I looked at the clock. It was only three-thirty. Hours to kill till party time. I had a bowl of Campbell ’s tomato soup and ate about a thousand Nabisco saltines. I typed up three more pages of story notes and stuffed them into Judy’s oatmeal box. I turned on the radio and fiddled around with the dial, hoping to find some good jazz or blues, finally giving up and settling for Frank Sinatra. I tried to read a few pages of the new novel I’d recently borrowed from the library- Lucky Jim by Kingsley Amis-but soon gave up on that, too. I prayed for Dan to call, but of course he didn’t.

Luckily, all the time I spent dashing around like a loon, from the front window to the back door of my apartment-peering out onto Bleecker Street or down into the rear courtyard looking for stalkers or murderers-kept me pretty busy. Likewise the nine cigarettes I smoked down to the nub.

When Abby knocked on my door at six-fifteen and told me to come next door for cocktails and a confab, I almost fainted with joy. Now I knew how Otto had felt when Jimmy gathered him back into his arms.

Wagging my tail and panting for company, I bounded into Abby’s living room-cum-art studio and sat down next to Terry on the little red couch. My whiskey sour was waiting for me on the coffee table. Terry’s was half gone. Perched on the big wooden easel in the corner was Abby’s new painting, a wild western bar scene with a lean and sexy cowboy standing-legs apart, hips cocked, both six-guns drawn-in the foreground. A busty blonde floozy sat on a barstool behind him. The cowboy didn’t have white hair, but he sure did look a lot like Terry.

“Did you pose for that?” I asked him.

“Yeah,” he said, face reddening.

“How ever did you find the time?” I teased, thinking-but not saying-since Abby’sbeen keeping you so busy in the bedroom.

“It wasn’t easy,” he said, giving me a sheepish (and, I thought, weary) grin.

“What are you two yakking about?” Abby asked, toting her own drink into the studio and sitting down, cross-legged, on the canvas drop cloth that covered the floor.

“Nothing much,” I answered, dying to get our homicide investigation back on track. “We were just waiting for you. We need to fill each other in on everything we learned today, and then map out a plan of action for tonight.”

“Right,” Terry said, obviously eager to get down to business, too.

“I’ll go first,” I said, taking a big gulp of my drink, lighting a cigarette, and proceeding to tell them about the break-in.

They both went crazy. (I’m talking all the way out of their minds!) They took turns screaming and shouting their heads off about all the horrible things that could have happened to me, and then they both gave me hell for not coming to get them the very second I discovered that my window had been smashed and the back door left wide-open. They were furious, really furious at me for spending the whole night in my apartment alone, with nothing but a piece of cardboard, a few strips of tape, and a bottle of bleach to protect me. They were mad at me for spending the afternoon alone there, too.

And throughout their long, vociferous diatribe about my incautious behavior they called me some very unflattering names: reckless fool, blithering moron, donkey with no brain, irresponsible daredevil, thoughtless nitwit-to list but a few. Not once did either one of them suggest that I had been strong or self-sufficient or brave-or deserving of their praise instead of their scorn.

And I never gave voice to the thought that kept circling through my allegedly absent donkey brain: that if they hadn’t been so fixated on each other, they might have been more available to help me.

Some team we three were turning out to be!

Still, I was glad that they were going to the party with me tonight. So, as soon as they finished their tirade over the break-in-and after we’d exhausted our thoughts about the other new developments in the case-I brought up the subject of the impending Christmas Eve festivities. “What are we going to wear?” I asked, knowing this was the question most likely to grab Abby’s full attention. “The Smythe’s are very rich, and all of their guests will probably be rich, too, so we have to at least try to look elegant and wealthy as well.”

“Oh, I have that all figured out already,” Abby said, eyes glittering with purposeful intent. She stood up from the floor and started pacing back and forth-like a maniacal movie director-in front of the couch. “Whitey can wear my Uncle Morty’s tuxedo. He gave it to me right before he died-which was a lucky thing for us, because otherwise he might have been buried in it. It’s a very old tuxedo, but it’s classic and it’s clean. And it looks to be just the right size.

“I’ll be wearing my sexy black satin strapless with the white organza skirt,” she went on, still pacing. “And I have a pair of long, black, over-the-elbow gloves that’ll add a classy touch. And for you, Paige,” she said, stopping in her tracks and giving me a big red smile, “I have the perfect dress. It has a tight-fitting dark green velvet bodice, with a deep scoop neck and three-quarter length sleeves, and the full skirt is made of dark green taffeta. There’s a lighter green sash and bow at the waist. I bought the dress at a secondhand store over on Orchard Street, but it’s in pretty good shape.”

Uh oh. “Pretty good shape? What does that mean?”

“Well, there’s a button missing in the back, and there’s an ever so slight brownish stain on the sash. Looks like gravy to me. There was a big rip in the side seam, but I sewed that up so you’d hardly even notice.”

“Jeez, I don’t know, Abby,” I whined, letting out a fretful groan. “This dress sounds a long way from perfect to me. I mean, how wealthy and classy can a girl look if she’s missing a button and sporting a gravy stain?

“Oh, don’t worry about that!” Abby snorted, with a meaningful wink and a smirk the size of Texas. “Nobody will notice your dress when you’re wearing a dazzling, stupendously expensive array of antique diamonds around your neck.”

I HAD TO ADMIT IT WAS A GOOD IDEA. OH, I protested at first-saying it was far too risky; that the necklace could be lost, or stolen; that it might be ripped right off my neck at the party. But the more I thought about it, the more it seemed like a shrewd thing to do. Both Gregory and Augusta Smythe were sure to recognize the necklace. And they would have to react in some way. And I would be sure to learn something from their reactions. What that something would be remained to be seen, but I was as eager as a fervent voyeur to get a glimpse of it. (I hoped they wouldn’t accuse me of being a thief and call the police! Was the Smythe penthouse in Dan’s precinct? I wasn’t sure.)

Terry was against me wearing the necklace at first, too-not because he was afraid it might be lost or stolen, but because he was worried about me. He thought the mere sight of the diamonds might incite the murderer (if, indeed, the murderer happened to be at the party) to do something rash (i.e., kill me or something like that). But once Abby and I reminded him that he would be with me the whole time-standing close by my side as my husband, primed and poised to protect me-he withdrew his objections and threw himself into the spirit of the operation.

It was almost party time, so we went upstairs to get ready. I wanted to go home to get dressed, where I could primp in private, but Abby and Terry wouldn’t let me. They thought it was too dangerous. Oh, great! I grumbled to myself. Now when I want to be alone, I can’t. They eventually let me go next door to remove my shin and knee bandages and put on a garter belt, stockings, and my dressy black suede pumps, but Terry insisted on going with me and standing watch at the kitchen door.