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“So you’ve spoken to your father.”

“Yeah, twice. Yesterday, when I called to tell him I couldn’t get home because the buses weren’t running, and again this morning, when I called to find out how he was doing and if the cops were still there.”

“See? I told you they’d be looking for you,” I said. “Thank God for the snowstorm! If your bus had left on schedule, you’d be in jail right now-and you wouldn’t be getting out until you turned the diamonds over to the police…” I had a disturbing afterthought, and added, “… which means you would have had to turn me over to them, too.”

Oh, lordy, lordy, lordy! I shrieked to myself, heaving my breast and rolling my eyes like Hattie McDaniel. Why hadn’t I foreseen this possible consequence before? Was I a selfless and fearless defender of truth and justice-or just a stupid fool? (Don’t answer that!) When I thought how furious Dan would have been to learn about my willing (not to mention illegal) participation, I almost wet my pants.

“Hey, what are you two gabbing about?” Abby broke in, finally waking from her diamond-studded daydreams. By this point, all of Judy’s jewelry-the necklace, the earrings, the pin, and both bracelets-was draped, or screwed, or clipped to Abby’s body in the customary places. She looked like a goddamn chandelier. “Am I missing anything?” she asked.

“Just a tiara,” I snapped. “But if we ever find Smythe, maybe he’ll buy you one.”

“That’s not what I meant!” Abby squawked, giving me a dirty look. “I was talking about your conversation with Whitey, and you know it!”

“Oh, that!” I teased, smiling, glad that Abby had returned (sort of) to the realm of reality-and that I hadn’t been thrown in jail (yet!) for tampering with evidence. “We were just discussing whether or not it’s too dangerous for Terry to go to the Diamond Exchange today. One or more of the detectives involved in Judy’s homicide investigation may be casing the joint, looking for him.”

“Why would they be doing that?” she wanted to know.

Terry explained the situation to her, and she grasped it quickly. She even came up with a possible solution to the problem.

“You can wear a disguise!” she whooped, getting excited by her own idea. “Something that will hide your white hair and help you meld into the crowd.” She wrinkled her brow in thought for a few seconds, and then the light bulb over her head flashed about a thousand watts brighter. “I’ve got it!” she cried. “The perfect camouflage, you dig? And I think we have everything we need to put the getup together. Hey bobba ree bop! C’mon, Whitey, let’s go across the hall. I’ll round up the stuff and you can try it on. You wait here, Paige. When we’re all finished, we’ll come over and you can be the judge of the results.”

You could tell from Terry’s forlorn expression he wasn’t too fond of the disguise idea, but before he could utter a single word of protest, Abby grabbed him by the hand and tugged him back across the hall, into her own apartment. I stood at my open door and watched as she pulled him across the room, then led him up the stairs to the second floor.

I knew where she was taking him. And it wasn’t to her bedroom, believe it or not. It was to the tiny spare bedroom-the little cubicle she called her Vault of Illusions-the room where she kept all the costumes and props for her paintings. It was just a big closet, really, full of all different kinds of clothes and hats and shoes and wigs, plus a large assortment of oddball items-things like swords and beach blankets and pitchforks and peacock feathers-anything she felt might help her set the scene for one of her colorful magazine illustrations. In order to keep her Vault of Illusions well-stocked, Abby collected castoffs from all her relatives and friends, and made regular appearances at all the local rummage sales.

I wondered what kind of outfit she would rummage up for Terry. And I hoped, for his sake, it would be warmer-not to mention more concealing-than a purple loincloth.

AS SOON AS THEY WERE GONE, I TOOK MY baby blue Royal portable down from the coat closet shelf and set it up on the kitchen table. Then I ran upstairs to m y spare bedroom (the unfurnished nook I planned to turn into an office if I could ever save up enough money to buy a desk) and grabbed a package of typing paper from the small stack of office supplies I kept stashed on the floor in the corner. Then I raced back down the stairs, slapped the package of paper down on the kitchen table, and sat myself down at the typewriter.

I couldn’t put it off one minute longer. I had to start making notes for my story (I mean Judy’s story), and I had to do it now, while I had the time. This was probably the last workday I’d be taking off for another whole century at least. More importantly, I knew if I didn’t write down all the details soon (i.e., immediately), they’d begin disappearing from my flimsy memory like snowflakes landing on the hood of an overheated car. And, as every true crime or mystery writer knows, too many forgotten details can result in a totally forgettable story. Or a clean forgotten crime.

I rolled a sheet of paper into my loyal Royal and began typing like a lunatic, recording every word, fact, clue, conjecture, and impression I could remember, beginning with Terry’s initial phone call to me at the office. I paid no attention to spelling, grammar, or punctuation. All I cared about was getting all the data down on paper, where it would be preserved for future reference.

I don’t know how long Abby and Terry were gone-or how long I sat there, typing my fingers to the bone. All I know is I had just finished documenting last night’s phone call to Vicki, thereby completing my eighteenth page of notes, when Abby came barging back into my apartment.

“Shut your peepers,” she said, all aflutter, “and don’t open them till I tell you to.” She was so excited I thought she might pop.

“Okay,” I said, putting my notes aside and covering my eyes with my hands, feeling like a five-year-old.

I heard some whispering and rustling in the vicinity of my front door. Then Abby giggled, and Terry groaned, and Abby bellowed “Open sesame!” in a voice that belonged under the big top.

I uncovered my eyes and took a peek. And then I flat out shrieked in amazement. Standing before me-in a long black overcoat, a black fedora, a pair of black pants, a white shirt, and a long brown beard with long brown side-curls-was a tall, dark, and handsome Hasidic Jew.

For those not familiar with the species, a Hasidic Jew was a man or a woman who belonged to a certain ultra-Orthodox sect of Jewish mystics that was founded in Eastern Europe in the eighteenth century, and was still going strong today-in America, among other places-in 1954. Many of them lived in Brooklyn. Every Hasidic male wore a black overcoat and a black fedora. They all had beards and payos-the unshorn ear ringlets which, according to Abby, were the outgrowth of an ancient law forbidding the shaving of the temples.

More to the point (well, to my and Abby’s and Terry’s point, at any rate), was the fact that hordes of Hasidic Jews were gem traders by profession and, therefore, worked on West Forty-seventh Street in Manhattan, at-you guessed it-the Diamond Exchange. So many Hasidim worked there, in fact, that the street was jokingly called the Rue de la Payos. Terry would blend in perfectly-like just another pickle in the pickle barrel.

“It’s wonderful!” I cried, standing up to make a closer inspection. “It’s the ideal disguise! The hat hides his white hair and the payoshide his white sideburns.” I gave Abby an admiring look. “They look so real. How did you make them?”

“I cut a few tendrils off a curly brown wig and glued them to the inside of the hat.” She was radiant with pride.