The refined silver-haired woman standing next to him, however, looked as if she’d just been hit between the eyes with a two-by-four.

“And you must be Mrs. Smythe,” I said, stepping toward her to give her a closer look. “It’s so nice to meet you! And may I present my husband, Terry Turner, and my cousin, Bathsheba Lark.” (Don’t look at me. That’s the name Abby wanted to use!)

While the four of them were shaking hands and making small talk, I kept my eyes trained on Augusta Smythe. She was a tall, thin woman in her late fifties (I guessed) with a dainty smile, a perfect manicure, and a heavily hairsprayed hairdo. Her floor-length navy blue satin gown was sleeveless, but she kept her thin arms covered with a long, wide, matching navy blue satin shawl. Instead of diamonds she was wearing pearls. Though she seemed quite composed standing there, welcoming Terry and Abby-I mean Bathsheba-to her party, I could see that she’d been shaken by the sight of my (okay, her) necklace.

“You have a beautiful home, Mrs. Smythe,” I said, taking my first look around the luxurious, crowded room we’d just entered. It was the size of a football field, but the many paintings on the pale yellow walls, the huge Oriental carpets on the polished teak floor, and the colorful multitude of chatting, smoking, laughing guests gave it a warm, intimate glow. “Can I persuade you to give me a quick tour later, after the rest of your company has arrived?” (Translation: Can I get you off in a corner somewhere and ask you a bunch of rude questions?)

“Of course, dear,” she said, staring at the necklace again.

“I’ll be happy to show you around in a little while. But first you must go inside and have some hors d’oeuvres and champagne.” She gestured toward midfield.

I waited for Terry and Abby to finish their handshakes and small talk, then led them deep into the party crowd. I figured it was the best place for us to huddle without attracting undue attention (or suspicion). Surrounded by well-groomed men in tuxedos and transcendent women trimmed in fur, feathers, and jewels, we each grabbed a glass of champagne from a wandering waiter’s tray and stood drinking together in a tight little circle. The jazz ensemble in the far corner of the room was playing an absurdly perky version of “O Holy Night.”

“Wow!” Abby said, keeping her voice down to a loud whisper. “This is atomic! We just passed right by a Cézanne. And there’s a van Gogh on that wall over there! I think it’s from his Arles period.”

I didn’t have time for an art lesson. “How did you make out with Smythe?” I asked her, anxious to make the most of our Christmas Eve vigil.

“Fine. I’m meeting him in his private study in twenty minutes. He wants to show me his piggies.”

“His what?!” Terry sputtered.

“His piggy banks,” Abby said, taking a swig of champagne, then giggling through her nose. “The man collects piggy banks. Isn’t that a scream?”

“It’s a howl,” Terry said, looking disgusted. “But I don’t think you should be alone with this screwball. It isn’t safe. What if he’s the killer?”

“Well, that’s what we’re trying to find out, Whitey! And I’ll learn a lot more if I can spend some time alone with him. We discussed all this before. Don’t get cold feet on me now!”

“Okay, okay!” he grumbled. “But I’m going to be standing right outside the whole time, listening for trouble. If Smythe bothers you in any way, just give a shout. I’ll bust in and break the swine’s neck. And his piggy banks, too.”

“Thanks, baby,” Abby said, fluttering her lashes and brushing her fingertips down his cheek. “It’s so good to have a brave boyfriend.”

Had Terry ever confessed to Abby that he’d been a coward in combat? If so, it was a cinch she didn’t swallow it. She looked as though she wanted to swallow him up instead.

“Break it up, kids,” I said. “I’ve got news.”

“What is it?” Abby yelped, snapping her head in my direction. “What happened?”

“ Augusta noticed the necklace,” I told them. “She kept staring at it the whole time I was talking to her, and she looked like she was going to explode.” I threw my head back and sucked my champagne glass dry.

As I straightened my spine and started looking around for a place to set the empty glass, I saw her. A strawberry blonde in a slinky pink dress with a tiny upturned nose and big hazel eyes that were gazing straight at me-or, rather, my neck.

“Of course Augusta noticed the necklace!” Abby blurted. “It belonged to her for twenty years! She’d have to be blind as a bat, or totally demented, not to recognize it.”

“Shhhh! Keep your voice down!” I whispered. “And don’t look now, but there’s a young woman standing a few feet behind you who seems to have noticed the necklace, too. I wonder who she is. She keeps staring at me and… Oops! Here she comes! Be quiet! Don’t say anything!” I nervously raised my glass back up to my lips and took a sip of nothing.

The young woman waltzed right over to us and wriggled into our little circle. “Hello,” she purred, patting a strawberry blonde wave over one eye and puffing on her cigarette (or, rather, the long slim ivory holder in which her burning weed was rooted). “I don’t believe we’ve met. And I thought I knew everybody at this dreary old party! I’m Lillian Smythe, the wayward daughter of the house. And who, may I ask, are you?” Her words were aimed at all three of us, but her eyes were aimed at the necklace.

“I’m Paige Turner,” I said, offering my hand for a languid shake. I hated to give her my real name, but I didn’t have any choice. I’d given it to her father the day before, and there was some small chance he might remember it. “And this is my husband, Terry,” I added, quickly transferring her hand from mine to his, hoping the flurry of activity coupled with Terry’s startling good looks would keep her from paying attention.

No such luck.

“Paige Turner?!” she whooped. “You can’t be serious! That’s an utter riot!” She was talking and laughing so loud people were turning to look at us. Her laughter wasn’t real, though. It was the fake and showy kind-the kind that’s based on taut nerves instead of true amusement. “So, tell me, Paige Turner,” she said, stopping her laughter on a dime and tucking the tip of her ivory cigarette holder into the corner of her livid pink smirk. “How does a girl get a wacko name like yours? Were you born with it, or did you make it up yourself?”

“I married it,” I said, as if it were any business of hers. Miss Lillian Smythe was starting to bug me big-time.

Abby didn’t like her much either. “My name’s Bathsheba Lark,” she told her, conspicuously not extending her hand. “Are you going to laugh your silly head off about that, too?”

Jolted by Abby’s impertinence, Lillian turned and gave her a snotty look. Then she took a step back, sucked on the end of her cigarette holder, and gave her a very slow and studied look. “Bathsheba?” she said, wrinkling her tiny upturned nose as if she were standing downwind from a fetid sewage facility. “Isn’t that a Jewish name?”

At that moment I fully understood how a fairly well-adjusted, nonviolent person like myself might be moved to commit murder. Kaboom! I bellowed to myself, blasting Miss Lillian Smythe off the face of the earth with my imaginary A-bomb.

Terry wasn’t content with a fantasy killing. He preferred the verbal variety. “You’re a stupid, narrow-minded cow, Miss Smythe,” he said in a most polite and gentlemanly manner. “You’re not fit to shine Bathsheba’s shoes.” With that, he stepped into the middle of our little circle, turned his back on Lillian, put one arm around Abby’s waist and the other around mine, and escorted us toward the opposite side of the room, where the full-sized built-in bar was located.

“God!” I said to Abby, after Terry had parked us a few feet from the bar and gone to get our drinks. “What a ferocious little snot she is! But Terry really gave it to her, didn’t he? I’m so glad he did.”