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in danger of bursting. Then she began looking for something to clean the floor with.
    Just inside the closet, disappointingly empty of long-secreted treasures, she found a broom, a pail, and amop. Opening the window a crack in hope of freshening the stale air, June began sweeping the dust into a pile.
    She was nearly halfway across the floor when the broom suddenly dragged against something. She poked at the caked dirt. When it didn’t break up, she stopped to look at it more closely.
    It was a stain of some sort that covered a couple of square feet of the floor. Whatever had been spilled there had apparently been left to dry on its own, and, as it dried, dust had settled on it, worked its way in until now the mess lay, perhaps a quarter of an inch thick, impervious to the broom.
    June stood up and reached for the mop, wondering what the chances were of finding the old plumbing still in working order. But before she had a chance to experiment, Cal and Michelle appeared in the doorway.
    Cal gazed around the potting-shed and shook his head. “I thought you were just going to look around and make some plans.”
    “I couldn’t resist,” June said ruefully. “It’s such a pretty room, and it was such a mess. I think I feel sorry for it.”
    Michelle stared around the cluttered room, and her arms involuntarily hugged her body as if she had been seized by a sudden chill. Still standing by the door, an expression of distaste on her face, she spoke. “This place is creepy—what did they use it for?”
    “It’s a potting-shed,” her mother explained. “The gardener’s headquarters, where he kept all his tools, and raised seedlings, and that sort of thing.” She paused for a moment, as if thinking something over,then went on. “But I have the strangest feeling they used this for something else, too.”
    Cal’s brow arched. “Playing detective?”
    “Not really,” June replied. “But look at it. The floor’s solid oak. And those cabinets! Who would build something like this just for the gardener?”
    “Until about fifty years ago, a lot of people would have,” Cal said, chuckling. “They used to build things to last, remember?”
    June shook her head. “I don’t know. It just seems too nice to be a potting-shed. There must have been something more to it …”
    “What’s that?” Michelle asked. She was pointing to the stain that June had been working on when they came in.
    “I wish I knew. I think someone must have spilled some paint. I was just going to try to mop it up.”
    Michelle went over to the stain and knelt beside it, examining it carefully. She started to reach out and touch it, but suddenly drew her hand away.
    “It looks like blood,” she said. She stood up and faced her parents. “I’ll bet somebody got murdered in here.”
    “Murdered?” June gasped. “What on earth would put such a morbid thought into your head?”
    Michelle ignored her mother and appealed to her father instead. “Look at it, Daddy. Doesn’t it look like blood?”
    A small smile playing around his mouth, Cal joined Michelle and examined the stain even more carefully than she had. When he stood up, his face was serious. “Definitely blood,” he said solemnly. “No question about it.” Then his smile got the best of him. “Of course, it could be paint, or some kind of clay, or Godknows what. But if it’s blood you want, I’ll go along with it.”
    “That’s disgusting,” June said, wanting to dismiss the idea. “It’s a beautiful room, and it’s going to make a wonderful studio, and please don’t try to tell me horrible things happened in here. I won’t believe it!”
    Michelle shrugged, glanced around once more, and shook her head. “Well, you can have this place—I hate it.” She made a move toward the door. “Is it all right if I go down to the beach?”
    “What time is it?” June asked doubtfully.
    “Still plenty of time before dark,” Cal assured her. “But be careful, princess. I don’t