Cinderella Six Feet Under(10)

What a distressing notion.

Ophelia got to work on her Mrs. Brand face. After that first night, she’d made certain to apply her greasepaint, and the flour paste that created the crepey effect, with a delicate hand so that it would stand up to close scrutiny. Heaven only knew how long she’d be stuck in this role, and now, well, there was no turning back.

Behind her, Prue began to snore.

When Ophelia had finished doctoring her face, she stashed her theatrical kit in the bottom of the wardrobe underneath a musty blanket. The housekeeper, Beatrice, had announced that no one would be cleaning their chambers, anyway, but Ophelia liked to be cautious.

She went to the sofa and jiggled Prue’s woolen-stockinged toe. “Prue? Wake up, Prue. It’s time to go down to breakfast.” There was a hole in her stocking, at the heel. Poor Prue. Pretty as a princess, always in rags.

Prue snuffled awake and lifted her head. “Huh? What is it? Is Ma back?”

“No. Not yet. Are you coming to breakfast?” Ophelia’s eyes fell again on Prue’s stocking.

“What?” Prue asked. “What are you gawping at my foot for?”

“Merciful heavens,” Ophelia murmured. There had been something familiar about the dead girl’s foot, about the purple nails and that swollen jut on her big toe. “That is it. That is it.”

*

Ophelia found Malbert hunched behind a newspaper at the breakfast table and demanded that he send at once for the police inspector. Malbert sent a note with an errand boy and returned to his newspaper.

Ophelia dug into her breakfast of coffee, buttery rolls, pungent cheese, ham, and hothouse oranges. Prue had probably gone back to sleep.

“I happened to notice a locksmith working on the carriageway gate this morning,” Ophelia said.

Malbert slowly lowered his newspaper. “Oui?”

“Might I inquire why?”

“Madame Brand, you are most curious, non? What is it that they say about the cat and curiosity?” He blinked twice and raised his newspaper again.

Was that a threat?

Inspector Foucher, from the office of the commissaire, arrived at half past eight. Ophelia and Malbert received him in a formal salon. Foucher was one of those fellows with twig legs and a barrel chest. Small brown eyes like chocolate drops peered out from a swollen face. He held a bowler hat.

“Madame Brand,” he said in a weary tone, “I am a busy man. What is it?”

“Has the murderer been arrested yet?”

“Not yet.”

“Ah. Well, I have made a most fascinating realization that might aid in your investigation. Her feet, you may recall—or, at least, the one that I saw—were in a most pitiful condition.”

“The girl’s feet were injured, oui.”

“Both of them?”

“Oui, as the result of her body having been dragged to its place in the garden.”

“I have a different theory. I propose that she was a dancer of the ballet.”

Malbert shifted in his chair.

“The ballet!” Foucher chuckled.

“I do not jest, Inspector. The feet of ballerinas are subject to the most grievous ill-treatment and injury as the result of supporting their entire weight upon the very tips of their toes.” Ophelia had seen it dozens of times, both in the circus and the theater. One dancer she’d known, Florrie, had had bunions like ripe crabapples.

Inspector Foucher frowned. “How, may I inquire, does a respectable lady like you know what the feet of a ballerina look like?”

“Oh, well.” Ophelia smoothed her cuff. “In Boston, you see, I am a member of the Ladies’ League for the Betterment of Fallen Angels.”

“How charitable,” Malbert murmured.

Ophelia leaned towards Foucher. “There are many fallen angels, you understand, employed in the theater.”

“Ah, oui.”

“I urge you, Inspector, to consider searching for the deceased young lady’s identity within whatever ballet theaters Paris possesses.”

“You almost seem to know who the victim was.”

“I do not. But it is worth investigating the ballet theaters, is it not?”

“Madame, I do understand that you are discomfited by this event. However, I must request that you do not intrude in police investigations. Indeed, I do realize that the gentle sex is prone to fancy, to making correlations where there are none—”

“Applesauce!”