Another rush of cold air like icy fingers caressed the back of my neck. It was time to get out of here. I turned and walked quickly in the other direction, this time passing art I remembered and the padlocked door to the room Prescott hinted might really be a dungeon.

The elevator was waiting, just as we’d left it. But the moment I stepped inside, I knew a woman had been in this carriage and taken this elevator while Prescott and I had been together in his wine cellar and that secret room. Years ago when I was living in France recovering from my accident I took a job at the Perfume Museum in Grasse where my nose for recognizing the notes of a perfume and the sillage—the lingering scent trail the wearer leaves behind—had improved quite a lot. It was a talent that came in handy for a winemaker: I could usually correctly identify almost every aroma and note in a particular bottle of wine.

This perfume was strong and heady, evoking dusty Middle Eastern bazaars or Scheherazade spinning tales for a thousand and one nights. The scents of cardamom, lavender, and sandalwood. Something as strong and spicy as incense. I would know it immediately if I met the wearer.

Who was she and what was she doing downstairs? Why hadn’t I run into her?

The elevator deposited me in the upstairs hallway. The laughter and chatter were muted now; I must have been in Prescott’s wine cellar for longer than I realized and guests must be starting to leave. Through one of the large mullioned windows in the study where Prescott and I had spoken earlier, the afternoon sunshine had faded. Dusky gray light was turning the bushes, trees, and sculptures in the garden into smudged shadows.

I was right; the rooms were less crowded, though there were still a lot of people here. Most of them were either in the dining room finishing the ramekins of Bianca’s sinfully rich homemade flan that had been served for dessert, or sitting on sofas and chairs pulled up around the fireplace in the drawing room watching the University of Virginia wallop Virginia Tech in football on the big-screen television above the mantel.

I finally found Quinn. Actually, he found me and pulled me into a corner. He was holding a mug of black coffee, though I could still smell caipirinhas on his breath.

“Where have you been?” he asked in a low voice. “The party’s winding down. I’m ready to get out of Dodge. I ran into Alex and Scotty having it out in the butler’s pantry when I was looking for you. It was getting ugly. Those two shouldn’t be around sharp knives in the same room.”

“I was with Prescott in his wine cellar,” I said. “I’ll tell you all about it at home.”