I zipped over to the side of the bed and dropped down to my hands and knees. Lifting up the edge of another brown blanket, I put my face down next to the floor and peered into the darkness underneath. Nothing but dust, a well-chewed steak bone, and a bunch of dead cockroaches. Otto darted under the bed and crouched down over the bone, staring out at me, snarling, protecting his treasure with unabashed zeal. I backed away from the bed, lowered the blanket, and crawled a few feet over to examine the small, low, dusty bookshelf-which also revealed nothing, except that Jimmy liked to read dime store novels with titles like Hot Rod and Pickup Alley. He also had a copy of The Catcher in the Rye-but then, so did everybody.

“Any luck?” Abby asked, moving back into the middle of the room. “There’s hardly anything in the kitchen. He doesn’t even have any food.”

I stood up and walked over to her. “I couldn’t find anything either. And there’s no place left to search but the bathroom. I’ll look around in there after Jimmy comes out.”

No sooner had these words left my mouth than Jimmy exited the bathroom and joined us in the studio. He looked very handsome in his black turtleneck, black pants, and sexy, cocksure smile. His thick, dark, Tony Curtis hair was still wet from the shower.

“Hi, girls,” he said, raising both eyebrows and stroking his sleek Vandyke. “Did you miss me?” He was talking to both of us, but he only had eyes for Abby. At the sound of Jimmy’s voice, Otto scurried out from under the bed, scampered to his master’s side, and dropped his dust-covered steak bone at his feet.

“May I use the bathroom?” I asked immediately, anxious to complete my search of the premises. I also had to pee.

“Sure, doll,” Jimmy said, still looking only at Abby. “Knock yourself out.”

Tearing myself away from the happy trio (nobody-not even Abby!-was sorry to see me go), I slipped into the bathroom and locked the door. Turning on the sink faucet full blast (I hoped the sound of running water would mask any other sounds I might happen to make), I opened the medicine cabinet and peeked inside. Just the usual stuff: a bottle of aspirin, a razor, a shaving mug with a brush (which had seen very little use), and one of those weird-looking nosehair clippers. No small handgun or box of.22 caliber bullets. No lunchbox either, but I didn’t expect there to be, since it could never have fit on one of those shallow glass shelves.

Except for the bathtub, which was wet and empty, there was only one hiding place in the room big enough to conceal a lunchpail-the dirty clothes basket. Yanking the lid off the small white hamper, I plunged both arms into the stash of soiled underwear, feeling around the sides of the hamper, and all the way down to the bottom, for something hard. Nothing doing. No gun, no lunchbox-no cigar. Jimmy had either hidden the murder weapon and the lunchbox in another location entirely, or disposed of them altogether, or he was no murderer at all.

Wondering which of these three possibilities was true, I peed, flushed, washed my hands, and left the bathroom. To my utter surprise, Otto ran over to meet me, wagging his little tail in ecstasy, gazing up at me with the sweetest expression I’d ever seen on any creature’s face. I picked the little dog up in my arms, gave him my cheek to lick, and then looked over at Abby and Jimmy, trying to determine the cause of this welcome canine windfall.

It wasn’t too hard to figure out. Jimmy was so entranced with Abby-and Abby was working so hard to keep Jimmy entranced-that Otto had no one left to turn to but me. I gave the pup a soft little squeeze, fondled his warm, floppy ears, walked over and sat down on the side of the bed, settling the little dog snuggly on my lap. It felt so good to have a new friend. One who wouldn’t stalk me, or push me onto the subway tracks, or break into my apartment, or be looking for new ways to kill me.

“Hey!” I said, loud enough to bust up the near-coital experience taking place between Abby and Jimmy, “I’m back now, and I’m in need of brilliant poetry! My soul is starving! Bring on the Christmas opus!” Though I was dying to ask Jimmy a few leading questions about Judy Catcher, I felt I could use a little diversion first.

And Jimmy was eager to provide. “Okay!” he cried, placing his hands on Abby’s shoulders and guiding her-backwards-to a seated position next to me on the bed. “Prepare to be transported to the truth!” he said, puffing out his cheeks and chest in pride. Abby and I gave each other a stealthy little smile, then focused all our fawning attention on Jimmy.

Jimmy walked back across the width of the room, picked a notebook up from the small table against the wall, spun around to face us, and struck a dramatic pose-feet planted firmly apart, one arm behind his back, the other dangling down his side with the notebook in his hand. The wall behind him was decorated with three (yes, three!) bullfighting posters. (I’ll never understand why everybody-but everybody! -in the Village has huge bullfighting posters hanging in their apartments. Is it a craving for violent public spectacle, a mythical fear of mighty animals, a passionate lust for blood, or just a faddish devotion to the bullfight erly novels and stories of Ernest Hemingway?)

Looking straight at Abby, Jimmy gave her a slow, suggestive wink, then raised the notebook to reading level, and-in a deep, pompous, pontifical tone-began transporting us to the truth:

Snowflakes soundless pure commingling Falling to the rotted dizzy ground Seasoned with spirits of meaningless holiday cheer Noisy mindless sleighbells pound Yearly eternal cerebral Christmas blues For all another round of bloody boozy fizz Drink up you fools and wish yourself a merry tight In the skunk bright moonlight goodnight

Something horrible had happened to me. I was starting to kind of like Jimmy Birmingham’s goofy poetry. It still made me want to laugh, though, so-in an effort to stop any giggle fits before they began-I clenched my teeth and didn’t say a word.

Which worked out just fine, since Abby was being more than effusive enough for both of us. “Ohhhh, Jimmy!” she panted, jumping to her feet and darting over to give him a wild embrace. “That was the living end! So cool and honest and true! I never heard such wonderful words in my life! You’re the new Robert Lowell! You’re better than Dylan Thomas! I’m swooning with the way out passion of your soaring vision!”

Oh, brother! I groaned to myself. If she lays it on any thicker, he’ll be buried alive. Deciding to cut in on the spinning dancers before they swirled right out of control, I rose to my feet and-cradling Otto like a baby in my arms-walked up close to the tangled twosome. “Loved your Christmas opus, Jimmy,” I said. “Really did. But aren’t we forgetting something here? Like the real reason we came to see you today?” I gave Abby a secret poke in the ribs with my elbow. “Muffy is so upset about her cousin Judy’s death that she just has to talk to you about it. She’s hoping you can shed some light on the murder, help her learn to live with the pain.”

“That’s right,” Abby said, finally remembering that she had come to look for a cold-blooded killer, not a new model-or a new lover. She backed away from Jimmy’s grasping arms and flipped her smile into a frown. “I’m so devastated over what happened to Judy,” she said, whimpering in much the same way Otto had earlier, “I can’t ever get to sleep at night. I just lie in bed thinking about the horrible way she died, wondering why anybody would want to shoot my sweet, beautiful cousin, and praying with all my heart that the killer will soon be found.” She stopped talking for a moment and gave Jimmy a pleading gaze. “Do you miss her as much as I do, baby?”

Baby?! She’s calling him baby? What went on while I was in the bathroom?