Cinderella Six Feet Under(76)

“You’re a lefty, Madame Fayette,” Ophelia said.

“Pardon?”

“You rang the bell with your left hand.”

“Ah,” Penrose said.

“I cannot think why that is of any interest to you, but, oui, I do use my—”

“I’m interested,” Ophelia said, “because Caleb Grant—and maybe Sybille Pinet, too—were shot with a lefty’s gun. A lady lefty’s gun.”

“Are you accusing me of murder? Good heavens, you are an audacious creature. Where are your manners? But wait—I do not suppose they teach those on the musical stage or wherever it is you have come fr—”

“I’ll save you some puff and cut this short,” Ophelia said. “Did you do it?”

Madame Fayette’s face flushed. “If I had murdered anyone, why would I confess it to you?”

Good point. “To get it off your chest?”

“If you must know, I owned a small pistol specially made for me once for a journey through the mountains. There were tales of bandits at the time, and I wished to protect myself. But that pistol was stolen.”

“Stolen!” Ophelia said, glancing at Penrose. But he was staring at that watercolor painting again. “When was it stolen?” Ophelia asked. “Was it stolen from this apartment?”

“That is quite enough, you impudent little morsel. I did not intend to mention it, but . . . how could anyone be fooled by that wig you have on?” Madame Fayette rang the bell again, furiously this time. “It appears to have contracted mange.”

Ophelia scowled. She’d paid a pretty penny for this wig.

“I allow, your application of cosmetics is remarkably cunning,” Madame Fayette said. “But that bust? Those padded hips? Laughable!”

“I reckon if it’s your calling in life to measure busts and hips, then you might discern a—”

“My calling, you vicious little impostor, is to create works of art that may be worn—”

“Sure. On ladies’ busts and hips.”

Madame Fayette’s face turned a shade of puce.

Ophelia felt Penrose’s eyes on her. She wouldn’t look at him. Surely the ladylike, retiring Miss Ivy Banks would never, ever say busts and hips.

But it turned out that Penrose had his mind on something else.

“Madame Fayette, this watercolor”—he gestured to the painting he’d been staring at—“it is a stage scenery design, no? With rather a distinctive style to the trees.”

“That dingy little thing? I mean to be rid of it. It doesn’t go at all with the rest of the décor.”

“I saw many quite like it at the apartment of the late Caleb Grant. These are at times quite valuable, I understand—”

“No, no, that is only a cheap reproduction. And I must protest that this interrogation, in my own home no less, is quite impermissible!” Madame Fayette stood. “If that will be all, I really must ask that you leave—ah, Odile! There you are. Where have you been?” She scolded the maid in French and kept at it even when Ophelia and Penrose were walking out the front door.





23




“You’re certain that bracelet belonged to Henrietta?” Penrose asked Ophelia as they trotted down the stairs.

“If not, then one just like it.”

“If Madame Fayette received Henrietta’s bracelet in exchange for keeping a secret . . .”

“I’d reckon it had to do with a fellow. With Henrietta, it always has to do with a fellow. And you’re certain that watercolor painting was like those in Mr. Grant’s apartment?”

“Yes. Which in itself would not be strange, because surely they both could own paintings by the same artist, particularly by a scenery designer from the opera house where they were both employed at one time.”

“Except Madame Fayette said it’s only a cheap reproduction. Which sounded like a tall tale to me, because nothing in her apartment looked cheap.”

Penrose nodded.

“Do you suppose Madame Fayette is a blackmailer?” Ophelia asked. “Finds out her customers’ secrets and then squeezes them for jewelry and paintings and things?”

“It certainly seems a plausible conjecture.”

“Maybe she knew why Mr. Grant had that gown made for Sybille, and took a painting or two to stay mum.”