Sure enough, he was looking angry already. He stuck his hands in the pockets of his leather jacket and glanced around for something handy to kick. Finding nothing, he too began pacing. We shifted around the room as if we were sword fighters waiting for our opponent to give us an opening.

"Ask the chief if I can go in and look at those files at Dr. LeMay's," he suggested defiantly.

"It'll never happen." I knew Chandler: He would go only so far.

"Find whatever the murderer was wearing when he killed the doctor and the nurse and Meredith Osborn."

So Jack had decided, as I had, that the killer had worn some covering garment over his clothes.

"It's not gonna be in the house," I told him.

"You think not?"

"I know not. When people hide something like that, they want it to be close but not as personally close as their own house."

"You're thinking carport, garage?"

I nodded. "Or car. But you know as well as I do that'll put you in a terrible position legally. Before you do that, isn't there anything else you can try?"

"I'd hoped to get something from Dill. He's a nice guy, but he just won't talk about his first marriage. At least his attic has a good floored section now." Jack gave a short laugh. "I thought about going back to reinterview the couple that lived next door to Meredith and Emory when they had their first child," Jack said reluctantly. "I've been reviewing what they said, and I think I see a hole in their account."

"Where do they live?"

"The podunk town north of Little Rock where the Osborns lived before they came here. You know... the one not far from Conway."

"What was the hole?"

"Not so much a hole, as ... something the woman said just didn't make sense. She said that Meredith told her the baby coming was the saddest day of her life. And Meredith told her that the home birth had been terrible."

That could be significant or just plain nothing more than what it was, the outpourings of a woman who'd just experienced childbirth for the first time.

"She had the second baby in the hospital," I observed. "At least, I assume so; I think someone would have mentioned it before now if she'd had Jane J Lilith at home." But I made a mental note to check.

"Why would Meredith have to die?" Jack said. "Why Meredith?" He wasn't talking to me, not really. He was staring out the front window, his hands still in his pockets. Seen in profile, he looked stern and frightening. If I mentally lopped off his ponytail, I could see how he'd looked as a cop. I would not have been afraid of being beaten if I'd been arrested by him, I thought, but I would have known I'd be a fool to try to escape.

"She baby-sat the other two girls," I offered.

Jack nodded. "So she knew them all physically. She'd have an opportunity, sooner or later, to see each girl naked. But the Macklesby baby didn't have any distinguishing physical marks."

"So who do you think sent you the picture?"

"I think it was Meredith Osborn." He turned from the window to look at me directly. "I think she sent it because she wanted to right some great wrong. And I think that's why she was killed."

"What were you really doing the night she died?"

"I was on my way to ask her some questions," he said. "I'd driven past the Bartley Grill, and I saw her husband and the kids inside. The baby was on the table in one of those carriers, and he and Eve were chattering away. So I knew Meredith was home by herself, and I thought she might know more about the picture."

"Why?"

"Roy had brushed the picture and the envelope for fingerprints. There weren't any on the picture - it had been wiped - but there was one on the envelope, on the tape used to seal the flap. It was a clear print, very small. You'd told me how little Meredith was. Did you ever notice how tiny her hands were?"

I never had.

"I'd hoped to get some fingerprints of hers to compare. I planned on ringing the doorbell, telling her that I was a detective in town on a job as well as being your boyfriend. I was going to hand her a photo, ask her to identify it. When she said she didn't know the subject, I would put the photo in a bag and later test it for fingerprints."

If I were in the Osborn house I could find something I could almost bet would have her fingerprints on it. I could also check to see if Eve's memory book was missing a page.

"But I don't want you getting into this. You saw how she died," Jack said brutally. I looked up sharply. He was standing right in front of me.

"I can tell when you're going to do something; you get this stubborn clench to your jaw," he continued. "What's in your head, Lily?"

"Cleaning," I said.

"Cleaning what?"

"Cleaning the Osborn house, and the Kingery house."

He thought that over. "This isn't your case," he said.

"I want us out of here by Christmas."

"Me too," he said fervently.

"Well, then," I said, concluding our discussion.

"Did I just say something I didn't know I said?"

"We agree on getting this done by Christmas."

Jack gave me a dark look. "So, I'm driving out of here," he said abruptly. "I'll call you. Don't do anything that could put you in danger."

"Drive careful," I told him. He gave me an unloving peck on the cheek, another suspicious look, and, without further ado, he left. I watched through the uncurtained window as Jack fastened his seat belt and backed out of. the driveway.

Then I went over to the widower and offered to clean his house.

Chapter Six

Since Emory was so fine-boned and fair, the swollen red eyes made him look rabbity. Those eyes hardly seemed to register my identity. He was completely preoccupied, eaten up from the inside out.

"Ah, yes? What can I do for you?" he asked me, his voice coming from a great interior distance.

"I've come to clean your house."

"What?"

"That's what I do for a living, clean. This is what I can offer you in your time of trouble."

He was still bewildered. I was unhappy with myself, so it was more difficult to keep my impatience under wraps.

"My sister..." he faltered. "She'll be coming tomorrow."

"Then you need the house clean for her arrival."

He stared some more. I stared right back. Behind him, down a dark hall, I saw Eve creep out of an open doorway. She looked like a little ghost of herself.

"Miss Lily," she said. "Thanks for coming."

It was what she'd heard her father say to callers all day, and her attempt to be adult gave my heart a little pang. I also wondered what Eve was doing at home, when I'd thought she was with the O'Sheas.

Emory finally stood aside so I could enter, but he still seemed uncertain. I glanced at my watch, letting him know how valuable I thought my time was, and that shook him from his lethargy.

"This is so kind of you, Miss ... Bard," he said. "Is there anything we need to ... ?"

