It was time for me to make my move. While Lenny was standing there, blushing, too self-conscious to make eye contact, I stepped up close to him and sprang a surprise smooch attack of my own, landing a loud and loving smack on his ever-so-rosy cheek. “Happy Hanukkah!” I yelped, and before he could curb his embarrassment enough to reply, I zipped through the door and ran down the hall, shopping bag clutched to my chest like… well, like a shopping bag. (I saw no reason to leave the leftover cake and cookies for the office mice. And though it would have been a kind gesture to give the surplus bourbon to the building’s booze-loving custodian, I was convinced I needed it much more than he did.)

Look, I know it wasn’t very nice of me to run out on Lenny the way I did, absconding like a thief with his equanimity and presence of mind (as well as the bag full of goodies). But I was running for my life, you know. I was fixed on finding a killer who now seemed to be fixed on killing me, and the race was on.

EVERY SURFACE IN TIFFANY’S WAS SPARKLING. The green marbled walls were gleaming, the long glass showcases were shining, the salesmen’s faces were glowing, and the diamonds were so dazzling that the eyes of every customer danced with darts of light reflected from their keen, glistening facets. The showroom’s high ceiling was strung with thousands of twinkling white lights and fragrant boughs of pine, producing the euphoric sensation that you were standing beneath a towering tree, looking up through its branches at the stars. No music was playing, but if there had been, it would have been the Hallelujah Chorus.

The aisles between the illuminated glass showcases were so crowded you could barely walk, but I bravely snaked my way along, snatching an occasional glimpse of a bright, black-velvet-backed display. A batch of diamond chokers here, a slew of emerald earrings there, a stretch of sapphire bracelets just ahead. One showcase was devoted entirely to pearls, another to solid gold cigarette cases. I kept walking until I came to the silver section, and then I kept on walking till I reached the lowliest showcase on the aisle-where the more plebeian items were displayed. Items peasants like me might actually be able to afford.

Working my way over to that counter, I peered down through the glass-topped case at the various silver sundries perched on the upper shelf. Some of the things were nice enough-elegant and utilitarian. The silver cigarette lighters were pretty nifty, for example. Likewise, the pen and pencil sets. The silver baby spoons were kind of sweet, and the key rings were okay, I guess. But some of the other stuff I saw was downright ridiculous. I mean, who needs a silver telephone dialer? Molded in the shape of a finger, no less! And if you show me a woman whose life won’t be complete until she has a silver eyebrow tweezer, I’ll show you a blooming idiot. And the sterling silver toothpicks? I can’t even bear to mention them.

The silver cigarette lighters, however (and as I said before), were pretty nifty.

“How much do these cost?” I asked the salesman, pointing out the most modest (and to my mind, sleekest) line of lighters.

“They’re all in the twenty to twenty-five dollar range,” he told me.

“Really?” I said, getting excited. I could buy one of these lighters for Dan, I figured, and still have twenty-five dollars of my bonus left over to send to Elijah Peeps. Twenty-five dollars for the new love of my life, and twenty-five dollars for the man who had saved my life. There was something poetic about that emotional equation.

“I want that one,” I said, indicating the simplest lighter of all, the one that was shaped just like a classic Zippo, with a satin finish so smooth it was eloquent. “Can I have it engraved? Does that cost extra?” I was so happy to have found Dan’s Christmas present, I had forgotten that I didn’t have the cash to pay for it.

“You may have it engraved at no extra cost-but not before Christmas,” the long-faced middle-aged salesman replied. “The store closes in twenty minutes and won’t reopen until Monday, the day after Christmas. You may, however, bring the lighter and your receipt back to the store later, if you wish-after the twenty-fifth-and we’ll do the engraving for you then.”

“You’ve got a deal,” I said, “providing I can pay by check.”

“If you have proper identification, Tiffany’s will be happy to accept your check.”

They wouldn’t be so happy if they knew I have less than two dollars in my account.

“Great!” I said, whipping out my driver’s license, social security card, and checkbook. Since all the banks were closed until Monday, I wasn’t worried that my check would bounce. I knew I’d be covering it first thing Monday morning, when I deposited my bonus. “How much should I make this out for?” I asked.

The sad-faced salesman consulted the hidden price tag and added on the tax. “That’ll be $23.48,” he said, punctuating his statement with a condescending sniff.

I made out the check and handed it over to him. He slipped the lighter into a little blue velvet pouch, then into a Tiffany’s gift box, then into a Tiffany’s shopping bag, which he then handed over to me.

“Thank you,” I said, smiling. Then I leaned over the counter and added, in a conspiratorial tone, “And now I have a very important, very confidential matter to discuss with the manager. Is he on the floor now? Will you point him out to me please?”

“This is not the best time, Miss… Mr. Woodbury is here, but he’s sure to be overseeing the closing of the store for the holiday weekend. He’ll be much too busy to talk to you now.”

“Too busy to talk about forty thousand dollars worth of diamonds?”

“That’s him right over there,” the salesman said, nodding toward the tall, portly, red-haired man standing off to the side of the showroom-away from the now-thinning crowd. He looked to be about forty and he was wearing a sedate but stylish dark gray suit. A white linen handkerchief peeped to a perfect peak from his breast pocket.

I sauntered over to him-shoulders back, head held high, Tiffany bag positioned in front of the other shopping bag I was carrying. I was trying to look rich and respectable. (Stop laughing!) “Mr. Woodbury,” I said, “may I speak with you for a minute?”

He looked down at his watch, and then raised his watery blue eyes to look at me. “Yes, but just for one minute. It’s almost closing time.” His hair was the color of carrots.

“Can we go to your office or someplace private?”

“Sorry, but I have to keep an eye on things out here.” As if to prove his words, he stared right past me, watching the last of the last-minute shoppers complete their purchases and begin leaving the store.

It was clear that Mr. Woodbury would invite me to leave soon, too. “I just want to ask you about the diamond jewelry I recently inherited from my dear departed aunt,” I blurted, speaking as fast as I could and trying to capture his interest. “There are several beautiful pieces and they were all created by Tiffany in the early thirties. There’s a necklace, a pair of earrings, a pin, and two bracelets. And I was hoping you could tell me what they’re worth.”

I had his full attention now. His watery blue eyes were gawking at my face and they had grown as big as coat buttons. “What a coincidence!” he declared. “You’re the second person today who’s asked me about jewelry from the early thirties. And if I didn’t know better, I’d think you were both talking about the very same collection.”

Now I was the one who was gawking.

“What?! Who?!” I spluttered, so dumbfounded I couldn’t form a complete sentence. My mind was reeling with questions for Mr. Woodbury, but I couldn’t get them out of my mouth. Who was it who spoke to you? Was it over the phone or here in the store? Do you have the person’s name? Was it a man or a woman? What did the person look like? Do you think he or she could be a murderer?