We began a little pile.

I had to rethink Poppy's character as I worked and searched.

My sister-in-law had shown me only the tip of the iceberg, as far as letting me know her true self. I had to realize that I had seen the better, but less complex, portion of Poppy's personality. Beneath had lain monsters.

We were determined to find everything. It was not conceivable that we would let anything slip by us, to fall into the hands of a stranger, or, worse yet, someone who knew Poppy. Sooner or later, John David would give away Poppy's things to some local charity or to a friend. Or he'd search himself. He mustn't see these—what? Souvenirs? Insurance policies? Totems?

Bubba Sewell would definitely never make representative, I decided when I found the picture of him buck naked on Poppy's—and John David's—bed. He was real excited, and hardly looked like a lawmaker. In a beige photo album, that picture was slid in behind a snap of Poppy and John David on vacation in Florida. Definitely done in an "Up yours, John David" moment.

"Idiot," I muttered, and tossed it on the pile.

"Who's that?" Melinda looked up from her examination of Poppy's lingerie drawer.

"Cartland Sewell."

Melinda shook her head in disgust, not even bothering to look at the picture. She continued with her search, and made the next discovery. She found an ID tag stuck in a rectangular Playtex box with a new bra—the kind of tag you clip to your lapel. The picture on it was of a bearded, thin man, who just happened to be Cara Embler's heart surgeon husband. It was his hospital identification.

"I guess Stuart got it replaced," Melinda said. "Her backdoor neighbor! Poppy had never heard about not fouling your own nest, I guess."

"He's one of John's doctors," I said.

"Daddy John?" This was Melinda's pet name for John Queensland.

I nodded.

She sighed, a huge exhalation of exasperation. "I'm sorry, heart surgeons don't get sex lives," she said. "Not with the daughters-in-law of their patients."

"Who knows which came first, though, the heart attack or the affair? If you can term it an affair, that is. Maybe it was just a—you know."

"Just a fling," Melinda said.

That hadn't been the word I was thinking of, but... Oh well.

"That's right, we can't know." This actually made her feel better.

"What I'm wondering is, What're we missing. If we're finding this much, what did the other searchers find? Can there be stuff that's worse?" We stared at each other, sunk in gloom.

And we heard a door open downstairs.

I don't know how I looked, but Melinda's dark eyes grew as wide and dark as tablespoons full of molasses.

"Who's there?" called a deep male voice, and we could hear heavy footsteps as someone began ascending the stairs. "Aurora, are you all right? I saw your car."

Melinda and I stared at the little pile, and, obeying an irresistible impulse, I sat on it.

We were perched side by side on the bed, looking guilty as hell, when Detective Arthur Smith came into the bedroom.

"What are you two doing?" he asked gently. He could tell he'd given us a scare.

"It's okay for us to be here, right?" Melinda voice was high and squeaky.

"Yes, we told John David he could come back to the house anytime he wanted. But what are you doing?"

"We're cleaning up," I said, all too aware that I sounded just as nervous as my partner in crime. "Have you talked to Bryan Pascoe?" I wanted to change the subject.

"And you started with the study downstairs?" Arthur asked, ignoring my question. "Surely it didn't look like that the other day?"

Arthur was far too observant. "No, no, it didn't," I gabbled. "The fact is ..." I looked at Melinda, desperately needing some help.

"The fact is," Melinda said, glaring at me, "that Roe caught Poppy's mom and dad going through everything Wednesday night, and she threw them out. So we had to clean up the study first."

I hadn't expected Melinda to tell the truth, and I'm sure my startled face told Arthur more than I wanted him to know.

He pulled over a chair that Poppy had placed in the corner of the room, a pretty little wooden chair with a bright needlepoint cushion, more of Poppy's work. I hadn't noticed it before, at least in the sense of imagining its possibilities, and I found myself planning to check out the cushion later.

Arthur plunked himself down in front of us, looking up at us as we perched awkwardly on the high antique bed. My legs were sticking out at an odd angle, and Melinda's feet were just barely touching the floor.

"What explanation did they give?" he asked. His voice was reasonable, but his expression wasn't. "And why didn't you call me?"

"I wasn't there," Melinda said, maybe a little too quickly. Coward! "Sorry," she muttered to me. "Can't help it."

"I came by with Bryan Pascoe," I said. "We made them leave, but they sure weren't about to tell us why they were here."

"What do you think they were looking for?" Arthur asked.

Suddenly, I realized that Arthur had just come in the house without either of us admitting him. But we'd locked the door behind us. Would the police get to keep a key? Surely not, after the house had been re-opened to the family.

Arthur had a key. Though their affair was long over, he had a key, too.

For a brilliant red flash of a moment, I hated Poppy with all my heart. I looked at Arthur and wondered if I ought to fear him. Over the years, I had felt many things for Arthur: love, passion, anger, grief, annoyance, outrage, exasperation. But I had never thought I'd be frightened of him.

The tense silence stretched out unbearably.

"Roe—and you, too, Melinda—I did not kill Poppy. I was crazy about her, and she was about me, but it didn't last. I never said anything to the chief, because I want to catch whoever killed her. I want to catch him myself. This is the last thing I can do for Poppy. I want to do it right."

I looked at him doubtfully, but Melinda was convinced. She turned to me. "I think we should," she said quietly.

"No," I told her emphatically. The news would spread everywhere. John would be hurt by this knowledge; John David would be even more wounded. Sooner or later, the little bit of mortality that was Chase would know about it.

"We have to," Melinda said, just to me.

I gave her a very dark look and eased off the bed. She took up the letter and handed it to Arthur. He put on a pair of reading glasses that he'd pulled from his breast pocket. As he read, we both watched him carefully. While he was busy, I slipped the two pictures into my pocket. Melinda watched me and gave a tiny nod. Arthur would probably burst a blood vessel if he saw them. As it was, disgust twisted his lips as he read the words scrawled on the paper.

"Even her father," he muttered.

"That wasn't her fault," Melinda said, instantly indignant. "For God's sake, she was thirteen!"

Arthur gathered himself, glancing up at us, then back to the sprawling handwriting. I couldn't read him, had no idea what he was thinking. He folded the paper and put it in his pocket.

"There was something about her," he said.

Melinda looked at me in consternation. Though she'd known about Arthur and Poppy, this sudden wistful admission from the cop in charge of the investigation threw her completely.

"Listen, Arthur," I said as gently as I could. "Maybe someone else should be in charge of this case. What about that Cathy Trumble? She seemed real able."

"She didn't know Poppy like I did," Arthur said. "I know the chief would take me off the case if he knew I'd been involved with Poppy, but I'm the best investigator on the force, and I have to find out who did this to her. She was the most exciting, the most wonderful... I never dreamed anyone could be as wonderful as you were, Roe, but Poppy was something extraordinary."