"I expect Eve can show me where things are." I am no grief counselor. I don't know squat about children. But it's always better to be busy.

"That would be good," Emory said vaguely. "So I'll..." and he just wandered off. "Oh, Eve," he said over his shoulder, "remember your company manners. Stay with Miss Bard."

Eve looked a little resentful, but she replied, "Yes, Daddy."

The girl and I looked at each other carefully. "Where's the baby?" I asked.

"She's at the O'Sheas' house. I was there for a while, too, but Daddy said I needed to come home."

"All right, then. Where is the kitchen?"

Her lips curved in an incredulous smile. Surely everyone knew where the kitchen was! But Eve was polite, and she guided me to the back of the house and to the right.

"Where's all the cleaning stuff?" I asked. I set my purse down on the kitchen counter, shrugged off my coat, and hung it on one of the kitchen chairs.

Eve opened a cupboard in the adjacent washroom. I could see that the laundry basket was full of clothes.

"Maybe you better show me the house before I start."

So the little girl showed me her home. It was a large older house, with high ceilings and dark hardwood paneling and floors that needed work. I noticed the register of a floor furnace. I hadn't seen one of those in years. A Christmas tree decorated with religious symbols stood in the living room, the family's only communal room. The sofa, coffee table, and chair combo was maple with upholstery of a muted brown plaid. Clean but hideous.

Emory was slumped in the chair, his hand wrapped around a cold mug that had held coffee. I knew it was cold because I could see the ring around the middle. He'd had a drink after it had been sitting a spell. He didn't acknowledge our passage through the room. I wondered if I'd have to dust him like a piece of furniture.

The master bedroom was tidy, but the furniture needed polishing. Eve's room ... well, her bed had been made haphazardly, but the floor was littered with Barbies and coloring books. The baby's room was neatest, since the baby couldn't walk yet. The diaper pail needed emptying. The bathroom needed a complete scrubbing. The kitchen was not too bad.

"Where are the sheets?" I asked.

Eve said, "Mama's are in there." She pointed to the double closet in the master bedroom.

I stripped down the double bed, carried the dirty sheets to the washroom, started a load of wash. Back in the bedroom, I opened the closet door.

"There's Mama's stool," Eve said helpfully. "She always needs it to get things down from the closet shelf."

I was at least six inches taller than Meredith Osborn had been, and I could easily reach the shelf. But if I wanted to look at what was behind the sheets, the stool would be handy.

I stepped up, lifted the set of sheets, and scanned the contents of the closet shelf. Another blanket for the bed, a box marked "Shoe Polish," a cheap metal box for files and important papers. Then, under a pile of purses, I spotted a box marked "Eve." After I'd snapped the clean sheets on the bed, I sent Eve out of the room to fetch a dustcloth and the furniture polish.

I lifted down the box and opened it. I had to clench my teeth to make myself examine its contents. My sense of invasion was overwhelming.

In the box were faded "Welcome, Baby" cards, the kind family and friends send a couple when they have a child. I quickly riffled through them. They were only what they seemed. Also in the box was a little rattle and a baby outfit. It was soft knit, yellow, with little green giraffes scattered over it, the usual snap crotch and long sleeves. It had been folded carefully. Eve's coming home from the hospital outfit, maybe. But Eve had been born at home, I remembered. Well, then, Meredith's favorite of all Eve's baby clothes. My mother had some of mine and Varena's still packed away in our attic.

I closed the box and popped it back into position. By the time Eve returned, I had the flowered bedspread smoothed flat and taut across the bed and the blanket folded at the foot.

Together, we polished and dusted. Eve naturally didn't do things the most efficient way, since she was a grieving eight-year-old child. I am rigid about the way I like housework done and not used to working with anyone, but I managed it.

I'd had a pang of worry about Eve handling her mother's belongings, but Eve seemed to do that so matter-of-factly that I wondered if she didn't yet comprehend that her mother would not be returning.

In the course of cleaning that room I made sure I examined every nook and cranny. Short of going through the chest of drawers and the drawers in the night tables, I saw what there was to see in that bedroom: under the bed, the corners of the closet, the backs and bottoms of almost every single piece of furniture. Later, when I began to put the laundry away, I even caught glimpses of what was in the drawers. Just the usual stuff, as far as I could tell.

One drawer of the little desk in the corner was stacked with medical bills related to Meredith's pregnancy. At a glance, it had been a difficult one. I hoped the furniture store had a group policy.

"Shake the can, Eve," I reminded her, and she shook the yellow aerosol can of furniture polish. "Now, spray."

She carefully sent a stream of polish onto the bare top of the desk. I swabbed with a cloth, over and over, then put the letter rack, mug full of pens and pencils, and box containing stamps and return address labels back in their former positions. When Eve excused herself to use the bathroom, I gritted my teeth and did something that disgusted me: I picked up Meredith Osborn's hairbrush, which could reasonably be assumed to have her fingerprints on it, wrapped it in a discarded plastic cleaner's bag, and stepped through to the kitchen and shoved it in my purse.

I was back in the Osborns' bedroom, tamping the stack of papers so the edges were square and neat, when Eve came back.

"Those are Mama's bills," she said importantly. "We always pay our bills."

"Of course." I gathered the cleaning things and handed some of them to Eve. "We've finished here."

As we began to work on Eve's room, I could tell that the little girl was getting bored, after the novelty of helping me work wore thin.

"Where'd you eat last night?" I asked casually.

"We went to the restaurant," she said. "I got a milkshake. Jane slept the whole time. It was great."

"Your dad was with you," I observed.

"Yeah, he wanted to give Mama a night off," Eve said approvingly. Then the ending of that night off hit her in the face, and I saw her pleasure in the little memory of the milkshake crumple. I could not ask her any more questions about last night.