Unlike me, Bobby had a great poker face. I couldn’t tell if my news surprised him or not.

“You have that good a nose for perfume, do you?” He sounded skeptical.

I would bet my life I was right about this. That I recognized the sillage—the lingering scent—of this particular perfume after the wearer had left the small jewel of an elevator. It was distinct and anything but subtle. Telling Bobby about it put Victoria Barkley’s life under his microscope and I knew it. I wasn’t going to make anything up.

“I worked at the Perfume Museum in Grasse when I lived in France and spent a lot of time learning and identifying different fragrances, in case you’ve forgotten. Grasse, by the way, is the perfume capital of France. So, yes, I do have a good nose for perfume,” I said, letting my irritation show that he could be so dismissive. “Also for wine.”

“Okay. Point taken.”

“Thank you.”

He seemed to be considering what I’d just told him. “Well, if she didn’t go upstairs and send the elevator back to the basement after she returned to the main floor, then someone wearing that perfume—possibly Victoria Barkley—took it downstairs.”

“It’s possible someone else was wearing the same perfume,” I said, “but somehow I don’t think anyone but Victoria—almost a member of the family—would have used the elevator.”

“Okay,” he said. “Say you’re right. What else is in that basement? Saying it was Victoria who went down there, maybe she needed to get something for the party.”

“Actually, I asked Prescott what else was on that floor as we were walking to his wine cellar,” I said. “Besides his cave, his archives are there, along with storage rooms, a swimming pool, and a bowling alley. He joked that there was also a dungeon.”

“Any idea how long you and Prescott were down there? Or what time you two left the party? You came and found me and Win around quarter to five. I heard one of the clocks chime and happened to check my watch.”

“It was light outside when we went downstairs and dusk when I came back by myself. They hadn’t served dessert before we left and by the time I came back people were leaving. I don’t know. Maybe half an hour? Forty-five minutes?”

Bobby looked up from his notes. “What were you doing down there, anyway?”

Here it was.

“Prescott invited me to join him in his wine cellar because he wanted me to try a glass of Malmsey. Actually he insisted.” Bobby’s face blanked so I said, “It’s a very good brand of Madeira. Quite expensive. Made from special grapes—Malmsey—on the island of Madeira. He opened a bottle from the year I was born.”

Bobby waited.