For the life of me I couldn’t figure out what Hobson Banks meant in his letter when he wrote that his “preshus package” was safely hidden away in a place where George Washington and James Madison had met. And that Thomas Jefferson would approve. All three Founding Fathers were Virginians: their estates—Mount Vernon, Montpelier, and Monticello—were now museums. Jefferson and Madison had been neighbors in the Charlottesville area; Washington’s home was south of Alexandria overlooking the Potomac River.
So where had Washington and Madison met? At one of their homes? It was probably simpler to figure out where they hadn’t met. Around here, if you said, “George Washington slept here” it was almost certainly true. Before he began his political and military career, Washington had been a land surveyor in this area and traveled extensively throughout the region.
Quinn had already gone upstairs to bed and I’d promised him I would join him shortly. But I knew I wouldn’t sleep until I did some more internet searching to quiet my racing mind. As a Virginian, my knowledge of those three Founding Fathers was fairly decent—in school we studied Virginia history for a year—but nothing that would make me a Jeopardy champion. I also realized I didn’t know enough about the relationships they had with each other, something that might provide a clue to where Banks could have hidden his White House package.
What I discovered was that James Madison, author of the Constitution and “Father of the Bill of Rights,” had been a close personal advisor to George Washington and that Washington had relied heavily on him because Madison knew more about the Constitution than anyone else. Madison was also close to Thomas Jefferson, helping to get him named as secretary of state during Washington’s presidency and serving as Jefferson’s campaign manager when he ran for, and won, the presidential election of 1800.
Maybe in return for Madison’s help and friendship, Thomas Jefferson had presented him with a handwritten copy of the Declaration of Independence since Madison had neither been present at the Continental Congress in Philadelphia during the summer of 1776 when it was drafted, nor had he signed it. And now Prescott Avery—or his estate—owned that previously unknown piece of history, which I suspected had cost Prescott a small fortune.
What all this meant was that Hobson Banks’s documents and the White House silver could be anywhere, though I was reasonably certain he had hidden everything somewhere in Virginia. It seemed likely he had fled D.C., crossing the Potomac River and looking for a safe hiding place in this area, just as the Declaration of Independence and the Constitution had been brought to Leesburg, probably at roughly the same time. Why nothing that Banks had taken with him had ever been returned to the White House was another mystery, unless something had happened to him and his secret died with him.
If that were true, it was a very good hiding place indeed not to have been discovered for more than two centuries.
So how in the world did I think I was going to find it?
The grandfather clock in the foyer chimed midnight. Quinn had gone to bed more than an hour ago. I shut down the computer and went upstairs, undressing in the dark so I wouldn’t wake him and slipping into bed, cuddling up to the warmth of his body.
By the time the grandfather clock chimed one, he rolled over and murmured, “You’re so restless. You really ought to try to get some sleep.”
“I will,” I said. “I’m sorry I woke you.”
“C’mere.” He pulled me into his arms and kissed me. I kissed him back and before long we were making love, tangled around each other in the sheets. By the second time all my thoughts about centuries-old secrets, plots to control the government, and murder had vanished and all I could think about was what he was doing to me and how much I loved him.
Finally I slept.
I SENT JOSEPHINE WILDE an email while Quinn was making us an omelet for breakfast the next morning and asked if I might be in touch concerning the possibility of her taking us on as clients. I told her briefly about the problem with our diseased Merlot vines.
My phone dinged that I had email just as we finished cleaning up. I clicked on the mail app and opened it.
“That was fast. Josephine Wilde wrote back,” I said.
“What did she say?” Quinn asked.
I held up my phone. Two words. Call me and a phone number.
“At least she didn’t turn us down,” I said.
“Give the lady a call,” he said, “before she changes her mind.”
I sat down at the kitchen table, tapped on her number, and hit call.
Josie Wilde had a Southern drawl that sounded as if it had been dragged through gravel. She was also no-nonsense and down-to-earth.
“Tell me about your Merlot,” she said, so I did.
When I was done she said, “What is it you want from me?”
“Honestly?” I said. “For you to take us on as clients. Not just because of the problem we’re having with the Merlot, but because we know you’ve helped a lot of other vineyards in the area and we’ve been impressed with your results.”
