I wasn’t expecting to see the black ribbon twined through the wrought-iron gates at the entrance to Hawthorne Castle and wondered who had been responsible for that poignant detail. Somehow I guessed it might be Bianca. Alex and Scotty would be busy at the Trib and Victoria would be with Clay, probably organizing the wake and funeral.
A tan-and-gold Loudoun County Sheriff’s Office cruiser sat in the driveway in front of the gates, blocking my way. I stopped and the deputy got out of his car and came over. I rolled down the window, gave him my name when he asked, and told him I was expected. He went back to his car and a moment later, backed out of the way so I could pass by.
The Averys’ elderly housekeeper opened the door when I rang the bell. She gave me the ghost of a smile and invited me in. The sadness in her eyes spoke volumes: that Prescott’s death was as hard for her as if she’d lost a member of her own family, not just her employer.
“Mr. Clayton is expecting you,” she said, taking my coat. “He’s in the library.”
“I know where it is,” I said. “Thank you.”
Prescott had always been Mr. Avery to the staff at Hawthorne. Even after he was gone, Clayton was still Mr. Clayton. Somehow I reckoned he’d change that pretty soon.
The big house was eerily silent, as though still getting used to the loss of its owner. End-of-day light through the windows of the rooms on each side of the hallway cast long pale streaks that reminded me of icicles on the oak floors and Persian carpets. The library was at the back of the Castle, its windows looking out on the terraced gardens and the fairy tale–like glass orangerie where the family had hosted so many parties and celebrations over the years.
Clayton stood in front of a fireplace, his profile limned by the flickering light of a cheerful blaze, a drink glass in one hand and the other resting against the mantel like he needed it to prop him up. He seemed unaware that I was standing in the doorway, so I knocked on the doorjamb and he started before turning around.
“Lucie.” He looked like hell. Not grief-stricken, but anguished. Exhausted. “Thanks for coming by. Can I get you a drink? I was just about to refresh mine. What would you like? We’ve got everything, including wine, if you prefer.”
“No drink, but I’ll take a glass of water, thanks.”
The antique wooden bar cart was across the room and the only surface without a vase of flowers sitting on it because it was already crowded with crystal decanters and bottles of alcohol.
Clay held up his glass, stared at it, and shrugged. “Okay, if you’re sure. Come in. Have a seat.” He gestured to a burnt-orange chesterfield sofa on one side of the fireplace. “Sparkling or still?”
“Sparkling, please. The flowers are lovely, Clay,” I said. “So many tributes. Have you been able to make any arrangements?”
I didn’t want to say yet.
He put ice in a glass and opened a bottle of sparkling water. “No.” He filled the glass and brought it over to me. “The Sheriff’s Office still hasn’t released the … Prescott. I hope they do it soon. We need closure.”
“Hunt’s Funeral Home is taking care of everything?”
He nodded. “The wake will be at Hunt’s and the funeral will be at National Cathedral in D.C. The interment will be in our family plot in Union Cemetery.”
The Averys had always gone to Trinity Episcopal Church in Upperville. Prescott had been a member of the church’s vestry, the lay governing board, and Clay and Scotty had served as lectors over the years.
Clay poured himself a hefty serving of what looked like Scotch out of a crystal decanter and sat down in a leather club chair across from me.
“Why did you choose National Cathedral, rather than Trinity, if you don’t mind me asking?” I said.
Clay looked astonished. “Are you kidding me? Prescott chose it. He planned his entire funeral, everything from the hymns and the readings to the eulogists. I’m surprised he didn’t write them himself and hand them out. The only person he asked from the family was his granddaughter, Kellie. The others are friends, business colleagues. Apparently he called them all up and got their commitments.” He drank his Scotch. “Of course he always had to be in control. Of everything.”
His bitterness was palpable. I sipped my water and nodded. This might be more than Clay’s second Scotch of the day and it seemed to be darkening his mood. He swirled the ice cubes in his glass and the noise sounded like breaking glass. We were done with small talk. He was going to get down to brass tacks, ask me about my conversation with Prescott.
Find out what I knew.
He crossed one leg over the other and our eyes met. “It’s a hell of a situation,” he said. “Murder.”
I hadn’t expected him to be quite that direct.
“Any idea who did it?” I asked.
“Oh, come on, Lucie. You know as well as I do I’m the number-one suspect, followed by Scotty and Alex.” His voice was filled with scorn and anger. “Not necessarily in that order.”
