“A good friend of mine used to work in this department,” I said. “Her name was Judy Catcher. Did you know her?”

The girl gasped and stopped what she was doing. She raised her head and gave me a look that teetered between shock and sorrow. “Judy? You were a friend of Judy’s?”

“Yes, that’s right,” I said. “We used to live in the same neighborhood.” I felt bad about lying to this perfectly nice and innocent-looking person, but I was, after all, working on a murder story, and I knew from past experience that the fewer people who knew my true identity and occupation, the better off (i.e., safer) I would be.

“But you do know she’s dead, don’t you?” the girl inquired. Her hoarse voice crackled with deep concern. “It was in the papers and everything.”

“Yes, don’t worry. I know all about it… I’m not going to start crying and cause a scene or anything.”

The girl relaxed somewhat, and as she did, her own eyes-her incredibly large and luminous green eyes-welled up with tears. One drop fell out and landed on the tissue paper with a crinkly splat.

There were lots of customers at the lingerie counter now-impatient, irritable shoppers scrambling to make their last-minute purchases before closing time. A surprising number of them were men. They looked embarrassed and uncomfortable, but utterly determined to get what they came for. I hadn’t realized that sexy underwear was such a must-have Christmas item. That seemed a little bizarre to me. (Unless, of course, the customers were all acquaintances of Abby’s.)

“Are you okay?” I said to the grieving salesgirl. “I’m so sorry I upset you. Do you think we could go someplace private for a minute or two?”

“I can’t leave my station. My supervisor would kill me.” She took a handkerchief out of her skirt pocket and dabbed her eyes dry. “Come,” she said, picking up her sales book and Abby’s present and glancing nervously in all directions, “let’s go around the corner to the other side of the counter. It won’t be so crowded back there.”

She was right. The area around the corner-the girdle section-was practically deserted. I guess girdles haven’t yet made the stretch from secret stomach-cinchers to public stocking-stuffers.

“We can talk here,” the girl said, “but I’ll have to pretend that I’m showing you some merchandise in case my supervisor comes around.”

“Fine,” I said. “Show me anything you want.” To enhance my image as a serious shopper, I put my purse down on the counter and took out my checkbook. Then, when the girl bent over to get a stack of girdles out of the stock drawer, I unzipped the side pocket of my purse and took out the picture of Judy-the one that was taken in front of Walgreen’s, with the bearded weirdo and the weenie dog. I slipped the photo under my checkbook just as the salesgirl’s fluffy red head and despondent freckled face popped up above the counter again.

After she put her armful of girdles down on top of the display case, I reached over and touched her hand. “My name’s Phoebe Starr,” I told her, resurrecting the trusty pseudonym I’d used throughout the Comstock case. “What’s yours?”

“Vicki,” she said. “Vicki Lee Bumstead.” I smiled but I didn’t say a word. Far be it from me to point out the whimsy of other people’s funny names. Besides, Vicki’s name wasn’t funny in and of itself like mine. Only her surname was comical, and only because Dagwood (or, more precisely, the cartoonist Chic Young) had made it that way.

“I’m really sorry I made you cry, Vicki,” I said. “Were you a friend of Judy’s, too?”

“Yes,” she said, leaning against the counter and nodding so vigorously I thought she might shake something loose. “Judy was my best friend. The best friend I ever had. We worked here together, five days and two nights a week, for over a year. I miss her so much I can’t stand it.” She hugged her arms in close to her chest as though protecting herself from the cold. I felt so sorry for the girl I wanted to hug her myself.

“I know exactly how you feel,” I exclaimed. (You probably think I was lying, but I wasn’t.) “She was gone so suddenly, and so violently, it’s… well, it’s just so hard to accept… and impossible to understand.” I fought to keep myself from falling into my own deep well of loss and misery.

Vicki pulled herself together, too. “Phoebe Starr… Phoebe Starr… Phoebe Starr,” she suddenly repeated, cocking her head and narrowing her eyes, looking at me as if seeing me for the very first time. “Were you and Judy very close?” A visible seed of suspicion had taken root in the loamy depths of her mind. ”I’m only asking because Judy never mentioned your name to me-not even once. And it’s kind of funny that she never told me about you, because she always told me everything.”

“Well, to tell you the truth, Judy and I weren’t that close,” I blurted, trying to sidestep Vicki’s abrupt scrutiny. “It was my Aunt Elsie she was really close with. They lived right across the hall from each other.” For a person who truly hates to lie, I sure am good at it.

“Elsie Londergan is your aunt?” Vicki’s eyes were softening now, returning to their normally bulbous and luminous state. “Judy talked about her all the time. She loved her so much! She said Elsie was the mother she had always wished for.”

“My aunt feels the same way-as though she’s lost her only daughter.”

“Uh-oh!” Vicki said, suddenly shifting her gaze from my face to a point in the distance behind me. “My crabby supervisor’s headed this way. Act like you’re looking at the girdles.” She slid the stack of foundation garments under my nose and held the top one up for my inspection. “This is one of our bestselling models,” she said, raising her throaty voice to a loud, conspicuous frequency. “It features cotton elastic gores, a perforated rubber waist cinch, coiled wire boning, front clasps, back laces, and six adjustable garters.”

What, no thumbscrews?

“Very nice,” I said, pretending interest. “Does it come in black?”

“Yes, I think so. Let me check.” Vicki dropped down behind the counter again and began a bogus search through the lowest stock drawers. “Keep an eye on my supervisor,” she whispered up to me, “and let me know when she’s gone.”

I turned around and surveyed the area behind me, trying to pick out Vicki’s boss-which was a pretty easy task since there were only two women walking through the department, and only one of them was coatless. She looked like the Wicked Witch of the West, and she was headed straight for the girdle counter. Before she got there, however, she made a sudden sharp turn and marched off toward the hosiery section, disappearing behind the band of Christmas carolers, who were now strolling down the crowded aisle, singing “Silent Night” at the top of their everloving lungs.

“Pssssst, Vicki. It’s safe to come up now.”

Vicki rose to her feet and looked around. “She’s gone?” “Long gone,” I said, sighing, hoping to ease the girl’s anxiety and get on with my investigation. “As I was saying…”

“Yes, I heard what you were saying,” Vicki whimpered. “Your aunt feels like she’s lost her only daughter. How horrible for her! Please tell her how sorry I am.” She looked as though she might start crying again.

“But that’s not all my aunt feels,” I went on, staring deep into Vicki’s big green eyes and using my most serious tone. “She feels certain that Judy’s murder was premeditated-that she was killed by somebody she knew.”

Vicki’s eyeballs virtually sprang out of their sockets. “But the paper said she was shot during a…”

“… burglary,” I said, finishing her sentence for her. “That’s what the police decided-and that’s the story they’re sticking to. But Aunt Elsie doesn’t agree with them at all. She’s convinced that Judy’s murder was committed intentionally. ”

“Oh, my God!” Vicki cried. “How could that be? Who would want to kill Judy?”