Quinn poked me in the ribs because I’d said that we had been impressed. He pointed at me and mouthed you. I flapped my hand to shush him and stuck my finger in my ear so I could concentrate on what Josie was saying about the kind of commitment she expected from her clients.
“You’re either all in or you’re not,” she said. “And y’all have got to agree to do what I tell you to do.”
“Absolutely. No problem.”
“And you’ve got to mean it,” she said with emphasis. “That’s the hard part. I usually don’t take on anyone before we’ve had a chance to sit down and meet face-to-face. That usually happens here in Charlottesville in my laboratory. I’m leaving for Jamestown and Williamsburg for a few days, so maybe we could get together after that.”
“Of course,” I said. “Whatever works for you. We’ll be there. Just say when.”
Quinn made another face at me so I stuck out my tongue at him and turned away.
“Can I ask you something else?” I said. “It’s not about our vineyard.”
She hesitated, but then she said, “What is it?”
“Do you remember being in Williamsburg twenty-five years ago at an excavation in the Bruton Parish Church cemetery? You were attempting to determine whether a certain vault existed or not.”
“Whoa.” She sounded stunned. “Where in the world did you find out about that? It’s ancient history.”
“I came across a newspaper photograph taken at the site that day. You were there along with some people from the Colonial Williamsburg Foundation and Bruton Parish Church. Also a man named Prescott Avery.”
“Prescott Avery,” she said in a wondering voice. “He was found murdered in his home the other day.”
“That’s right.”
“I read that his family are all suspects.”
“I’ve read that as well.”
“Did you know Prescott?”
“Yes,” I said.
“Obviously well enough to know he was interested in whether the Bruton Vault existed,” she said. “Just like his father.”
“The Averys are neighbors. I also know about Jock being present at the other excavation.”
“Is that so?” She still sounded amazed. “I’m curious how you came across that photograph and how you know about the Averys’ interest in it.”
“It’s kind of a complicated story.”
“I’m not surprised. It’s kind of a complicated vault. Does Prescott have anything to do with your interest in this?”
“He does … did.”
“I’d be interested in hearing your story,” she said. “And I have an idea. What if we meet in Williamsburg instead of Charlottesville? I could show you the excavation site at Bruton Parish and you could tell me what Prescott Avery was up to, still looking for that vault.”
“When and where?” I said.
“Tomorrow,” she said. “Could you be there by ten-thirty?”
“We could. You also said you’re going to be in Jamestown?”
There was another pregnant pause.
“I see,” she said. “I’m guessing you want the whole story about the vault, or rather its supposed contents. Not just whether anyone uncovered anything in Williamsburg. Am I correct?”
“It would be helpful,” I said. “Do you believe the vault existed?”
“I’m a scientist,” she said. “I know there was no vault on the site we excavated. Before I got interested in studying grape growing and winemaking, I got my undergraduate and graduate degrees in geology. My interest at that time was in studying soil and mapping groundwater development in Colonial Virginia—specifically the Jamestown Settlement—and that was also the subject of my dissertation.”
“How did you go from geology to being interested in making wine and growing grapes?” I asked.
I could hear her shrug through the phone. “Simple,” she said, her drawl stretching the word into two long syllables. “Twelve years after the Jamestown Colony was founded, the Virginia House of Burgesses passed a law that required every adult male to plant and care for at least ten grapevines. You got in a heap of trouble if you didn’t. The Founding Fathers—especially Washington and Jefferson—were desperate to produce American wines that could compete with the Europeans. Having an American wine industry was a big deal.”
“I remember reading about that.”
“Every winemaker in Virginia ought to know that story by heart,” she said and it sounded like an admonishment. “Personally I’ve been a fan of Virginia wine—a believer—since the very beginning. Since Jamestown. Long before the Californians even thought about making wine.”
I grinned. It was an old rivalry. We were first. They were biggest and best known. David and Goliath.
“Why don’t we meet in Jamestown?” Josie was saying. “Not the Jamestown Settlement, but Historic Jamestowne. You know the difference, right? Historic Jamestowne is the excavation site on the river. Then we can drive back to Williamsburg and stop by Bruton Parish. Ten-thirty still work for you?”
“Ten-thirty sounds great,” I said. “Thank you for doing this.”
