It was at that point, I’m sure-while I was sitting senseless on my bed, clad in my sexiest underwear, with both feet encased in misshapen palomino horseshoes and my head and ears enclosed in a roaring hot air balloon-that the murderer entered my apartment.

Chapter 31

WHEN I COULDN’T TAKE THE NOISE AND the heat anymore, I turned off the dryer and unhooked the air hose from the hood. Leaving the hot vinyl cap on my head so my still-damp hair would continue to dry, I scooted into the bathroom to retouch the spots where my makeup had melted.

That’s when I heard it-a noise from downstairs that sounded like a book dropping to the floor.

What was that? Was somebody there? Had Abby come over to borrow my copy of Pride and Prejudice again? Had Dan arrived early, let himself in with a police department passkey, and decided to make a secret study of my current taste in detective fiction? I tiptoed into the hall and stood at the top of the stairs, holding my breath so tight I felt faint, and listening with all my might for other suspicious sounds.

The silence was so thick it was sliceable. All I could hear was the soft, low hum of my refrigerator. No pages were rustling; no floorboards were creaking; no knuckles were cracking; no sighs were escaping through unsealed lips. ’Twas the last day of Christmas and all through the house, not a creature was stirring, not even a louse. Finally coming to the conclusion that I had imagined the original noise, I started breathing again. Then I began making my way downstairs to take a quick look around.

Halfway there, I came to a dead stop. The kitchen door had suddenly come into view, and I was paralyzed by what I saw. The flattened Duz detergent box wasn’t covering the shattered door pane anymore. It was dented and twisted and dangling down from the edge of the perfectly square hole by several tangled strips of masking tape. The linoleum by the door looked wet and splotchy, as though somebody had walked through a giant snowdrift before entering and tracked plenty of slush inside.

Frozen in fear, I stood stiff as a stick in the middle of the staircase, madly searching my brain for a swift, safe plan of action. Should I run back upstairs, climb the little wrought-iron ladder bolted to the wall by my bathroom, and try to escape out onto the roof of the building? No! I’d never be able to get the heavy, snow-laden overhead trap door open in time. The intruder would catch up with me before I could even pop my noggin through the hatch! Should I dash down the rest of the stairs, throw open the kitchen door, flee out onto the icy landing and over to Abby’s back door-or down into the courtyard-screaming my head off for help? God, no! That seemed a surefire way to get my screaming head shot off.

The only scheme that made any sense to me at all was to go all the way downstairs and talk to the intruder (okay, by this time I was pretty sure it was the murderer). Since he or she was still desperate to get hold of the diamonds-and still had no idea where I’d hidden them-I figured I wouldn’t get killed immediately. If I played my cards right, and said all the right things, I might be able to confuse the killer and delay my death indefinitely. Maybe I could stall everything for an hour or so, until Dan was due to arrive. Or maybe I could work my way over to the cabinet under the kitchen sink, and get my hands on my trusty bleach bottle…

Having no idea how I might accomplish any of these goals, but determined to make a hearty attempt, I sucked up all my courage (which, at that point, would have barely filled an eyedropper) and walked down the rest of the stairs. As soon as my horse slippers hit the kitchen floor, I reared back on my heels and spun around a full ninety degrees to face the monster who had killed Judy Catcher.

“WELL, DON’T YOU LOOK CUTE,” ELSIE LONDERGAN said, voice oozing with sarcasm. She was standing tall, very tall, in the middle of the room-right where the kitchen linoleum ended and the wood floor of the living room began-with one hand stuffed into the pocket of her coat and the other stuck straight out in front of her. That hand (as you may have already guessed) was holding a gun. A very small gun, to be sure, but it looked big as a bazooka to me.

“What the hell have you got on your head?” Elsie asked, aiming the pistol at my plastic-capped cranium. “A fucking turban?” Her chiseled John Wayne features were twisted in a grisly scowl.

“It’s the hood of my hair dryer,” I said, trying to breathe evenly and keep my knees from knocking. Both efforts were unsuccessful.

“And your feet?” she said, targeting my toes. “What the hell have you got on your feet?”

“My horse slippers,” I stammered. “I got them in the children’s department at Klein’s. They’re supposed to look like Trigger.” I regretted the use of that word, hoping Elsie wouldn’t be tempted to pull it.

“And what’s with the sexy underwear?” she said with a nasty smirk. “Got a hot date?”

“My boyfriend’s coming over.” I considered telling her that my boyfriend was a homicide detective, and that he’d be there any minute, but I was afraid that would spook her, make her anxious to kill me and get the hell out of there-with or without the diamonds. I decided to save that information for later use, when things got really hairy, as I was sure they would.

“When’s he coming?”

“In about an hour.”

“Good. Then you’ll have plenty of time to show me where the diamonds are.”

“Yes, I will,” I declared, encouraging her wholehearted belief in that scenario. Then, hoping to divert her attention to other subjects, I added, “And you’ll have plenty of time to tell me how a mature and motherly widow like yourself could find it in her heart to kill an innocent young girl like Judy Catcher.”

Bingo. I hit the emotional jackpot on my very first spin.

“I’m no widow!” Elsie shrieked, her contorted face turning three shades of purple. “I’d give anything if my lying, cheating rat of a husband was dead, but he isn’t! He’s living the high life somewhere in Hawaii with his 22-year-old whore of a girlfriend. They ran off together six years ago when he was fifty-two and she was only sixteen!” Elsie’s fierce blue eyes were darting all over the place, but her gun was pointed straight at me. “If that filthy, thieving snake was here right now, I’d plug him so full of holes he’d do nothing for the rest of his short, painful little life but bleed.”

Ugh. A rather disgusting-not to mention distressing-image. “Thieving?” I said quickly, trying to keep her talking instead of shooting. (I just love to reminisce, don’t you?) “Why did you call him a thieving snake? Did he steal anything from you?”

“He stole every goddamn cent of our life savings. All my jewelry, too.”

“How horrible!” I sputtered, doing my best to sound sympathetic. “I don’t blame you for wanting to kill him!… But,” I added, working to keep up my end of the conversation, “I still don’t understand why you wanted to kill Judy.”

Elsie lowered the gun to waist-level, propping her elbow on her hip and squeezing her upper arm tight against her ribs. “Because she was a goddamn homewrecker, that’s why!” Her shrill voice was vibrating like a wire stretched to the limit. “She was young-so young-and stupid as a stump. I couldn’t stand the way she was always bouncing around, acting so blameless and bubbly, asking my advice about every goddamn thing under the sun, and raving over her two-timing, slobbery old boyfriend like he was Clark Gable or Kirk Doug-las. Made me sick to my stomach!”

I was surprised by her show of repugnance. “I thought you loved Judy like a daughter.”

“April fool!” Elsie cried, mouth grinning, eyes twinkling. She looked so crazy I was chilled to the bone.

“This is December,” I said, hoping my nonchalant response would disarm her, take some of the fire out of her fury.