Cinderella Six Feet Under(40)

Did she say lady with an ironic lilt?

“I told my cousin, Lord Harrington, that I must come to your shop,” Ophelia said. “I have seen such lovely gowns that you’ve made. Even, I’m sorry to say, on a dead girl.”

Madame Fayette glanced up. “Dead?”

“Surely you’ve heard—it’s been in the newspapers. It was—it was simply horrid.”

Madame Fayette continued to measure. “Ah, oui. The girl in Le Marais. You were a . . . witness?”

Josie’s eyes were on her notebook, but she seemed to be all ears.

“Yes. At a party given by the Misses Malbert. There was a lot of screaming and a lot of . . . blood.”

“You wore your maid’s gown to this party, I presume?” Madame Fayette said.

“Yes. Of course.” Drat. “Well, the dead girl’s gown—ivory silk and tulle, with silver and gold embroidery—the funny thing is, it looked exactly like the prima ballerina’s costume that you made for the Cinderella ballet I saw last night.”

“How do you know I made that costume?” Madame Fayette stopped measuring. “My name does not appear in the programme.”

“I saw a label—Maison Fayette, it said—stitched into the costume, when I went backstage to congratulate the ballerina.” A true lady wouldn’t venture backstage. Hopefully Madame Fayette would chalk it up to Miss Stonewall’s American rearing. “Why does a ballet costume need a label?”

Madame Fayette narrowed her eyes. “We are all very proud of the work we do at Maison Fayette.”

“Did you not tell the police you made the dead girl’s gown? It could be a clue.”

“What makes you believe I did not tell them?”

“Because if you had, they’d know more about her. Her name, for instance.”

“I assure you, I know nothing of the murdered girl.”

Was she fibbing? Hard to say. Just because someone had the chubby cheeks of a two-year-old didn’t mean they had the conscience to match. “But how is that possible? Surely she came in for fittings, just like I’m doing now.”

“I maintain the utmost discretion when it comes to my customers.”

Discretion? Hardly, if Madame Fayette’s comments about the Italian princess and the gambling courtesan were any indication. “Then I don’t suppose you’ll tell me if the Marquise de la Roque-Fabliau is one of your customers,” Ophelia said. “She’s missing, you know.”

“If my customers request that I keep a secret, why, then I keep a secret,” Madame Fayette said. “Surely, Miss Stonewall, you must appreciate this. One does not sew garments for empresses if one is a—how do you say?—blabbermouth.” She looped her measuring tape around Ophelia’s waist, and squeezed.

Ophelia winced.

“I would be fascinated to discover precisely why it is that you have taken on the duties of an officer of the police,” Madame Fayette said. “Now, if you will excuse me, I must go fetch a few samples for you to view.” She whipped her measuring tape free and hurried out.

Ophelia was left alone with Josie.

As soon as Madame Fayette disappeared, Josie whispered, “Madame does not ever admit to it, but she was, years ago, the costume mistress at l’Opéra de Paris.”

“Indeed?”

“I believed you should know this, because you seem so interested in those gowns. The way they were the same. Madame knows people at the opera house. Many people.”

“She knew the murdered girl, then?”

“Non. She designed that gown based upon measurements given to her by a customer. She never measured or fitted the girl in person. None of us did.”

“But who was the customer?”

“I know not.” Josie pushed a wisp of hair from her eyes. “Is the murderer not . . . caught?”

“No. And I reckon the police are after the wrong murderer. I wonder if the marquis—the father of the Misses Malbert—is mixed up in this. Because his wife, his missing wife, perhaps desired a divorce, and he’s so secretive about whatever he does in that funny workshop of his.” Ophelia clammed up. Josie was so mild a presence, she had been thinking aloud. But she ought not be so trusting.

Ophelia studied Josie. She would’ve been pretty as a picture if she hadn’t appeared so unwholesome. Her ears seemed too large for such a hollow face, and her lips were bloodless, as though she hadn’t enough sleep or enough to eat. But surely Madame Fayette paid her employees a good wage. They were highly skilled workers.