“You’re welcome,” she said. “And just so we’re clear, I’ll answer what questions I can, but I have a few things to ask you, too. Sounds like Prescott wouldn’t let this go, even after the Bruton Parish excavation didn’t turn up any evidence of a hidden vault.”
She hung up and I remembered what she’d said. Unconditional obedience to follow orders if she took us on as clients. It sounded as if it applied to answering her questions about Prescott and the Bruton Vault as well.
I wasn’t sure how I felt about that.
QUINN AND I DROVE over to the winery together after I told him about my call with Josie Wilde and the plan for us to drive to Jamestown and Williamsburg tomorrow morning.
I thought he’d balk since he wasn’t totally on board with hiring her and ceding control of the vineyard. Instead he said, “I read about Jamestown in American history class in high school in California, all the usual stuff about Pocahontas, the Indian princess who saved the life of Captain John Smith, but I’ve never been there. Or Williamsburg, either. I’m looking forward to this.”
“It won’t take us long to get there, under two hours—it’s only about a hundred miles or so,” I said. “We can leave after breakfast.”
Quinn parked the Jeep behind the barrel room where we had a few parking places marked STAFF ONLY and said, “Another exciting day of barrel cleaning and sterilizing for me.”
I smiled. A lot of people have the misbegotten idea that owning a vineyard involves wandering around all day with a glass of wine in your hand benevolently supervising your workers happily toil in the fields and watching the grapes ripen on their own until they reach perfection thanks to nature’s bounties and God’s wondrous handiwork.
If only.
The reality is that it’s not that glamorous and much of the work is backbreaking with a lot of heavy lifting and plenty of tedium. There’s also endless cleaning, sterilizing, and sanitizing. Bacteria and contamination are the two biggest enemies in winemaking, so we clean and sterilize each piece of equipment every single time it’s used. I don’t mean at the end of the day, either. I mean every time we switch tanks or need to reuse a barrel.
We’re also constantly inventing on-the-spot fixes for things that break or, in my case, since I don’t have the upper body strength of Quinn or any of the men, finding easier ways to move heavy equipment or wine barrels—most of which seem to involve clever uses for our forklift and the pallets on which we store cases of finished wine. As for fixing the smaller stuff, you’d be surprised the wonders you can work with hair ties and duct tape. I’m particularly proud of figuring out a way to use bike pulleys to open the vacuum-sealed stainless steel tank lids so you didn’t need superhero strength. Even the guys used it now.
“What’s your plan?” Quinn asked.
“Persia left a shopping list on the telephone table in the foyer, just a couple of things, so I’ll stop by the General Store and pick up what she needs,” I said. “First I want to talk to Frankie about the ‘Home for Christmas’ party and all the other events we’ve got planned up until Christmas. I also haven’t seen the Villa since she decorated it. I’ll bet it looks amazing.”
“Who is she going to get to be Santa Claus?” Quinn asked as we got out of the Jeep. “Noah Seeley?”
For the last few years, Noah, who owned Seely’s Garden Center, had been the town’s Santa Claus for Christmas in Middleburg after taking over from B. J. Hunt, who owned the funeral home. The first time Noah went to B. J. for help figuring out how to put on his Santa outfit, he said B. J. made him lie down on a table because he was more used to dressing people when they were in a horizontal position.
It was as good a time as any to ask Quinn. “Actually,” I said, “she was hoping you’d be Santa. She asked me to ask you if you’d do it.”
“Me?”
“Yes. You. Come on, be a good sport. You look good in red.”
“I’ll look like a furry tomato in that getup. What about Eli?”
“He’s playing the piano for the caroling evening and he’s already agreed to dress up. Knowing him and what a ham he is, he’ll be an elf or one of Santa’s helpers. Maybe even one of the reindeer.”
Quinn shook his head and I could tell he was trying to imagine Eli dressed up as Rudolph. “I don’t think so—”
“Oh, come on.” I twined my hands through his. “Please?”
He hesitated. “Well, I guess I could—”
I kissed him on the mouth, silencing the rest of his words. “You’re an angel. Thanks so much. You’ll be great and the kids are going to love you. I’d better get over to the Villa and tell Frankie that you said yes. Talk to you later.”
“Think about it,” he called after me. “That’s what I was going to say. I guess I could think about it.”
