“I should have realized there was more than one,” I said, “except the one he was using was so unusual.”

Victoria shrugged. “Prescott was always searching for … something unique, one of a kind. An object with a mythical story behind its origin, a provenance that gave you goose bumps imagining its history. He wanted to find things that no one else possessed, be the first to own something fabulous and a true treasure.”

She didn’t say the word unicorn.

But as a museum curator, Victoria lived in the art world and she understood collectors and their quest, their passion, to own objects that were unique. Because they had to have it. For a brief moment, she sounded wistful. The thrill of the hunt. That’s what Prescott had said. When he finally got whatever it was he had been chasing, it was almost anticlimactic.

I could feel Quinn stirring, growing more impatient beside me.

“Sweetheart, we really should go,” he said in a firm voice. “Victoria, we’re so sorry for your loss. A death in the family is always difficult, but it’s especially tough during the holiday season.”

Quinn’s words seemed to move her and she leaned in to give him a kiss on the cheek. “Thank you for that,” she said. She turned to me. “You, too, Lucie.”

“One final thing,” I said.

“Yes?”

“I couldn’t help noticing your perfume. It’s so unusual. What is it?”

She looked startled, but then she extended her forearm so I could catch the scent on the inside of her wrist. “Today’s the first time I’ve worn it. It’s by a new French designer. Forgive my pronunciation but it’s called Je Ne Regrette Rien.”

I bent to smell the fragrance on the inside of her wrist. “It’s lovely.”

“Thank you.”

We stepped outside and the door closed behind us.

It was the same perfume I’d smelled in the elevator earlier this evening. Had Victoria gone downstairs to talk to Prescott just before he died?

And if she had, why?

Six

The Averys had hired local kids to take care of valet parking for their party, driving guests’ cars from the Castle entrance to an adjacent meadow. Since we were the last to leave except for Kit, Bobby, and Win, our navy-blue Jeep was parked out front and the keys were in the ignition. Win’s vintage wood-paneled station wagon and the SUV that belonged to Bobby and Kit were there as well. And the kids were gone.

Quinn opened the passenger door and helped me in.

“Are you going to tell me what’s going on?” he asked after he climbed into the driver’s seat. “What that last conversation was all about, you asking Victoria about her perfume? I Regret Nothing. What kind of name is that?”

“It’s the name of a song. Edith Piaf’s signature song, actually.”

“Edith who?”