“Did you do it?”
He shot right back at me. “Do you think I did?”
Did I? I hesitated and he pounced.
“You think I killed him? Really?”
“No, I…”
“Why don’t you tell me what the two of you were doing downstairs in his wine cellar on Saturday?” Harsh. Still angry.
Here it was. Maybe we could trade information. Maybe he knew something about what Prescott planned to reveal to his Masonic lodge before the Miranda Foundation’s gala in two weeks. The answer to the secret, the whereabouts of the lost treasure he and Leland had been searching for.
I also could have said, “None of your damn business.”
“Well?” he said.
“If you asked me to come by because you needed someone to vent your anger on, you should have told me, Clay. I could have saved us both some trouble.” I stood up. “I’ll see myself out.”
He looked stunned, then penitent. “Lucie, I’m sorry. I’m just under so much stress right now. Please don’t take it personally and please don’t go. Please. Have a seat. And I’d really like to know what you and Prescott talked about on Saturday.”
I sat. “According to Prescott, my family owns several cases of Madeira that date back to 1809,” I said. “Prescott tried to buy them from my father, who wouldn’t sell, and apparently Jock tried to buy them from my great-uncle, who also wanted to keep them. So Prescott asked me if I’d sell them to him.”
“And what did you say?”
“I told him I had no idea what he was talking about. I never heard of any Madeira.”
“How much did he offer you?”
“He told me to name my price.”
Clay groaned. “Look, Lucie, even if you do find that wine, the deal is off, okay? Why did Prescott want those bottles? I mean, why now?”
“He wanted to drink them as a toast at a special party for his Masonic brothers the night of the gala.”
“What special party?”
When I hesitated again, he said, “Come on, Lucie. What special party?”
“He … found something, or was on the verge of finding something, that he wanted to celebrate that night. Something … significant. He said it was a ‘dangerous’ secret.”
Clayton looked like he wanted to throw his glass across the room. “Jesus. Not again.”
“What do you mean?”
“My stepfather may have been one of the most astute businessmen I ever met, plus he understood the newspaper business like no one else, but he chased after every damn unicorn that came down the road.”
Unicorn. The same word Prescott had used. A mythological creature that didn’t exist.
Clay got up and walked over to the bar cart. For a moment I thought he was going to top off his Scotch again. Instead he came back to his chair and sat down, elbows on his knees, leaning toward me like he was going to let me in on a secret.
“Look,” he said.
Whenever someone started a sentence with “look” and used that tone of voice, I’ve learned that what comes next is going to be an explanation they need you to believe, a con, or a lie.
I waited.
“Prescott had an almost childlike fascination with finding things that were supposed to be unfindable. Things that might not even exist. He loved the chase, the hunt. The more elusive the better. Money was no object.”
The thrill of the hunt. Prescott had said that to me as well. Once he found what he’d been seeking, possessing it was almost anticlimactic.
“You mean, like Leland’s Madeira?” I asked.
“Not exactly. Did he ever tell you about our so-called ancestor?” Clayton set his glass on a side table and used his fingers to make quotation marks. “Henry Every, the pirate?”
I thought of the Jolly Roger flag I’d seen in the corridor as I was leaving Prescott’s wine cellar the other day. “No,” I said.
“Henry was one of our less illustrious ancestors—Every, Avery, you just had to change the E to an A—who also happened to be the richest pirate who ever lived. He pillaged and plundered in the Atlantic and Indian Oceans in the late 1600s and dabbled in the slave trade as well. In his day he was known as the ‘King of Pirates,’” Clay said. “His ship was called the Fancy. Great name, isn’t it?”
He didn’t wait for my answer, nor did he seem to need one. “What made him so famous—or infamous—was that Every pulled off the biggest pirate heist in history, attacking a fleet of ships from India on their way to the annual pilgrimage in Mecca,” he went on. “The stories of how he and his men tortured their victims and raped the women before they killed them would make your skin crawl, Lucie. When it was over, there was a price on Every’s head—everyone in the world wanted to find him—and he disappeared. Forever. Word was that he was hiding out somewhere in the Atlantic colonies, maybe the Caribbean islands or maybe even Virginia. And he took his share of the treasure with him.”