I feigned deafness. “Frankie’s got the suit. I’ll bring it home tonight.”
FRANKIE HAD MADE THE wreath hanging on the front door using grapevines from the vineyard and decorating it with the little silver bell and the ornaments she had borrowed from my mother’s collection the other day. She’d also woven narrow red and green ribbons through the vines like lattice, added a hand-lettered sign that read HOME FOR THE HOLIDAYS, and finished it with a big loopy red satin bow.
The bell on the wreath tinkled as I opened the door; inside the Villa smelled of cinnamon, cloves, and nutmeg—the spices of mulled wine—mingled with the scent of fresh greenery. The room looked as homey and welcoming as it always did at this time of year, as if I’d arrived to stay with friends for the holidays and someone was going to appear and offer to whisk away my suitcase to a bedroom. Instead, Frankie looked up from behind the bar where she was busy working on something—probably more decorations—when she heard the door close. She smiled and I knew she was waiting for my reaction.
When Eli, Mia, and I were growing up my mother had impressed on the three of us that the true meaning of Christmas was not about material things or the gifts we received, but what we gave back. It was also about intangible qualities like kindness, friendship, generosity, a giving heart, and a helping hand. She’d explained that it wasn’t always “the most wonderful time of the year” or a picture-postcard Hallmark movie for a lot of folks whose loneliness, hardship, and losses were especially hard to bear during the holidays. As a result we were expected to help with her many charities, whether it was collecting used winter coats for the people who slept in the street, gifts and books for children in the homeless shelter in Leesburg, or canned goods for the food pantry in Aldie—and then delivering them to their destinations.
But my most enduring memory of my mother at Christmas was how she seemed to effortlessly make our home and the winery into gathering places for friends and strangers, filled with laughter and music and happiness. I found out later that what had motivated her was her own loneliness after moving to Virginia when she married Leland, how homesick she had been for her home and family in France. Now that I was running the winery, I wanted these things, too—especially because the world seemed a harsher, more troubled, and angrier place than I remembered from my sepia-tinted childhood memories.
Fortunately, Frankie loved Christmas as much as I did and every year she threw herself into decorating the winery in a way that reminded me of the special touches my mother used to add. She had already placed red and green holiday-themed quilts and throw pillows on the sofas. A collection of nutcrackers—the three kings, drummer boys, toy soldiers—sat on the fireplace mantel. More grapevines, sprayed with gold and silver, were woven around the bases of the nutcrackers as if they were standing in an enchanted forest. On the bar hurricane lamps filled with gold and silver pinecones had chubby white candles set on top of them. Two halved wine barrels at either end of the bar contained miniature Christmas trees; one decorated with red bows, white lights, and silver pinecones, the other with vintage tin baking molds, cranberry garland, and more white lights. Wine bottles painted red, the necks wrapped in raffia, were each decorated with a letter that spelled the word joy.
“It’s gorgeous, Frankie,” I said. “Every year you work your magic and this place always looks so festive and Christmassy. Just like my mother used to do.”
“A high compliment. I’m glad you like it. You know me, I love doing it and I plan for this for months.”
I joined her at the bar, shedding my coat, unwinding my scarf, and sliding onto one of the high bar stools. “What are you making?”
“Christmas stockings,” she said, “since your family is growing in size this year. Quinn, Sasha, Zach … I thought everyone needed a stocking.”
I was flabbergasted. “How thoughtful.”
She held up what she was working on. Quinn’s, obviously, since she was cross-stitching California poppies and bunches of red and green grapes onto a cream-colored background.
“What do you think?” she asked.
“I think you’re incredibly talented. Quinn’s going to love it. Thank you so much.”
“I’ve already finished Sasha’s and Zach’s. I thought everyone could hang them when we decorate the tree. Don’t tell them, though. They’re meant to be a surprise.”
I made a motion of zipping my lips and she grinned. “Once the trees and the garland are delivered after you and Quinn choose everything tonight at Seely’s, we can finish decorating the rest of the place,” she said. “We’ve already got a lot of reservations for the tree-decorating party and the caroling evening next week. If this keeps up we’ll have to start a waiting list.”
“I hope we don’t. It would be nice to have a big crowd here,” I said. “That’s how it should be at Christmas.”
