the drawers as she went, throwing away things like ancient prescriptions, odd socks, hose with runs. We had to walk a fine line here: returning things to order and neatness without interfering too much. We'd agreed to return Poppy's things to their hangers and boxes; her clothing and paraphernalia would have to be given away someday, but that wasn't up to us.

The top part of the closet was finally done, and I was hanging slacks when Melinda gave a sort of odd choking noise.

With some relief, I stepped out of the closet to check on her progress. My sister-in-law was standing by the bed, her eyes fixed on something she held in her hand. Her cheeks were flaming red.

"Melinda?"

She opened her mouth to speak, then shut it again. She shook her head violently.

"Melinda?" I reached around her to take the object from her hand.

It was a photograph. It actually took me a few seconds to comprehend what I was seeing. In this photograph, Poppy was giving someone a blow job. The picture had been taken from so close that you couldn't tell who the male was.

I can't describe what a shock it was to see a picture of someone I knew performing a sex act. In this floral suburban bedroom, the picture was even more obscene than it would have been if I'd chanced upon it in a magazine.

"I wonder who it is," I said once when I could speak. "I mean, possibly this is some loving record of her and John David?"

"Oh, it never is!" Melinda said. She was absolutely outraged. "The Queensland brothers, I know from Avery, are both un-circumcised. This... individual, as you can see, is not."

"At least she didn't keep it as blackmail." I was looking for reassurance. "I mean, you can't tell who it is, and the thing itself looks pretty anonymous, doesn't it? No big freckles, or, ah, anything unusual."

Melinda looked at the picture again, her lips pursed with distaste. "No, just a regular old wienie," she said.

We looked at each other and burst into laughter. "Look at it this way. You know it's not Avery," I said.

"And look at the hair. Couldn't be Robin," she pointed out.

True. Robin was redheaded all over, so to speak.

"I refuse to guess," I said after one final inspection. "But whoever it is, we agree that John David should not see this."

"Absolutely."

"Where was it?"

"It was taped to the bottom of this little drawer." Melinda pointed to Poppy's jewelry box, which was filled to overflowing with inexpensive necklaces and earrings. There was a pullout drawer at the bottom, so you could lay your chains inside and they wouldn't tangle. Melinda had pulled it all the way out and flipped it.

"Aren't you smart to think of that!" I said admiringly.

Melinda looked modest.

"Well, no telling how much else we'll find," I said, unable to suppress a sigh. "I guess we'd better get back to work."

The next find was mine. Taped into the lining of a spring coat Poppy had worn maybe twice a year was a letter. The letter was from the Reverend Wynn to Poppy. It was signed and dated. In the letter, he admitted he had had "relations" with Poppy when she was thirteen.

For a few minutes, Melinda and I could not even look at each other.

"Relations with a relation," Melinda said in an effort to pull us out of our nauseated reaction. She dropped that effort when it rang false. "Poor Poppy," she said sadly.

"No wonder she was so wild," I said. "No wonder she was so..."

"Promiscuous," Melinda supplied.

"Yeah."

"This is the nastiest thing I have ever read. I wonder why he wrote it?"

"I guess this was insurance," I said, having thought it over for a minute or two. "Maybe this was her way of keeping him away from her kids. Keeping him out of her life. She must have told him she'd tell his bishop, or whoever stands in place of a bishop in the Lutheran church." I made a mental note to check on that later.

"Do you think his wife knows about this?"

I started to deny that instantly. Then I reconsidered.

"She was searching," I admitted. I told Melinda about the gas station receipt. "She could have come here that morning and questioned Poppy about it."

"Then you'd have to assume she knows her husband did this to her daughter." Melinda brandished the letter. "If she does, how can she live with him?"

"This is a question I can't answer. Another one is, Would she have killed Poppy to conceal this? Bryan left a message for Arthur to call him back, so he could tell Arthur about the receipt. Maybe Arthur already knows."