Clay sat back in his chair, eyes hooded, watching my reaction to his macabre tale. My heart thumped against my chest. Now I understood why Prescott owned the red Jolly Roger flag that hung on the wall next to his wine cellar. It was from a pirate ship that had plundered a century later, but one that showed no mercy for its victims, just like his ancestor Henry Every had done.
“What happened to the treasure?” I asked, although I could guess what he was going to say.
“Some people believe it’s still out there somewhere. Prescott was one of them,” he said in a grim voice. “Do you have any idea how much money he spent tracking down historians, descendants of Henry, traveling to England and Africa and India and all the places Henry supposedly lived to see if he could figure out where that treasure might be?”
“I’m guessing the answer is a lot.”
“Damn right, a lot. Too much.” He picked up his glass and stared into it before drinking. When he looked up he said, “Would you care for some more water?”
“No, thanks.”
“I think I’ll have another Scotch.” He got up and went over to the bar cart.
It was none of my business to dissuade him, so I didn’t. But before he got too much further in his cups I said, “I suspect you must have realized that Prescott showed me the copy of the Declaration of Independence he’d just bought on Saturday.”
He turned around. “I noticed you looking at the bookcase while we were downstairs together in the wine cellar. So I figured you’d been in his Masonic sanctum sanctorum. It’s a privilege, Lucie. Not many people get the honor.” I couldn’t tell if he was being serious or sarcastic. “And then when I saw the Declaration and all the other items he’d bought, James and Dolley Madison’s letters, that slave’s memoir…” He shrugged. “Well, what of it?”
“There seemed to be something about those items that was especially important to him,” I said. “I had a feeling it was relevant to whatever he was going to share with his Masonic brothers the night of the gala.”
Clay gave a short laugh. “And you think he confided in me?”
“Did he?”
“Of course not. The only thing he told me right before everyone arrived for the feijoada was that he was going to sell the Tribune and half a dozen other papers that he said were in trouble.”
“You had no idea before that?”
“No.” He returned to his chair.
“That must have been rough.”
He gave me a look filled with irony and anger.
“I’m sorry,” I said.
“We argued, of course. He told me right here in this room.” He glanced over at the fireplace and I could just imagine the two of them, voices raised, shouting at each other. “I said if we needed money for the family business, he should sell some of the acquisitions he and my mother had made over the years and we could use the money to shore up the Trib. He was wrong to give up on our family’s flagship newspaper.”
“And?”
“He said ‘absolutely not’ to selling any of the art or sculptures because everything was going to be sold on behalf of his and my mother’s charities once he died, most of it to benefit the Miranda Foundation. He and my mother had already signed the Caritas Commitment along with so many other billionaires.” He paused and added, “But as I reminded him, it was only a pledge, not a binding legal commitment. It wasn’t like he’d set up an irrevocable trust. Though even those can be undone if you have a smart enough lawyer.”
“In other words, now that he’s gone you don’t have to go through with the Caritas Commitment, even though he and Rose signed the pledge?”
“Not according to my lawyers.” There was a gleam in his eyes—satisfaction? triumph?—before they narrowed. “However it does complicate matters as far as Bobby Noland’s concerned. I’m sure you can guess why.”
“It gives you a motive for murder?”
“The best,” he said, with a grim smile. “So now that you know that piece of information, tell me. Do you think I killed him?”
A shiver went down my spine. Was he teasing or dead serious?
“You mean, do I believe I’m sitting here by myself in a room with a murderer?”
“That’s another way of putting it.”
I said, “No,” in a faint voice that didn’t convince either of us.
“Lucie,” he said, “I didn’t do it.”
“Who did?”
“I don’t know. But it wasn’t Scotty or Alex, either. I’d bet my life on that.”
“An angry Tribbie?”
“Perhaps. Whoever it was, that person was a friend. A guest at our party. Someone we invited into our home. That’s pretty hard to stomach,” he said. “And speaking of guests, can I just point out that you were the last person to see Prescott?”
I said in an even voice, “The person who killed him was the last person to see him. What motive would I possibly have?”
“I don’t know,” he said. “You tell me.”
“None at all.”
“It’s not pleasant being accused of something you didn’t do, is it?” he said. “Especially when we’re talking about murder.”
“Point taken.”
“Prescott and I didn’t always see eye to eye, but I respected him. And I didn’t kill him.” Clay stirred in his chair and glanced out the window. My gaze followed him.
