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.
“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.