Her smile crumpled and her blue eyes widened in shock. “Roscoe? Shot? Are you sure? I can’t believe it!” She lowered herself into one of the two chintz-covered wing chairs that took up half the room and snatched a cigarette from the silver box on the table between them. Striking a match with unexpected force, she lit up and exhaled loudly. “How do you know about this?” she asked. “Did you see the body?”

“Yes! I did! Roscoe’s lying dead on the floor of his office, with one bullet hole in his chest and one in his neck. It’s horrible! Can I use your phone? I’ve got to notify the police.”

“Of course,” she said. “It’s on the night table in the bedroom. The number for the police station is there, too, on the pad right next to the telephone. I’ve been keeping it handy ever since Judy was killed.”

How convenient.

I charged into the bedroom, sat down on the edge of the made-up bed, snatched up the receiver, and dialed the number on the pad. It rang about forty times. I was beginning to think the whole department had taken the day (or the night, or whatever) off, when a gruff voice finally answered.

“I’m calling to report a murder,” I said, in the steadiest, most masterful tone I could muster. (I was trying to imitate Perry Mason, but in my addled and breathless condition I probably sounded more like Daffy Duck.) “Please take this information down, sir. A man named Roscoe Swift has been shot to death on West 27th Street. The body can be found in the back room of the Chelsea Realty office.” I gave him the exact address, told him the office was unlocked, and begged him to send somebody in a hurry.

“Did you get all that down?” I asked. “Should I repeat the information?”

“I got everything, sister,” the gruff voice said. “Everything but your name and location. Who are you and where are you? How do you know the victim is dead? Did you discover the body? Are you calling from the scene?”

“Yes. I discovered the body, and I’m certain the victim is dead. I left the scene exactly as I found it. Please send a team out right away.” I hung up before he could ask for my name again.

I hated having to handle things in this cowardly, dishonest way. I wanted to get Detective Sweeny on the line, give him my true identity (as well as a big piece of my mind), and then tell him about everything that had happened since Terry Catcher first came to me and asked me to help him find his sister’s murderer. But I couldn’t do it. It was way too chancy. What if Sweeny refused to follow up on any of my leads, or acknowledge a connection between Roscoe’s and Judy’s homicides? What if he ignored all the data I’d gathered and continued to insist that Judy was shot during a random burglary? What if he demanded that the diamonds be returned to the police, and then threw Terry in jail for tampering with evidence? What if Sweeny told me-as he had told Elsie when she dared to question his facile conclusions about Judy’s murder-to stop being a busybody?

Then I’d have to kill him,and that wouldn’t do anybody any good.

Heaving a loud sigh of resignation, I stood up from Elsie’s bed and turned back toward the sitting room, head lowered in fatigue and dismay. I was in such a zombie daze that, even though I was standing right next to Elsie’ s bedroom wastebasket, and staring straight down at the wastebasket’s colorful, crumpled contents, I didn’t really see what I was seeing.

It took a few seconds for the ripped, partially wadded-up scraps of paper to come into focus. And a few more moments passed before the bold, familiar image printed on those scraps of paper began to register in my fuzzy brain: the curly white beard, the plump pink cheeks, the twinkling blue eyes, the bright red suit and cap, the big round belly like a bowl full of jelly. It was m y Santa Claus-the very same one that was pictured, repeatedly, on my Christmas wrapping paper.

The very same paper I had used to wrap up Lenny’s lunchbox.

A string of firecrackers went off in my brain. Elsie? Pop! Could it have been Elsie? Pop! Did Elsie steal the lunchbox and push me down onto the subway tracks? Pop! Did Elsie break into my apartment? Pop! Did Elsie kill Judy? And Roscoe, too? Pop! Pop! Pop! My head was so full of explosive questions I thought it would blast right off my neck.

“So what happened?” Elsie said, suddenly appearing in the doorless archway between the bedroom and the sitting room. “Was that Sweeny you were talking to? What did the dumbbell dick have to say?”

“It wasn’t Sweeny,” I mumbled, frantically trying to pull myself together. “It was somebody else. I told him about the homicide and they’re sending a team out right away.” So much adrenaline was shooting down my spine I was having trouble standing.

“Hey, you look horrible, Paige!” Elsie said. “Are you all right? You better come sit down. I’ll make you a cup of tea.” She put her arm around my shoulders and tried to guide me into the sitting room.

“No!” I cried, recoiling from her touch. “I can’t stay! I’ve got to get home!” Translation: I don’t drink tea with murderers.

“But you should rest a while first. You’ve had a big shock. You look as pale as a ghost.”

Oh, yeah? Well, that’s better than actually being a ghost-which might become my fate if I stay here any longer…

“Just one cup of tea,” she insisted. “That’ll fix you up.”

“Thanks, Elsie,” I said, through clenched teeth, “but I really have to go home now and put my turkey in the oven. It’s Christmas Day!”

Put my turkey in the oven? I screeched to myself. What a nitwit thing to say! I couldn’t have come up with a sillier excuse if my life depended on it! (Which-I thought at the time-could very well be the case!)

If Elsie noticed my frantic flight into absurdity, she didn’t let on. She had taken off on a frantic flight of her own. “But you haven’t told me what’s going on!” she shrieked, jutting her chiseled John Wayne chin in my direction. “What the hell made you go to the realty office so early this morning? Did you know something was going to happen? Do you know who killed Roscoe?” She narrowed her big blue eyes into slits so thin they were knifelike.

“I don’t know who killed him for sure,” I blurted, “but I have a hunch it was Lillian Smythe.” I gave Elsie this tid bit just to throw her off the track. If she caught on that I was beginning to suspect her (Elsie, that is), my goose could be cooked long before my turkey.

Elsie pulled in her chin and wrinkled her brow in confusion. “Huh?” she said, looking like Elmer Fudd after yet another baffling skirmish with Bugs Bunny. “Lillian who?”

“I can’t explain it all right now!” I sputtered, forging my way back through the sitting room and the kitchen with Elsie hot on my heels. “It’s a long, complicated story, and I don’t have time!” I opened the door and stepped out into the hall. “But don’t worry, Elsie, I’ll phone you later and tell you all about it.” Forcing my lips to form a big bogus smile, I waved bye-bye and made a mad dash for the stairway. “Merry Christmas!” I called out as I began my descent.

If Elsie wished me a happy holiday in return, I didn’t hear it. She must have been whispering.