“I know.” She laid the stocking on the bar, securing the needle in the fabric and putting her embroidery floss in a quilted pouch. “Do you suppose Quinn would object to having decorations in the barrel room this year? The guys wearing reindeer antlers don’t exactly count. I know it’s his domain, but I was thinking one night we could serve mulled wine and cider down there and he could talk about this year’s harvest. It would be nice to have the place look a bit festive.”
“My mother always decorated the barrel room at Christmas,” I said. “Nothing elaborate, but it was lovely. I remember red candles in hurricane lamps and a wreath she made out of wine corks and red berries that hung over the archway to the room where we keep the reds. She also wove ropes of white fairy lights and pine garlands around the wine barrels. And there was always a tree.”
“I didn’t know that.”
“After she died, we didn’t do anything that first year she was gone—she had always been in charge of Christmas and Leland didn’t have the heart for it. For some reason, we stopped putting up any decorations down there altogether. I don’t know why, but we—I—haven’t done anything Christmassy ever since. Probably because Quinn’s so utilitarian and he likes his workspace pristine and ship-shape.”
Frankie’s eyes softened. “Don’t you think it might be a good idea to restart that tradition? It’s your winery now. I bet your mother would really like it. She’d approve, Lucie. It’s time.”
I knew she was right. It was time.
“Okay,” I said. “I’ll tell Quinn. This year we decorate the barrel room.”
“Great.” She looked pleased. “Do you have any idea what happened to the old decorations? I’ve never come across a wreath like the one you described.”
“It’s been so long I don’t remember,” I said.
“Well, I can always make another one. Though it would be a shame not to have something your mother made. If it still exists.”
“I’ll take a look,” I said. “Those things must be in boxes somewhere unless someone accidentally tossed them when we expanded the offices and renovated the barrel room a few years ago. In the meantime, I’ll tell Quinn you’re going to be fixing up the place a bit for the holidays. It’s taking some time, but I’m getting him used to the idea that we do Christmas in a big way here.”
Frankie grinned and came around from behind the bar. “I don’t suppose you asked him about being Santa at the party?”
“You suppose wrong. I did ask him.”
“What did he say?”
“Yes. Sort of.”
She walked over to the fireplace and stood with her back to the crackling fire, hands behind her to warm them up. “Sort of?”
“He’ll do it. Don’t worry.”
“Great. How did you manage to persuade him, if you don’t mind my asking?”
“I didn’t actually ask him. I sort of told him.”
She grinned again. “Wish I’d been there.”
The little bell on the wreath sounded as someone opened and closed the front door. Bianca Avery, glamorous in a black leather jacket, cherry-red cashmere pashmina knotted around her neck, and black stiletto-heeled boots over skinny jeans, stood in the doorway looking hesitant.
“I know you’re not open, but I saw your cars in the parking lot so I thought it would be okay if I stopped by,” she said in her soft accented voice. “I wanted to talk to you about Kellie.”
“Come on in,” Frankie said. “It’s warmer here by the fire. Join us.”
“Is Kellie all right?” I asked. “Is something wrong?”
Bianca crossed the room, pulling her long, dark hair out from underneath her scarf so it fell against one shoulder. Years ago when she was a teenager she had moved to the U.S. from Brazil to work for one of the top New York modeling agencies after being discovered while waitressing in a bar. Though she’d left modeling after she married Scotty and came to Virginia, she still moved with a self-awareness and grace that turned heads whenever she entered a room. Today, as always, she looked more like Kellie’s sister than her mother, with one noticeable difference: the anxiety in her eyes and the dark circles underneath them had aged her. She looked around at the Christmas decorations as if she were in a daze and ignored my questions.
Frankie and I exchanged glances. Maybe Bianca was on tranquilizers, something to calm her nerves and help her cope with the news firestorm surrounding her family. She took a seat on one of the couches and Frankie and I sat across from her.
“Would you like something to drink? Coffee? Tea?” Frankie asked.
I was glad she didn’t offer Bianca a glass of wine. Ten A.M. was too early to start day drinking. Especially if you needed the drink. Bianca looked as if she did.
“A glass of water would be great,” she said.
I started to rise and Frankie said, “Sit tight, I’ll get it.”
She got a bottle of water from the refrigerator and a glass from behind the bar and set them on the coffee table in front of Bianca.