The orangerie was outlined in white fairy lights that had winked on sometime during our conversation. They reflected off the glass against the dark periwinkle sky and made the little building look even more like an enchanted cottage in the midst of the woods.
“I’m talking too much and it’s getting dark,” he said. “I should let you get home. I hope you understand about the Madeira, Lucie. I really can’t keep the deal Prescott made with you.”
“It’s not a problem, because I don’t have the Madeira. Though I wish I did,” I said. “Can I ask you something now?”
“I suppose so.”
“Why was Prescott so fascinated with Shakespeare’s play The Tempest?”
He looked stunned. “How the hell did you know about that?”
“Your half-sister was named Miranda. The copy of the painting in his wine cellar was from the play—and Prescott only owned originals.” I took a deep breath. “Also the epitaphs on your mother’s and Miranda’s gravestones are lines from the play.”
“Jesus,” he said, bristling. “You’ve been doing some digging, Lucie. What’s going on here?”
It didn’t sound like a compliment. “Can you tell me why he was so interested in the play?”
“I already did,” he said, still annoyed. “Prescott thought he was goddamned Prospero. The exiled Duke of Milan, living on an island with Miranda, his beautiful daughter, and a library of books that were all about magic. His damned cane was his magic wand. And like Prospero, he believed he had the power to control all things, to make people do his bidding. He believed in magic and believed he possessed magical abilities.”
I was pushing my luck, but I asked anyway. “What about the historical basis for the play, the wreck of the Sea Venture when it was on its way to Jamestown? That was very real.”
Clay gave me an impatient look. “Of course it was real, and of course that intrigued him. He went to Bermuda and Jamestown and donated a pile of money to the Jamestown archeological project to do research on the Sea Venture and what happened during the year those people spent in Bermuda. That’s why you’ll find Bermuda coral at the Jamestown Settlement today. Plus Jock was good friends with Henry and Emily Folger when they were in the process of getting their library built on Capitol Hill back in the 1920s. Jock donated money and helped with getting building permits, which were a nightmare since Henry had been sneaky in buying up lots two blocks behind the Capitol and directly behind the Jefferson Building of the Library of Congress. Prescott kept up the family relationship with the library—the Folger Library, I mean—plus he was on their board. As a result he had carte blanche to do as much original source research about the history of that play as he wanted.”
“So part of his interest relates to the Sea Venture and Jamestown,” I said.
“He was also a huge collector of anything to do with Shakespeare.” Another shrug. “He owns three copies of the First Folio. Paid a king’s ransom for them.”
“I didn’t know that.”
“They’re supposed to be given to the Folger Library now that he’s dead,” Clay said.
“That’s very generous.”
Clay stood up. A not-too-subtle cue that we were done.
I stood as well. “I should go.”
“I’ll see you out.”
“No need,” I said. “I know the way. Clay, if there’s anything my family can do…”
“There is.”
I waited.
“Lucie, I don’t know what you think you’re doing or what you’re looking for, but you should drop it. There’s no there there. Prescott could sell ice to Eskimos; he was such a charmer and he apparently has you believing a crazy-ass story about a fantastic discovery he was gonna make, some deep dark secret he was on the verge of uncovering—a lost treasure. Forget it, okay?” He twirled his finger next to his ear. “Prescott had been losing his grasp on reality for a while now, but you couldn’t talk to him about it without a huge blowup. Whatever he told you, I’m sure he believed it, but the truth is, it’s all a fantasy. Save yourself some grief. And me, too, okay?”
I said okay and he seemed relieved.
“What do you mean by ‘and me, too’?” I asked.
“I told you. I’ve already been talking to our lawyers,” he said. “I’m sorry Prescott’s gone, but at least he didn’t get to go through with his plan to sell everything out from under us, especially the Tribune. I’m sure we can make a case for him being not entirely of sound mind before he died. It’ll make it easier to make changes in promises and commitments that the family can no longer afford to keep.”
He was talking about the Caritas Commitment.
“I see,” I said.
I left him standing by the fire with his drink, just as I’d found him half an hour ago. Whatever Clay said just now, I didn’t doubt the veracity of what Prescott had told me on Saturday. I believed him for the simple reason that my father had been searching for the same thing Prescott was and Clay didn’t know that. Even though Leland was known for chasing rainbows and throwing his money away on lost causes, there was something different about this time.
Now all I needed to do was figure out what the two of them were searching for.
Because I thought it was real.