At about three o’clock two women walked in. “Welcome to the Fig Leaf,” I said, then went back to refolding pajamas that had been messed up by someone’s toddler.

I could feel one of the women looking at me, just staring. She whispered something to her friend, who turned to look at me. I met their eyes and smiled. “Can I help you find anything?”

“No,” the first woman said. “We’re just trying to figure out where we’ve seen you. On TV maybe?”

I shot a look over my shoulder at Josie. Thankfully, she was behind the counter with a small line of people in front of her. I peered through the front window and saw Mayburn’s van, still parked across the street.

What to do? What to do?

I decided to go for the blatant lie. “Not me,” I said. “But I’ve heard there’s some woman who looks like me…” I trailed off and tried to keep my head down, staring at the table of pajamas with an intensity I usually reserved for court appearances.

“Yeah, that girl who killed the newscaster!” the woman said. “That’s who you look like!”

“Oh, you’re right,” her friend said. “Exactly!”

“She didn’t kill the newscaster,” I objected.

“I heard she did,” said the first women.

Another woman, wearing a spring sundress, came forward. “Are you talking about Jane Augustine’s murder?”

“Yeah.”

“Isabel McNeil,” the woman in the dress confirmed. “That’s the woman who they think did it.”

I froze. I started blushing. I could feel the pulse in my neck rat-a-tat-tat. “She did not do it.”

“She took over her job,” the woman said.

“And she’s the only one who was supposed to be with Jane Augustine that afternoon,” the first woman added.

“Jane was supposed to be with a friend,” I said. “Not m…” I started to say not me but I caught myself. Everyone looked at me funny.

Another glance over my shoulder. Josie was done ringing up the sales and was now headed toward us. I had to get out of this conversation. Fast.

“Ladies, we’ve got some great underwear on sale over there.” I pointed to the side of the store, then spun around and started walking. “Be right back,” I said to Josie. “Bathroom.” I patted my stomach vaguely and made a face as if to imply female difficulties or a tapeworm complication.

Josie frowned but gave me a quick nod.

I hurried to the back. As I passed the counter, I saw her keys. Right there by the register. I threw a look behind me and saw Josie was talking to the ladies. Was she talking about the redhead on TV who’d supposedly killed Jane Augustine? The one I looked like? Should I pull the plug now, run out the door to Mayburn’s van?

My eyes darted to the keys again. I thought of how much Mayburn had helped me over the last six months. Now it was my turn to help him again on one of his cases. If I could get in the metal box right now, Josie probably wouldn’t leave the front anytime soon. But if she saw me grabbing the keys, she’d lose it.

I veered toward the register and stopped behind it, pretending to move around the gift boxes. I looked at Josie and she gave me a What are you doing? frown, then glanced toward the back room as if to say, Are you going or not?

I nodded, smiled. “Be right back,” I mouthed. I started moving in the direction of the storeroom, but I kept my eyes on Josie, and as soon as she turned back to the women, I shot my arm out and snatched the keys.

By the time I got in the back room, I was shaking from anticipation. My eyes swung around wildly. Where was that step stool that Josie had used to reach the locked box? I dodged from room to room, searching for it, finally finding it in a closet.

I dragged the stool and placed it right under the box. Before I climbed up, I stuck my head out of the back room. Josie was still in front, but she was backing up as she talked to a customer, headed for the register, where she’d probably see that her keys were gone.

Go, I told myself. Now or never.

I climbed on to the step stool. The keys jingled as I tried to stick one, then another and another in the small slot in the metal box.

“Damn it,” I muttered. Why did Josie have so many freaking keys?

I held my breath for a second, listening for Josie’s approaching footsteps. But instead I heard the sound of the register ringing a sale.

I stared at the key ring. She had a monogrammed brass plate hanging from the ring and about nine keys. I studied them, looking for the smallest one, looking at the front plate of the metal box to see if any of them seemed to match. Maybe I should just grab the whole box and take off with it?

I pushed up on the box. It was heavier than I thought. And it was already bad enough I was trying to steal a single thong.

“C’mon,” I muttered, my hands trembling as I tried another key and another one.

The last key slid in and turned smoothly.

“I might have a 34B in the back,” I heard Josie say from the front of the store. She was talking loud, giving me a signal to get my ass back out there, I could tell. Was she heading here at the same time?

Hurry, Izzy.

I opened it and reached inside. I pulled out a few thong boxes, each of them gray, like the one I already had and the one I’d bought for Maggie. I shoved them back and rummaged around inside. This time I yanked out one of the black ones.

“Yes!” I whispered.

I locked the box, jumped down from the step stool and stashed the stool back in the closet.

“Just one moment,” I heard Josie saying in her First Lady voice, then the sound of her clicking heels coming closer and closer to the back room.

“Shit, shit, shit,” I muttered, not even trying for one of my swear replacements. She was steps away, and here I was with her keys and a black-boxed thong. My purse was in one of the other storerooms. I didn’t have time to reach it and stash the thong inside before she would be here.

I squeezed the box. It was thin. I managed to squash it into a V-shape. Now, where to put it? I looked down at myself. I was wearing straight-legged black pants and a black blouse. The pants were so fitted that the pockets were useless, but the blouse was loose and full. I stuck the rolled-up box between my breasts, anchored by my bra. Now what to do with the keys?

Josie was just outside. I could hear the angry clack of her shoes. Lacking anything else to do, I stuck the keys under one armpit and clamped down my arm, holding them there.

“What are you doing?” she hissed. Josie stood, a hand on her hip, a snarl on her face.

“I had to use the restroom. I’ll get back out there.”

I hustled toward her, pressing my arm down harder.

“Have you seen my keys?” Her eyes, narrowed and suspicious behind her silver-framed glasses, darted around the back room. I prayed that I had pushed the metal box back into place, just like it had been.

“They’re by the register, aren’t they? Let me look.” I scurried past her before she could say anything, rushed to the register and bent down, dropping the keys from underneath my arm. I stood back up. “Here they are!” I said.

A customer came to the register, and I rang up her purchases, trying to breathe, trying not to move too fast, trying to squeeze my breasts together to hold the thong box in place. Never had a greater pectoral exercise been performed.

Josie came up behind me. “Where were they?” she said when the customer was gone. She picked up the keys that I’d placed by the register.

“On the floor.”

“How would they have gotten on the floor?” Her tone was now cold, cool. It was much more nerve-racking than her irritated voice.

“I don’t know.” I peered through the front window again. The Midwest Gas truck was still there.

The customer left the store, and suddenly there was a lull. Josie and I were alone. I moved around the register, trying to act nonchalant, straightening some robes that had slipped from their hangers.