“Are you going to be okay?” Frankie asked.
Bianca started to nod as if a puppeteer were pulling a string to make her reply yes, and then shook her head. She stared at the bottle and glass without doing anything. Instead she reached for one of the throw pillows, white snowflakes needlepointed onto a bright red background, and wrapped her arms around it, hugging it to her.
“I came to talk to you about Kellie,” she said. Though she’d spent most of her life in the U.S., the lyrical cadence of her Brazilian-accented Portuguese still came through when she spoke English and she softened her daughter’s name to “Kayley.”
“So you said,” I replied. “Is something wrong?”
“She’s going to need another couple of days before she’s ready to come back to work,” Bianca said. “I hope that won’t be a problem. She would have told you herself, but she’s not up to facing anyone at the moment.”
Bianca had been the parent who worried about Kellie’s near meltdown at Harvard, her desire to take a year off from the pressure of Ivy League academics and the burden of what was expected of her as the next generation of the Avery dynasty. Still the fierce mother, a lioness protecting her cub whatever was required, Bianca wasn’t making excuses for her daughter. She was laying down the law. Back off. Give her time.
“Tell her to take all the time she needs,” Frankie said. “We miss her—everyone loves her here—but believe me, we all understand what she’s going through. It’s tough.”
Bianca gave her a tight-lipped smile. “Thank you.”
“I saw Scotty last night,” I said. “He mentioned that Nico went back to Brown, but he did say Kellie’s having a hard time dealing with what happened. I know she and Prescott were close.”
Bianca’s eyes flashed surprise. Scotty obviously hadn’t told his wife we’d met. “That’s right. The news stories about our family are upsetting her terribly. I’m worried about her.” As if it were an afterthought she added, “Scott forgot to tell me where you two saw each other, Lucie.”
“Your father-in-law asked me to stop by the Castle. Scott and I ran into each other as I was driving back to Mosby’s Highway.”
No point telling her it had almost been a real collision.
“I see,” she said. “I hope everything was all right with Clayton when you spoke to him. He’s devastated about what happened to Prescott, just as Scott is. And then everyone in the family being a suspect in his death. It’s been a nightmare for all of us.” She looked as if she were on the verge of tears.
“I know,” I said. “I’m so sorry.”
“The Sheriff’s Office will get to the bottom of what happened soon,” Frankie said. “They’ll find out who really did it.”
“There were over a hundred people at your party,” I said. “That’s a lot of suspects.”
Bianca nodded and reached for the water bottle. Her hand shook as she started to fill her glass. Water sloshed on the needlepointed pillow.
“Look what I’ve done … I’m so sorry.”
“It’s only water,” Frankie said. “Don’t give it another thought.”
Bianca moved the pillow to one side and picked up the glass with both hands, taking a long, deep drink.
“I don’t know how this is going to end,” she said, resting the glass on her lap, “but Scott didn’t do it. He didn’t kill Prescott. I know him. He just didn’t.”
“Do you have any idea who did?” I asked. “It had to be someone who knew their way around Hawthorne and was able to slip away from the party and find Prescott in his wine cellar.”
“Plenty of people know their way around Hawthorne,” she said. “It’s also possible someone came in through the door on that lower level so it might not have been a guest who was at the party. I was in the orangerie that morning to pick a couple of oranges off the trees we have out there. You ate them with your feijoada. The door was already unlocked, so I left it that way.”
“Who would use that entrance?” I asked.
She shrugged. “Anyone who wanted to be discreet or didn’t want to be seen. The staff. Victoria. She still sneaks a cigarette every now and then, though she promised Clay she was going to quit. She slips out and smokes there. You can smell it. And my sister-in-law. She was in and out on Saturday, too.”
Frankie frowned. “Your sister-in-law? You mean Alex?”
“No, not her. Celia. Celia Avery. Tommy’s wife … widow. She’s still very much part of the family after all these years. After Tommy was killed, Prescott named her CEO of the Miranda Foundation. She’s also on the board of directors of Avery Communications. Prescott thought of her as another daughter after they lost Miranda.”
Frankie’s face cleared. “I forgot about Celia.”
