“It’s worth pursuing that angle,” Logan agreed.
“And don’t forget, we also know that the killer indulges in cigarettes that are scented with spices,” Amity added. “That should help narrow the list a bit.”
“So he smokes coffin nails, does he?” Declan said.
“I beg your pardon?” Amity said.
“That’s what we call cigarettes in America,” Declan explained. “Coffin nails. Not that it stops anyone from smoking them, mind you.”
Logan glanced at him. “I heard cigarettes were good for the nerves.”
“Not according to Dr. Benson,” Declan said.
Penny stirred. “I may be able to help you narrow the list a bit more.”
Logan watched her with close attention. “How will you do that?”
Penny glanced at Amity. “By consulting an expert.”
Amity smiled. “Madame La Fontaine, your dressmaker.”
“She is an authority on all things relating to fashion,” Penny said. “Amity and I will pay a visit to her this very afternoon and see what we can discover.”
“Excellent.” Logan slipped his notebook and pencil back into the pocket of his coat. “I appreciate all of the help you four have provided today. I feel as if I know considerably more about this killer than I did before I arrived here.”
Benedict gave Declan a speculative look. “I must admit that I am quite intrigued by your observations. Maybe you should consider a career as a consultant to the police.”
“My father would be furious,” Declan said. He made a face. “The future is in oil, you know.”
“Yes, you did mention that,” Benedict said.
Twenty-five
Madame La Fontaine used Penny’s magnifying glass to study the photographs in the lockets arrayed on the counter. Amity and Penny waited, tense and silent. The dressmaker muttered to herself as she moved from one picture to the next. When she reached the last one, she nodded emphatically and put down the lens.
“Oui, Mrs. Marsden, you and your sister are correct,” she announced in her fake French accent. “There is no doubt but that it is the same gown in all three pictures and it is most certainly a design from the fall season two years ago. The truth is all there in the details of the sleeve, the neckline and the beading on the headpiece of the veil.”
“Thank you,” Penny said. “We thought as much but we wanted to be certain.”
Madame La Fontaine eyed her with a shrewd expression. “It is a very expensive gown. And in white satin, no less. So impractical. But perhaps the three young ladies in the pictures are sisters who decided to share the dress to save money?”
“No,” Amity said. She scooped up the lockets and tucked them into the small velvet bag she had brought with her. “They were not sisters.”
“Friends of yours, perhaps?” Madame La Fontaine asked.
Amity tugged on the strings to cinch up the bag. “No. Why do you ask?”
“I am aware that you are engaged to be married and will soon be in the market for a wedding gown yourself,” Madame La Fontaine said smoothly. “I merely wondered if perhaps one of these brides had offered to sell you that white satin gown and veil at a reduced price.”
“Oh.” Amity managed to regain her composure. “No, absolutely not. Trust me when I say that this particular gown is the very last dress I would want to wear for any reason whatsoever—especially not my own wedding.”
“Ah, you show exquisite taste in fashion, Miss Doncaster.” Madame La Fontaine’s voice warmed with approval. “That dress is sadly out-of-date. No self-respecting bride would want to be caught dead in it.”
There was a short silence. Amity cleared her throat.
Penny fixed Madame La Fontaine with a polite smile infused with charm and respect. “You are the most knowledgeable dressmaker I know, madam. That is why I would not patronize any other modiste. Naturally my sister will come to you for her wedding gown when the time arrives.”
Madame La Fontaine beamed. “I will be delighted to design your gown and your veil, as well, Miss Doncaster.”