Bianca arched an eyebrow. “She’s organizing the Miranda Foundation gala in two weeks so she stops by all the time to talk to Prescott. The Goose Creek Inn is catering the dinner. I’ve seen Celia and your cousin, Lucie, together a couple of times in the orangerie making plans.”
“Was Celia at the party on Saturday?” I asked.
“Briefly,” Bianca said. “Prescott told her she was expected at the board meeting on Sunday. I overheard them arguing. There was a rumor he was planning to replace her as CEO of the Miranda Foundation. She must have found out. She sounded really angry, so she left, slamming doors. I heard her car speeding down the driveway right after that.”
“So she’s another person who was upset with Prescott,” Frankie said. “Wouldn’t that make her a suspect as well?”
Bianca nodded. “Although she’s not the only one who argued with him just before the party. He and Clay had words. Prescott objected to him wanting to marry Victoria. Told him she was only after his money.” She paused and added, “Which she is.”
“You don’t like her, either?” I said. “Obviously.”
“She’s a troublemaker.” Bianca flipped her long hair over her shoulder, an impatient, angry gesture. “Ever since she moved in, she’s caused nothing but heartache in our family.”
“I’m sure Bobby is looking at everyone who has motives,” Frankie said.
“Even if Scott does have a motive, he didn’t do it, Frankie. And that’s what’s upsetting Kellie. Bobby seems to be focusing on him.”
“Why?” I asked.
Bianca stood up and walked over to the fireplace, holding her hands near the blaze for warmth, her back to us. She turned around and said, “I don’t know.”
She did know.
“Is it because he argued with Alex at the party?” I asked.
“He said some things he didn’t mean. Taken out of context they sound bad.”
“Whoever killed Prescott may not have wanted to do it,” I said. “It might have been something that happened in the heat of the moment, a discussion that got out of hand. An accident because someone lost their temper.”
Bianca gave me a weary look. “It’s still involuntary manslaughter. Either way, you go to jail. If you want to know who I think did it, I’d bet it was Alex.”
“Why her?” Frankie asked.
“She’s the one with the temper. Everyone knows that.” Her mouth twisted. “Plus she wasn’t happy to be dragged home from New York. Or maybe it was Grant.”
The conversation had strayed a long way from Bianca telling us Kellie needed a few days off from work. Now she was spilling family secrets to Frankie and me. I wondered why.
“Wait a minute. You mean Grant Lowry? The Trib’s managing editor? Why him?” I asked.
“I think he believed that with Clayton gone, he’d be able to exert more influence over the paper,” Bianca said. “Except Prescott kept sticking his nose in and bigfooting Grant. He didn’t like it and he wasn’t shy about saying so and pushing back.”
Nothing Bianca had said just now had exonerated any of Bobby’s three principal suspects: Clay, Scott, or Alex. Not only that, but she seemed to have purposely added Victoria, Grant, and Celia Avery to the list.
She picked up her jacket and scarf. “I’d better go,” she said, slipping on the jacket. “Thanks for the water and for understanding about Kellie. I’ll tell her what you said. I know she’ll appreciate it.”
“No problem,” Frankie said. “Please tell her we were asking about her.”
“If there’s anything we can do—” I said.
Bianca’s eyes flashed again. “There is,” she said and this time there was an unmistakable edge in her voice. “Pray for Bobby to find out who really did it. The real murderer.”
She left, slamming the door and letting in a blast of frigid air. The fire jumped and danced as if the Ghost of Christmas Past had just departed, taking all the warmth and festive cheer out of the room.
“What was that all about? What just happened?” Frankie picked up Bianca’s water bottle and empty glass and looked at them. “Was there something in her water to set her off like that?”
“She’s worried about Scotty being found guilty, so she stopped by to plant a few seeds and add a few more suspects to the list of possibilities.”
“Why tell us?”
“I have no idea. People are in here all the time. Maybe she’s hoping we’ll talk, get the rumor mill going after she convinced us there are others who ought to be considered suspects. Plus she knows I’m involved in the investigation since I was the last one to be with Prescott and Quinn and I found him.”
“Did she convince you?”
“She got me thinking,” I said. “Victoria, Grant, and Celia do have motives along with the rest of the family. But, to be honest, I think she was here trying to convince herself.”
“Of what?”
I looked Frankie in the eye. “That her husband didn’t murder his grandfather.”